I want to talk to you, dear blog, about the imperfections of communicating with a fellow human being.
There’s something going on for him and I can’t quite get at it and it’s slowly spinning in the back of my mind, flickering the anxiety lights. Is this right? I keep thinking? Is this anything other than what it is? It is hard to put words to it.
You warned me you could be distant, but it’s such a weird kind of distant, like I’m watching you fight inside your own head and paste over the gap that’s caused by the rumble with this florid, excessively distracting wallpaper. We are talking all the time. On the phone for a couple hours a day. This doesn’t feel like you want me to run away. But you do…want us to avoid things. I get quiet and turn on listener mode and we talk about superheroes and monsters and the towing capacity of tanks, and I think that my being close is all that you want, and then suddenly, you make some stray comment that makes me blush and thrill and connect, and then I try and lean into it and…that’s all it is. A comment. I know that you are freaking out about this health thing. I know that oh so well from my own life. I also know how hard it is to move from center, especially when you’re freaked out. Especially when I know one percent of all these other reasons that you might not want to engage – scared about heredity and what could just be up and happening to you, what happened to other people in your family – so it is impossible for me to justify a demand that you meet me where I am, to connect in the ways I want to connect when your head is fucking with you.
So I demand it without justification, and only quietly, and in my head where it can’t do any good…or any real harm (not in the short-term). I knew that this thing would have strings attached. I knew it would not be an endless picnic of things I want. But…the locked in feeling is…on my mind. Locked in and we might not ever be able to really make one another happy even if in the here and now, I feel like I’ve already grown and learned so much. It’s not regret I feel, just impatience.
We both want honesty. Shockingly, that’s what I want. I can handle this. I can. I can survive this not working out. I can survive this mutating into a friendship. I can live with whatever happens. But it is this struggle that I cannot ease, one that I understand perfectly well, that makes me feel so petty and selfish. And with this whole situation of wanting to get clear of all of the exhaustive worry that the old job could give me and just prepare for the new brand of exhaustive worry, I just can’t worry about someone so far away when he does…like we all do…what he thinks is best. And right now, that’s just staying in freaked out mode. So I have to figure out what’s best for me.
And of course, my thoughts are not where they need to be – focused on getting organized – but on supporting and communicating and consoling and encouraging and I want to do the girlfriend-esque shit, but I can’t slide under the ice while I do it. And then there’s the whole matter of the reaction to the story – or the complete non-reaction. Irritating. Not going to let myself be drawn into something that is not even about me. So, I am going to play some video games tonight, wear this outfit I like tomorrow. And handle my 11 hours left as an employee at the place I am nominally still employed at.