You are still the first thing on my mind each morning. I wish I could wake up next to you every morning. Sipping coffee in our kitchen and smiling at each other.
I had therapy yesterday. We talked about how I don’t like the word ‘resilient’ because I don’t want to NEED to be resilient. I am so tired of tragedy. We also talked about my taking a fourth job and how you told me I needed to quit one of them. I agreed with you and Donna validated that you were right and I needed balance in my life.
One of the hardest parts was the bilateral stimulation therapy. Basically like holding a phone in each hand and they take turns vibrating. Then Donna does some guided meditation. I was supposed to think of some place that didn’t have any negative emotions attached to it. It was a challenge to think of some place.
I settled on the private beach at Tween Waters. So I “went there”. I still can’t see pictures in my head but I can recall things like the sound of seagulls and waves crashing. The teal umbrellas and sand rubbing my feet. It was remembering the sand that did it. I thought about the night Rob and I were on the beach and that triggered my more painful memories. Michael and I took refuge under a bridge during a night storm on the causeway.
Intimate moments with him were always intense. He made me feel beautiful and sexy, wanted and wanton. He told me that he wanted to make my curls bounce that night. I never felt so desired before. And before I knew it, the steaming seconds of my flashback turned into me, balled up on the floor of the backroom of the Sanibel Goodwill, sobbing my eyes out day after day. Remembering the miscarriage, the unexplained abandonment.
Michael told me once he believed you could only love one person and if you ever “fell out of love” that it wasn’t love in the first place. I believed him back then. I don’t anymore. And I’m not sure if I was mourning him or just the way he made me feel. And so much of my devastation around the miscarriage was being secretly thankful that I couldn’t carry that child.
My biggest epiphany in therapy yesterday was releasing that it doesn’t feel safe to feel safe. Letting my guard down, not being prepared for the worst… I’d feel foolish if I do and then I got hurt. Trust is such a scary thing – but it explains why relationships are so hard sometimes.
Every week it gets easier to let my guard down with you. To just trust that you never intentionally hurt me, to trust that you care for me, to trust that you want and need me… It’s still scary, especially if I dwell on the what-ifs.
What if you’re using me? What if this is just to get back at me? What if you decide you’re sick of me or that you’d rather be with your “type” instead?
Those words keep drifting into my head. I can’t even write them down. It’s only been a month… One month and my foolish hear is ready to give it all away again…
Gods I hope you don’t break my heart.
I asked you if you regretted Sunday night and you told me “not at all.” Choosing to trust you means the anxiety I feel melts away and is replaced by a satisfying peace in knowing you’re there to reassure me and chase away my fears. And maybe one day, with enough practice and trust, I’ll be able to reassure myself with all the evidence of your affections.
I’m looking forward to our date Friday night. We’re going axe throwing with my friend A and her boyfriend, N. I’m excited for you to meet one of my friends and really spend some time getting to know each other.
I hope you are sleeping better, that your feet are on the mend, and that you stay safe. I’m hoping you can find work in Indy soon… I know you’re working hard to make your situation better and I’m rooting for a life that brings you more ease. I can say it here… I love you. I wish you only the best and I hope I can be one of the reasons your life is better.
Thank you for giving us a second chance. For putting your faith and trust in me. For your patience, protection, and wisdom. For being the person who sets my cheeks and libido on fire. Thank you for growing into the man I can let my guard down with. And for creating space for me to process my trauma and share my pain. I hope I can be all these things to you. That you can put your trust in me and share all of yourself without fear of judgment or rejection. Thank you for respecting me, worshipping my body, and nurturing my battered heart.
Mamaw told me she would never move in with you. I think she expected me to be relieved but instead I’m worried. About her, about how that decision will impact you, about how you’ll react when you find out. She also told me she’s giving everything to you and H… I didn’t like that she was talking about a world without her. Even though I know her passing is inevitable (as for everyone), but I don’t like to think about her not being here – or how much grief will fill you when it happens. I imagine you’ll take it much harder than when your parents passed.
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