December 22, 2007
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I Need This
You asked me why I don’t talk a lot when, after reading all these entries, I seem to overflow with words that could burst the strongest dam.
Well, here’s why.
If you know me, then you can tell what I’m thinking already. It’s annoying to myself. I walk into a room and people ask if I’m ok, or what I’m angry about, or what’s so funny, or more likely, they don’t have to ask because they can tell the date didn’t go so well, or he said something that pissed me off, or I found something somewhere I’d never thought to look. My silence means I trust you to know what I’m thinking, feeling – the exquisite bliss of the first blush of love, the poignant breathlessness of unexpected grief, the wordless struggle of frustrated rage. And being thus overwhelmed, the mental capacity to form sentences briefly leaves me, and letting you see me so defenseless is my homage to our friendship.
If you don’t know me so well, it’s a similar situation. I can be so courageously candid with strangers if there’s no risk. But when my thoughts are fogged by attraction I get so easily distracted and stymied by advice from well-meaning friends and siblings. I feel like a foreigner trying to understand a new culture and a strange tongue, hesitant to speak in case I mispronounce a sentiment, nervously terrified of stumbling over my own intention. And then my overanalytical brain, forced to screen every utterance from my tongue, picks over each syllable like it’s the final draft of the magna carta. And by the time the thought is fit to be said to someone who electrifies my skin every time he turns his head a certain way, the moment is gone, and I feel like a fool.
More often, I find myself wishing you lived a whole lot closer.
Close enough that I could run out of my house, jump in my car, drive to your street, knock on your door, crawl into your lap, and just let the scent of your neck comfort me. At least, for a little while until I get my feet back under me and I can hold my chin up again.
I don’t know how long I can handle this – handle the continued expenses of covering Ex-Beau’s self-medication. I’m realizing that it’s because I feel guilty for leaving him – even though I shouldn’t, god knows I shouldn’t, but the softness in my heart continues to yield. I think it’s also because a huge part of my psyche craves contact with anyone who could see me as more than friend or family. Sadly, darkly, I come to terms with the fact that if I were to cut him off completely, then I would be completely alone….
And still another part of me is scared of what he might do if he truly is painted into a corner. I know he won’t lash out. I’ve never seen him survive the crucible a better man. No, the opposite in fact; each obstacle that should burn away his impurities and emotional diseases seems to reveal more of the flaws and imperfections of a malformed spirit. I’m afraid that, left with no options, he’ll just up and kill himself.
No, I can’t be that cruel.
