There are moments in my life that erupt with harsh clarity. They usually coincide with a certain influx of hormones within my system, which begs to reason that my fits of existentialism are only misfires by my biological imbalances. Regardless, tonight is one of those nights. I’m not entirely certain if I’m drunk more on warm beer or the written word, but my thoughts are clear and sharp.
I have come to terms, examined, and devoured the weak parts of my personality. My insecurities, my issues with trust, and my inability to properly open up the way most people do. I’ve accepted how fragile that trust is, how impossibly brittle, how once fractured the weak spot splinters over time, tarnishing everything. I re-read a novel this evening, I had mentioned offhandedly that the narrator, Philip, reminded me of my husband. I realize now, after devouring it, he more resembles myself. Serves as a mirror. This has driven me to go against my original plan to have him read it, but to instead hold it close to my chest, refusing to allow eyes upon it. Especially my copy, which is stained with highlighting and small notes in the margins. It’s too close, I realize. Too personal. I don’t even fully understand why, only that I have a swell of protectiveness that has taken me over. Forcing me to deny the existence of it.
I’ve realized tonight that I have insecurities that are glaring in the foundations and cornerstones of my life. I was reminiscing just the other day about my over-eagerness concerning my husband. How our relationship has spanned out before me. My thoughtlessness concerning my life and job once he entered it. “How silly!” I remarked, “Approaching my manager, taking over a dollar cut in pay, for a man I have never met! How foolish I must have looked.” I realize now this may have put me at a disadvantage from the gate. Set the tone. I spent the night deducing the blows. Comparing scars. Who has it worst? What have I done? What has he?
My self-righteousness flares, and I am left calling up ghosts, feeling less to blame for this feeling that rises to my surface every now and then. This acidic burn that climbs from my stomach to my throat and burns on my tongue and in my cheeks. At the end of the day, cognitively, I can agree that it is me, although. It is me that questions the little things that happen. The sudden influx of a woman’s name. It’s my own faults showing through. Or perhaps that’s only my way of copping out. The weaker one. Always. My love shining too bright, unwilling to upset, too frightened by the weight of loss.
This isn’t to displace the gravity of the love we have. I am solid in my love, and believe, on a greater level, his love for me. I just struggle. Small movies play in my head, flashes of light behind my eyes of my hands waving and dipping beneath an oceans tide. A drowning person, too ashamed to admit it. A question always seems a disbelief, a rejection of love, but a bitterness always rises. Caustic words fly up, but never make it past my teeth. “But what about so-and-so!? I know ‘nothing happened’, but you should have listened to my gut feeling!” “And what about whats-her-name!? The fake account! The secrets!” Forever the coward. Forever the meek. Forever the silent.
But it’s better that way, in my own head. My own dizzy, romantic head. Better to hurt than to hurt.
My silence, my quiet stillness, my demure politeness. All calling cards of myself. Definitions of my personality. Yet his fantasies depict me strong, forceful, and charge-taking. All of them, every single one. A picture within a picture, perhaps. An image I don’t recognize, and cannot identify with. Confusion, always a result.
Determination and guilt wrestle. Guilt always wins. Better to hurt than to hurt.
I’m not sure what I meant with all this. My best friend is vacationing in Virginia Beach, and perhaps this has just come as a surrogate in her absence. Today when I collapsed, exhausted, I longed only to call her and ask her to come over (knowing she would) so I could at least say “He’s been talking an awful lot about so-and-so, I’m worried. I can’t do this.” if only, at the very least, to feel real arms around me. The warmth of human touch to ease me into some feeling of security. To take some of this away from me, selfless, onto herself.
With her holiday silence I’m left with this: room-temperature beer, the dull mumbling sounds of some cable television show, and the slow purring of my cat. A loneliness creeping in.
I think I should take a walk. Perhaps the unseasonably cold night air will serve as an elixir and silence my mind long enough to get some sleep when I return home. Home.