Click at your own peril caveat: Totally self-indulgent, shouldn’t-even-post-this, ridiculous stream of consciousness whinge. Does not require “the world is full of rainbows” comments. Begs to be derided as drivel and left to rot on the sidewalk. Capishe. Good. Now where was I…
Just today. Now. I looked at you and wondered why it’s so hard to let myself be loved. Why this little skeptical moue invades my face when I think about love. Romantic love. The “I love you” love. Not those fierce moments of “I’d do anything for you” fondness you feel for friends. Or that half-fearful, innate, just-there love of family. That love you feel for someone when you look at them and think “Oh wow. How fucking lucky am I. All this, and your bad bits don’t freak me out”.
Intellectually, I know I deserve to be loved. I know I bring good things to the connections I have with people. I know I’m generous and forgiving. I’m fairly slow to judge. I’m not particularly interested in what you have, but rather in who you are, where you come from, what makes you light up, where your lines are drawn, what makes you you. I’m aware enough to know that your stuff doesn’t have to involve me, and that sometimes the best response is just to listen. I’ve come to a compromise about my wobbly bits; just because I don’t like them, doesn’t mean they are unlikeable. I like other people’s wobbly bits and so it stands to reason that some people must like mine. I know what I like, and what I don’t. And I’m pretty good at articulating what pisses me off, which means you don’t have to play that unbelievably destructive guessing game; I’ll just tell you. And I’m getting over equating sex with love too, which has pros and cons. The pro being that I’m pretty into lots and lots of indulgent pleasure. The con being that now I don’t have to jump your bones all the time to show how much I like you. I’m self supporting. I don’t have completely weird compulsions. I only have a handful of revolting habits, and most of them I don’t indulge in public. I’m good people. I know this.
But still. I’m wondering. I’m reminded of that old saying by Groucho Marx; “I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member.” Exactly. What’s with this ridiculous little niggle. This crazy idea that love is dangerous. That love isn’t for me. That something is wrong. Must be. Because seriously, it’s cramping my happiness-quotient. It’s not like I’m staying up at night, pondering and gnashing and second guessing and dissecting. I’m not that kinda girl. Most of the time. It’s just in those moments of intimacy. Those quiet, just-us moments, when first my heart contracts, then it plummets. And I want to close my eyes. Hard. Because it’s too big. To need someone. To let them need you. Especially when I’m so damn good at being just me. And I wonder what you see, when you see me. And if I’m all that. Or if, in three months, six, a year, five; you’ll be looking at me the way that guy in the lift was looking at his wife, thinking “what the fuck”. I don’t ever want you to look at me that way. I don’t want you to look at me in any other way than the way you do know. And I know that’s not reasonable. Things change, people change. The small stuff get’s sweated, whether you want it to or not. And then I think I’m must be fucking neurotic, because this is stupid. This self doubt. This tiny nugget of pain that says “he can’t love you. He can’t. Man, you’re a fool.” And I think, fuck. Chica. You think you’re doing so well and then you’re faced with a wide big fab thing and you go “um…I’ll get back to you.” Not good. Which reinforces that little internal cycle of viciousness; if he really knew, knew you weren’t that confident, vivacious woman who dances in the street and drinks beer from the bottle, he’d go, he’d leave, he’d run. And even if he didn’t, he’d know. And that knowledge would be power. And, at the heart, I think I’m too fragile. Even when I know I’m not. That in my head it would be worth it. I know.
And then I take a deep breath. Remind myself that we all do this. Somehow, in some facet of our lives. Every single person I know, we all doubt and question and pause in fear. Even the people who seem to have it together. And I breathe again. And I acknowledge how rare these moments are. How small they are in the grand theatre of my life.
And I shut the fuck up.