charcoal grey

You know, I’ve had quite the internal debate over the last few days with myself over my lack of gumption. I went out of town to circumstances that did not allow me consistent internet access, and before you know it, I fell off the wagon with my writing. These last few weeks, with the goings-on in my life, I hardly have brought myself up by my bootstraps to keep the writing going. I don’t excuse the usage of the “bootstraps” cliché that the far-right uses for self-sufficiency these days, I’ve always had a fascination with pirates. But I suppose the great changes have put me in sort of a haze. And now here I am, with an alarm set for 5.5 hours from now for my new employment, and I cannot get the bug out of my consciousness to write. So I did what I should have done since day two of not writing. I got my ass up, put on Mahler’s Ninth, and began to type.

Now here’s the trouble. I’ve experienced a myriad of emotional states over the last several weeks. I was sobbing in my shower to Sara Bareilles’ “Little Voice” track of “Gravity” the other day, and crying laughing over Stanley Tucci’s dialogue in “Easy A” with one of my oldest friends maybe two days before that. Life is ups and downs, and waves. And in my usual habit of forgetting to create better habits, I have denied myself the snippet of that rainbow I have experienced. And for that, I am kicking myself. But you live and you learn.

The biggest internal debacle, and I only write about it now because it is plaguing my mind to such an extent that my insomnia threatens to return, I am contemplating moving for a significant person in my life. Only this person does not know it yet. Maybe they never will.

Growing up, I ways the sappiest romantic you could have possibly encountered. I believed in soul mates, in true love, in as Carrie Bradshaw so eloquently states it, “real love; ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can’t-live-without-each-other love.”  But then one day, heartbreak ensued, the illusion was shattered, and I decided that that sort of thing doesn’t really exist, at least not in anything that lasts in reality. Real life partners didn’t drive each other mad, or put each other to the test, or make each other lose their sanity. Then this person showed up.

This person drives me insane. I see very clearly who they are, more crystallized than I first even saw. To those closest to this person, they can attest that I know them better than anyone ever had come near. This person infuriates me, challenges me, fascinates me, consumes me, and destroys every attempt at walls I have spent years putting up. They were the first person I was involved with that I disclosed the nature of my previous serious relationship; my college sweetheart was emotionally, verbally, and at times physically abusive. This person’s response was this and only this: “Well, there’s no need or sense in being with that kind of person. I’m glad you were able to pull yourself out of that, because no one should ever treat you that way.” Very matter-of-fact response to that confession, which only furthered my affection.

Only here’s the gambit: we’ve never said out loud how we feel about each other. Now that one is a tough notion for me. I’m a person of conversation, of verbal expression. Why the hell do you think I’m writing for a bunch of strangers? That’s my strongest love language. I need it said aloud. This person is an expressionist by action and by physical presence. I’ve confronted them by how we’ve never verbalized each others’ meaning to the person. Their response? “I didn’t think we had to.”

Now at first, this was just enraging. But as I broke down how this person loves, I was able to comprehend their point of view. It wasn’t because they didn’t want to say it out loud. They had faith that was unshakeable in what we had between one another. We are now 1,000 miles apart, but we haven’t stopped checking in on each other. Officially, in the millennial sense, we were nothing. But beyond the superficial labels I have relied on since I began participating in matters of interpersonal romanticism, we were everything. At least to each other.

In some ways, this person is just as much of a cynic when it comes to modern love and dating as I have come to be. But in others, they have evolved past the “see it to believe it” kind of love that I grew to take in stride. They never said it, they never could create courtroom exhibits off of it, but they felt it. And now that I’ve processed my naiveté into a comfort with where I am in life, I see that I have always felt it too. The fog is beginning to lift. And although I am not nearly as fearless as I used to believe I was, the haze doesn’t frighten me. I trust in it. Even if I fall, and nothing is there to slow the screeching halt of a fall, I’m going to be okay nonetheless. Seeing is not always believing. I don’t believe that fully just yet. But by the time I reach the bottom, hopefully I will.

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