What I Didn't Have The Strength to Write at The Time of Occurrence

We spent a few hours at a park near his apartment while the sun was out, and the air stayed cool. There were children playing by the lake, dogs catching frisbees in their mouths, and a swatch of gently inclining lawn we could stake a blanket on. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. When we weren't talking, we were laughing; when we weren't laughing, we were quiet, letting the April afternoon pass us by in cloud-after-neatly-formed-cloud. I remember combing my fingers through his hair as he curved an arm over my hip, uncaring of how many people could see. He smelled clean, like aftershave and warm laundry, and later, in his room, his hands and face smelled like me, lingering oh-so-tartly and sweetly.

I suppose I wore his scent too, in my hair, the crooks of my elbows and inside of my knees, the small of my back, and the center of my forehead where he kissed me so many times. He told me, amid the self-inflicted tangle of limbs locked around each other, that he really liked me. I said it back and let myself imagine a summer of equally eventful dates. I thought I was strong enough not to let my mind wander that far. But I also thought that he meant everything he said. At the end of the night, I kissed him goodbye in the car and left him for what I didn't know would be the last time. That day was the closest to perfect I've had, and I'm terrified of how long I must wait until the next one.

small milestones

Last May I had a conversation with him about dating more later that summer, to which he agreed easily, but with a caveat of sorts that this was highly unlikely to evolve into a conventionally monogamous, committed relationship—best summed up in his exact words, “I love being around you, but I don’t love you.” I didn’t raise much of an objection at the time. We’d known each other for barely half a year; what was there to object to? That summer (well-documented in these archives) passed by uneventfully, and so did the rest of the year as we continued talking, connecting, staying in touch—learning more about one another and growing closer as a result.

Should this week have surprised me then, when he came back into town for a visit, and we fell on each other, starving for tangible contact—his, mine, not anyone else’s, not at that moment—ruining his bedsheets, wrapping arms around the other afterward, and I, carefully holding my breath before gently exhaling, telling him how I’ve felt for the past few months? If the previous sentence sounds rambling and leisurely, that is because it intimately parallels my own emotional journey through what has been the steadiest, most stable sexual/romantic arrangement with a partner thus far. The feeling came in time, nearly two years in the making, and didn’t take me by surprise so much as tap my shoulder one day to say, “I’m sorry it’s taken me such a while to show up, but I’m here. I am here.”

I wasn’t sure I would tell him until Tuesday afternoon when we both reclined there in bed with his head on my chest and my fingers combing through his hair. When I didn’t feel afraid, I knew that it was okay to say the words, even if he didn’t return the same sentiment, even if I’d be exposing myself in the biggest way since Chance, even though that was my very first time telling anyone—out-loud—that “I love you (a little bit.) Don’t be scared because I’m not scared either.”

“...I love you (a little bit) too.”

Time changes things and the nature of things so quickly. 

This was us

“

I once knew a man who came on very strong at the beginning of relationships, but couldn’t seem to help closing his heart as soon as a woman had opened hers. I have heard that kind of behavior referred to as an “addiction to the attraction phase” in relationships. This man did not maliciously go around hurting women. He sincerely wanted to be in a genuine, committed relationship. What he lacked were the spiritual skills that would enable him to settle down in one place long enough to build anything solid with an equal partner. As soon as he saw human faults and weaknesses in a woman, he would run. The narcissistic personality is looking for perfection, which is a way to make sure that love NEVER has a chance to blossom. The initial high can be so heady, so tantalizing, that the real work of growth which needs to follow the initial attraction phase can seem too dull, too hard to commit to. As soon as the other person is seen to be a real human being, the ego is repelled and wants to find somewhere else to play.

At the end of a relationship with someone like this, we feel as though we’ve taken cocaine. We had a fast and exciting ride, and it felt at the time like something meaningful was happening. Then we crashed and realized that nothing meaningful had happened at all. It was all made up. Now all we have is a headache, and we can see that this kind of thing isn’t good, isn’t healthy, and we don’t want to do it again.

But there’s a reason why we’re attracted to relationships such as this. We were drawn to the illusion of meaning. Sometimes someone who has nothing to offer in a real relationship can come on like they’re offering the world. They are so dissociated from their OWN feelings that they have become highly skilled performers, unconsciously playing whatever part our fantasies prescribe. But the responsibility for our pain still remains OUR own. If we hadn’t been looking for a cheap thrill, we wouldn’t have been vulnerable to the lie.

How could we have been so stupid? That’s the question we always ask ourselves at the end of these experiences. But once we’d had enough of them, we admit to ourselves that we weren’t really stupid AT ALL. We suspected this was a drug. The problem was, we wanted it. We saw exactly what the game was with this person, usually within the first fifteen minutes, yet we were so attracted to the high, we were willing to PRETEND we didn’t see it, for just a night, or a week, or however long it lasted. The fact that someone said to us, “You are so fabulous. You’re such a wonderful woman. This is such a great date. How lucky a guy is to get to date you,” when he’s only known you for an hour, is a blinking red light to any thinking woman. The problem is, the depth of our wounds can be so great—we can be SO hungry to hear those words, because deep down we suspect that they’re untrue—that hearing them can cause us to put aside all rational consideration. When we’re starved, we’re desperate.

