It doesn't hurt right now, Jewel & Rodney Crowell
Here we are at the end of the night. And I am still in love with you. I'm also angry, so angry.
And confused.
And hurt.
**
I had an abortion I didn't want - no matter how I might reconcile it as practcal. I've spent the past 31 years coming to terms; trying to figure out how I could be in the world with it. The father wasn't there the night I got home from the 10 hour drive. - a drive during which I was entirely mute (I remember pointing at my dinner order, unable to speak). He was off making another baby, born 8 months later to a woman he'd married 7 months later.
My son's father arrived at the hospital 5 minutes before I gave birth. He left 1.5 hours later to go home and fuck our roommate. I was never really angry with her, she was one of many while I was pregnant, after. All while I was being brave and understanding that he had a lot to come to terms with, also.
After, I vowed to never find myself in the position, ever, ever,ver, ever again, of being the mother of an unwanted child, of being an unwanted mother. I gave up sex for years - best I can figure - I was celebate 17 of 20 years and that's a number with generosity.
Oh, I'm not saying I didn't have sex ever. It was rare and sometimes random because some guy was endearing and it was a safe time. And it was occassionally, again and again, over 17 years because he was careful with my body and heart, with a man I more than half loved. But mostly, I said no because there is no world in which I am willing to risk the unwanted.
I had my tubes tied when I was 40. My kid was 19 and I figured any dreams I might have had about having another child ended when the one I had reached his majority. I was weary of freaking out everytime I had sex. I was weary of saying no. I had taught myself what it was to forget what being a woman could really be.
There are so many things I am leaving out because we'd be here all night, me, trying to tell...to show. I gave up on intimacy because I wouldn't bring men willy-nilly into my child's life. I wouldn't bring them into mine. And I wouldn't allow space for my body to harbor a life unwanted, to harbor hope for myseslf of being wanted, of belonging.... of being safe. I wanted something more for my son and I, not remotely knowing what it might look like - but at least the space to step into the unknown without fear.
I don't know what happened last August. I know the docs involved thought I'd had a miscarriage - unlikely but entirely possible and the only rational explanation for bleeding so profusely. I know when they offered to test my hormones I refused because I was more than half dead and couldn't face another tragedy alone. I know I never wanted you to know because you were already hurting so much. I know I came to a place where I knew I couldn't hold it all alone.
I know my feelings are so mixed up with hormones and being so close to death and with the almost loss of my mother and sister and the definite loss of my granddaughter and best friend. And one night, in a blinding clarity, I realized I was in love with a man so gentle and kind and knowing that perhaps it would be safe to ask him for space to share - even while trying to protect him from more hurt.
I imagined him wrapping us in blankets and wrapping his arms around and saying the sweet, silly, true things he says that would let me breath. That I might wrap my body around him in return. That we might find that no matter how much life hurts, no matter our losses, we had a safe space where we were loved and treasured and seen and safe.
That didn't happen. He sneered and ignored and finally shouted terrible things that bounce and echo.
Perhaps what I asked was too much - and perhaps I am weary that being human is always too much. And perhaps (more true), I still dream we will find again that space where we're both safe and loved, because he is my heart and has mine. Mine is strong enough, finally, after all - perfectly human, brokenly human.
I love you.
I still choose you. I want to live and love with you, however I might be, however you might be. In the space of all this grief - mines, yours - my guiding light is a man I never imaged possible, a love I'd forgotten to dream.
Might we live it, you and I?
**
It has taken me a year to write all of this as concisely as I have above, typos and all.