Hope got us this far, now you need me to carry the weight awhile: Okay.
Tonight I felt lonely. I’ve only ever felt loneliness when I wasn’t “alone.” I went to Wal-Mart for one thing - a heating pad. I walked around the store for hours. I didn’t know what I was doing or what I would do when I left. Lately I’ve felt very isolated within whatever emotion is present and haven’t been sure what will come next. Will I wake up and feel better? Will I wake up and know better? Besides the pad, I left with liquid nutrients to bargain away starvation and yarn for knitting away nerves. The only certainty I have anymore is within me. I’ll need to stay fed even though the thought of food is making me sick. I’ll need to keep busy even though no amount of anything will distract me from my unease.
My boyfriend is hardly my boyfriend. There is the packaging, the interlocking of lives, the responsibility toward another -- but there is no security. The past, no matter how distant, haunts him. Some days he wakes up with a different pair of eyes, eyes that only see the negative, eyes that paint over motivation and li’l joys. I don’t ask about what he doesn’t share. I know she left him in this strange way, that months of time had passed back and forth uncertainty, that it wasn’t a surprise - only a shock, a betrayal. I know that three years of love does not disappear with a few months of distance; so does he. Why she left is muted and that means he doesn’t know. How do you swallow that? It would be difficult for anyone. From the beginning, I knew I was dealing with someone fragile, that he wasn’t over what had happened to him. That’s enough. That pain-plus-cynicism drives him away with each step closer to me he takes. Sometimes he is pushing me away with arguments, sometimes with Marla, sometimes with emotional absence. It isn’t a shallow wall between us, but I hold my palms and cheek against the layers, whispering and waiting.
If she came back, and she could somehow strip herself of all the superficial changes she’s made since leaving and explain herself, he might wish to accept. This is a fiction. I’m not sure someone makes a choice like that and then comes back claiming it was a mistake. But the thought scares me nonetheless. More realistically, I am frightened by the thought that he wouldn’t ever let go of the idea of being with her again; he is, too. The one answer that could soothe me comes after the question: “Do you want to get over her?” I told him now is not the time for such answers, for any answers. I’ll wish and wish every day will be the day he shouts on the rooftops: “I want to!”
‘tis not today, and this is what makes me feel lonely. We are connected. Time is lost with our conversations. We’ve spent nights to sunrise talking but in the morning we still have so much to say. Arguing is passionate and physically painful but it is always worth it. We get closer with happiness and anger. We try to let go; we both know we are capable, but neither of us can do it. I have this. I have this beautiful thing. I know I’m not alone. But, the only way he can let go of her and fully be with me is if I demand distance - like it’s my idea. I let him know I’m not ready to walk away from him and us, then I step back and act as if I need these spaces. So underneath the title of boyfriend and girlfriend, we are merely lovers. We’ll share ourselves much more so than with anyone else (and only physically with each other) - but that’s it. Marla can be around; time can go unaccounted for; and he can long or be in misery or have “one of those days” with or without me, with or without my knowing or needing to know. There will be no discussion about “the relationship” anymore, I declare.
This can work. Better is the future of our relationship. Fights have become arguments have become talks with emotion kept at a normal volume. I’m shoving bits and pieces of me out any cracks I can find. He wants the unprompted “About me.” He wants to know about my day, and the thoughts I’m having, and who I am. I won’t have the crutch “I was hidden; he could never love someone he never knows” waiting at the end of the rope [Without it, there might be so bad a fall organs break]. I’m optimistic he will be surprised in the next month. What worries me most is getting through it. Strength is not the thing that keeps words in or feelings off faces. ‘til I figure out what is that thing, I’ve got a scale; I can watch the numbers. I’ve got knitting needles, stacks of new books, drawing supplies, instruments. I have the words “excuse me” as an escape plan when I need to pull out the emotions and suck ‘em back in. I’ll need to keep busy even though no amount of anything will distract me from my unease.
My boyfriend is hardly my boyfriend. There is the packaging, the interlocking of lives, the responsibility toward another -- but there is no security. The past, no matter how distant, haunts him. Some days he wakes up with a different pair of eyes, eyes that only see the negative, eyes that paint over motivation and li’l joys. I don’t ask about what he doesn’t share. I know she left him in this strange way, that months of time had passed back and forth uncertainty, that it wasn’t a surprise - only a shock, a betrayal. I know that three years of love does not disappear with a few months of distance; so does he. Why she left is muted and that means he doesn’t know. How do you swallow that? It would be difficult for anyone. From the beginning, I knew I was dealing with someone fragile, that he wasn’t over what had happened to him. That’s enough. That pain-plus-cynicism drives him away with each step closer to me he takes. Sometimes he is pushing me away with arguments, sometimes with Marla, sometimes with emotional absence. It isn’t a shallow wall between us, but I hold my palms and cheek against the layers, whispering and waiting.
If she came back, and she could somehow strip herself of all the superficial changes she’s made since leaving and explain herself, he might wish to accept. This is a fiction. I’m not sure someone makes a choice like that and then comes back claiming it was a mistake. But the thought scares me nonetheless. More realistically, I am frightened by the thought that he wouldn’t ever let go of the idea of being with her again; he is, too. The one answer that could soothe me comes after the question: “Do you want to get over her?” I told him now is not the time for such answers, for any answers. I’ll wish and wish every day will be the day he shouts on the rooftops: “I want to!”
‘tis not today, and this is what makes me feel lonely. We are connected. Time is lost with our conversations. We’ve spent nights to sunrise talking but in the morning we still have so much to say. Arguing is passionate and physically painful but it is always worth it. We get closer with happiness and anger. We try to let go; we both know we are capable, but neither of us can do it. I have this. I have this beautiful thing. I know I’m not alone. But, the only way he can let go of her and fully be with me is if I demand distance - like it’s my idea. I let him know I’m not ready to walk away from him and us, then I step back and act as if I need these spaces. So underneath the title of boyfriend and girlfriend, we are merely lovers. We’ll share ourselves much more so than with anyone else (and only physically with each other) - but that’s it. Marla can be around; time can go unaccounted for; and he can long or be in misery or have “one of those days” with or without me, with or without my knowing or needing to know. There will be no discussion about “the relationship” anymore, I declare.
This can work. Better is the future of our relationship. Fights have become arguments have become talks with emotion kept at a normal volume. I’m shoving bits and pieces of me out any cracks I can find. He wants the unprompted “About me.” He wants to know about my day, and the thoughts I’m having, and who I am. I won’t have the crutch “I was hidden; he could never love someone he never knows” waiting at the end of the rope [Without it, there might be so bad a fall organs break]. I’m optimistic he will be surprised in the next month. What worries me most is getting through it. Strength is not the thing that keeps words in or feelings off faces. ‘til I figure out what is that thing, I’ve got a scale; I can watch the numbers. I’ve got knitting needles, stacks of new books, drawing supplies, instruments. I have the words “excuse me” as an escape plan when I need to pull out the emotions and suck ‘em back in. I’ll need to keep busy even though no amount of anything will distract me from my unease.