”

—	Marianne Williamson

(No) Comparison

I find that there’s never a lack of things to talk about with Asher. Either he’s on a 15-minute tangent about articles he’d read that week or I’m on a half-hour ramble about some pop culture minutiae that only he would understand. Whether we’re on chat, phone, or in person, the conversation doesn’t stop. Unless he interrupts me with a kiss, in which case, we’ll just continue the dialogue while tearing each other’s clothes off anyway. Afterward, he lifts himself off me, gently tips over to a side of the bed, and becomes the big spoon to my little spoon. It’s what he always does. My body used to tense up at that. 

The vibe between us flows easily. I’m surprised by how comfortable I feel around him. The last six months of constant interaction with Chance wrung my nerves out, shattered any sense of security or awareness of our situation to the point where I would second-guess myself on second-guessing myself. With Asher, I’m not confused or uncertain. I know where we stand. His person—and everything that comes with that—is a known entity devoid of mystery or speculation. I could weep for the sheer relief he brings with him. 

In bed, he’s attentive in ways that Chance never was. I see him quietly file away every gasp and breathy whisper that slips from my mouth as his long, clever fingers rub little half-circles between my legs. He remembers what I enjoy, how I liked to be touched, and doesn’t switch to his preferences until I give permission. To be sure, the hours spent in his room aren’t the desperate, frenzied couplings I had with Chance, but maybe I’m tired of that. Maybe this is what I need right now, for now. Not love, not nothing either. 

Companionship.

Listening to: Night Diving by Thrice

I wish I could tell you all the things I've had to keep to myself. Last night I was with you again, the second time in a month, and after we had our fill of each other, we twisted the sheets haphazardly over us while our legs got even more hopelessly entangled, and I could have soundly fallen asleep in your bed (in your arms) as the music softly played from your desktop.

I didn't though. Of course I didn't. I'm always leaving you, always a temporary guest in your room and if I hope for something more permanent than a few snatched hours, I don't even whisper the words aloud to myself on every lonely drive back home, with my knuckles pale on the steering wheel and my mouth pursed tight from the ache in my chest. I never present anything but a casual, level-headed front to you when all I've ever been since May is a young woman burning up with too much want and unspoken passions.

Were I a braver person (to either face my own desires or your decidedly cooler attitude towards me, I can't say), not a single meeting would pass without you knowing the full scope of my longing: the fever your touch instills, the desperate way I claw your back as if to claim what isn't mine, the breaths I hold as my fingers trace the line of your jaw and commit the shape of your eyes to memory. I wouldn't be afraid of the strength of my feelings, and you wouldn't be afraid of the intensity of this side I've tempered for years.

But who could see this nature, my true nature, and not shy away for fear of being consumed by it? Who could--who would--want someone like me, once they learn the truth? Would you? Dare I entertain the thought? I don't. I won't. At the very least I can be honest here.

Things I've Been Told

"you’re hard to read"

"it’s difficult to gauge your emotional reactions"

"I can’t tell if you’re mad or just annoyed or…?"

"what does that face mean"

"I don’t know what you’re thinking"

"you keep yourself really distant"

"please tell me what’s on your mind"

Really? I never thought of myself as hard to read—my face gives away so much, I can never hide if I’m upset or happy or excited or w/e over something, but I’m told these things often (and usually by my various paramours or people-trying-to-be-friends-with-me).

But I mean, yeah. I push you away if I feel like you’re getting too close. My walls don’t give unless I think your walls have come down enough too. This doesn’t make me an impossible person to know. It simply means that getting to know me isn’t a light investment. I don’t do superficial whatever-ships with people. I’m a no-nonsense person; show me you’re worth my time and energy.

Does this make me any less worth getting to know?

He sought my warmth, and I didn't mind.

Hot and Cold

Sometimes the shame of what kind of person I truly am cripples me. Not a confident, cool person, but a fraud, too wracked with insecurities and self-doubt to be of much admiration or help to anyone. This intimidating front I put up, it's convincing so long as I don't let the cracks show because once one of the walls come down, the rest tumbles quickly afterward, and it becomes apparent that I'm not strong at all. Better to keep them (to keep him, to keep her) far from my soft inner body so there's nothing to hurt when we eventually part ways.

If I’m not careful, I get invested too soon and too much. My emotional spectrum exists in two opposite ends: either I've written you off or completely invested my time and energy in getting to know you. Happy, middle-ground mediums were never an option for me. If they were, I would have taken advantage of them by now. Instead, I scare people away, whether by my coldness or passion. The former preserves my defenses; the latter blasts them open. Which is the more frightening, or genuine?

People think I don't care, but I do. 

I care too much.