Getting Intimate with You Guys. Thanks for listening/reading:
Tonight I’m wondering about what love really is. Did I have it? Are there different kinds of love? I’ve always avoided writing about love, because I have this outer shell that believes it’s ridiculous. Hmmm. I had someone. A keeper. I grew into loving him. Is that really love? It is a genuine kind. But then there’s the love that strikes you dead in your tracks and makes you uncertain of yourself and your heart pounds. I was thinking, with my fiance of nine years–we didn’t have really any intimacy. I’m a virgin to it. I don’t know how I’d react if I ever encountered such a thing. I never let him in. Why? I’m listening to “Slow it Down” by the Lumineers over and over
I feel naked what I’m aiming to write. It’s so easy for me to write about mental illness and shit like that, but about love? Intimacy? Way private for me. Almost humiliating. With Justin it began with his persistent pursuing of me, and I was just dealing with my dad’s death and panic attacks and a first mental breakdown, but he didn’t give up. I wasn’t ready, even way back then, to give myself to anyone, because I didn’t have a self. And he didn’t really either. I refuse to believe he has no self, but its like, even now, he has no interest in seeking who that is. What did we build our relationship on besides great sex and comfort, habit, not being alone. I’d write and write and he never read a thing. I’d ask and he’d say “That’s Nice.” Just wasn’t his thing. The more I think about it, and this has been such a huge hurt for me for a long time–the more I think about it I realize I needed more, so much more. And he did too. He needed a wifey to come home to that took care of him and that was responsible and intimate. Intimacy, he was shy, but I’m assuming capable of it. I hope he finds himself. I hope he finds love. He truly is a good, good person. Rare. A gem unpolished. And what did I need? Well, mental help. Haha. We had good years. We wanted what everyone wants–love. But there was no magic. It started for him like an accomplishment, and I wanted to learn to love him. We never really really talked about the big things, the secrets of our hearts and minds. Yet he was always there for me–he’d hold me when I got bad and make me tea. But I couldn’t tell him anything. His expression would be blank when I went mad with psychotic, terrifying episodes and PTSD flashbacks, like he shut down. I needed a hero, guess I found that in myself. Did it scare him? Did he not care? Was he human? Afraid to even touch me. Afraid to even look at me and I knew it, and I was already afraid of myself. But after eight years and his amazing proposal ( yes, I was that girl–I cried my eyes out and I hate romance), I thought that time alone was enough to keep us strong. Like time was a crutch. Maybe because I hated myself, and maybe because I was so dissociated from who I was that I didn’t even think of something as great as intimacy–I didn’t deserve something so high end on the human scale. There’s something here I’m not saying and I don’t know yet what it is because I’m just discovering it in myself. I’m just wandering around my feelings seeking. As usual.
This is the slowest I’ve ever, ever written a post. What would it be like for someone to know my soul and to want to love me for it? Does anyone ever really get that? Very few I bet. Isn’t that the gold we all search for in this life? I feel like the only people that know my soul are you folks, because I’m as honest as I can be without getting close to you–because you can’t really know the person I’m like in day to day life, because I bare my soul to you and you respond. All I want is a response in this life, an acceptance. Approval. Does that mean I haven’t found myself yet then? I tell myself I need approval from no one. Maybe I confuse approval with acceptance. Maybe that’s why I blog? No. I blog because I love to write and I only know what I’m feeling if I write it down. Thank you all of you for being here, reading me. I feel oddly intimate with some of you, and we’ve never met, which I think is why we’re so honest. Because it’s safe here. I don’t have to see your face and behaviors and watch for signs and tics that you don’t care for me. I guess I’m a very insecure person. Yes I am. But I don’t really care about that. Because at least I know I’ll survive. But survival fades and it comes down to love and the human condition to want to share that love with others. I can’t do that, can I? You can’t be alone forever.
I will say this–after the worst of my illness was over, I began (my body began) to wake up for the first time in my life and the last time Justin touched me before he left was my first time actually feeling it. So I did experience what it actually felt like to be touched without cringing. It was so intense and like a pink explosion in my brain. Sadly that was the last time and it was my first.
“….slow it down, Angie, come back to bed…” are you listening to that song? It fits the mood of this. It’s like love poems. I HATE HATE HATE love poems. Now I know why. I’ll write more later, when I figure out more. Anything you guys want to say to aide and abet me in this? I love you all. Take care.