I don’t know what I was thinking, and I don’t know what to think. I let Mr. Big read my journal. He wanted to read it, because it had him in it. I don’t know what to feel and my emotional state has reached a strange sort of unpleasant excitement where my heart clocks up a 120 pulse rate per minute.
I thought about it over some rather over-exposed wine the whole morning after he’d left for work. I know I’ve been spending a lot of time these days thinking in a drunken stupor, and I actually believe it’s terribly effective as a drug for emo-therapy
It occurred to me that I had constantly felt as if I didn’t know enough of him, despite his constant admission that he was a perfectly open-book, because I wasn’t one. I have this insane need for people to only see me as I wish them to, and that inevitably led me to hide a whole part of myself from him. Not because I didn’t want him to know my soul; because I did, and very badly so too. I just didn’t know how charming I would still be after he saw it, so for a long time, I couldn’t.
Perhaps I wanted to assuage the guiltiness that came from the feeling of insincerity. I had been serially monogamous in the past, and the first time I cheated, I felt thoroughly horrid. I was so ashamed the whole farce did not last beyond a fortnight, and I had to stop seeing him within that time. I’m never concerned with morality, but I’m always obsessed with compassion, and I couldn’t stand him believing I was being perfectly faithful while I lied. The difference now is in the fact that I have stopped believing in sexual loyalty and romantic faithfullness within people.
Mr. Big was always hiding something; not on purpose, but something I could not extricate, because I needed him to be hiding something, so that I had all the right to carry on keeping my secrets.
It was the same theory that applied to my perfect disbelief in the existence of sexual loyalty. And trust me, I still don’t believe it exists. You can see where this is going. At this point in time I can’t be bothered to be sexually loyal (Not necessarily always in terms of the actual sex, but rather under the condition where you simply felt lust for another person and went about acting on it in some way), and romantic fidelity is an impossibility, I moderated my guilt by believing no one else was capable of it either. I must say most of the people I have met in the past haven’t been much help in dispelling this amoral conviction.
I asked him how many times a month he could fall in love last night. He told me I was perfectly mad and that it was an absolutely irrelevant question. I told him I could fall in love several times a month, and I wasn’t lying, because I really do. He said my definition of love was placed under a spectrum that was far too broad for the word to mean anything to me. But he must be wrong. Love to me is an illogical emotion, damn the day when it isn’t.
Because if I feel it, then it must be.
He ploughed through my archives and asked me who the G-Spot and the Boy was. Of course I panicked, and I told him he must not like me less. I feel terrible.
Two weeks ago I was jogging and musing to myself how perfectly incapable I was at breaking connections with people. I used to be so good at it once, but I stopped being able to; or perhaps chose not to any longer, because the feeling of comfort was too wonderful to be doing without the security that naturally came with it.
He asked me what was so fantastic about the Boy, what about him that made me so enamored of him, when I did not even hear his voice once a week and had not touched him in a year. I’ve thought about the answer so many times: Because my imagination idealized our romance. Because the separation we did not choose has such a tragedy to it that my masochistic mind simply cannot help but adore. And because I tried so hard and did so much to make sure our separation would not make me forget, trying to keep the romance eventually became a part of me, just like brushing my teeth in the morning, or reading before bed.
That wall of indifference you try to build around you, so you won’t get hurt, is really perfectly useless in the face of time and habit. You get used to people, and eventually you can’t do without them. I had a fine shock while I was listening to Ani D’s Promised Land (I listened to that CD many times last year when I had fist gotten to know him, but that’s another fantastic story for another day), because I realized that if Mr. B had decided not to see me tomorrow and forever, I would be Hurt. When the word came to me, it came with a capitalization, and the thought fascinated me in a morbid sort of way, and fed my love for the feeling of incredulity.
I know one thing I have never asked him before, and perhaps that is the most important question of all.
I must ask him, ‘Tell me frankly, how do you feel towards me. I know you think about me sometimes, because you message me when you’ve done something special or seen something strange. I know you miss me just as I miss you; or perhaps I simply like to think so. And you have told me I am unreserved in bed and read things most other girls in my demographic do not read. But you have never told me otherwise.’
Of course it would only be fair to return the favour. I have just realized I am equally as guilty –if not more so- at not telling him how I feel. But perhaps it is because I always think I carry my emotions on my sleeves, and since I never wear anything that covers my shoulders, they are usually falling from my wrist and seeping from my skin. So everyone must know how I feel about them all the time.
Three words.
You are comfort.
xoxox
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