As I tiptoe back into playing/dating life, I have trouble getting my head around that one day. The day I thought I could have The Shy One for a boyfriend and Mrs. Shy One for at least a friend. I can’t overstate the fulfillment I felt in those 24 hours or so. Included. Appreciated. Was it over so quick because I wanted it so badly, because it scared me to death how badly I wanted it? Did I need to sabotage that happiness because it was too much to hope for?
Probably not. Probably what happened is what happened:
Her overstep with the writing brought the truth out about my feelings, made the
closet of it all more untenable, or made me see that it just was all along. I
didn’t know how to make a boundary around my (broken, I hated to admit) heart,
but I did know how to fiercely defend the writing. That part seemed clear—if it’s
the writing or the cuties, it's got to be the writing.
But I did feel a DEEP fear around the happiness that
was them, and only a fraction of that fear (maybe ¾? 5/8?) could be attributed
to the present. I do have a unicorn chip on my shoulder. I “knew” I was going
to be treated as less-than, vetoed, cast aside. I’m giving myself the
assignment to read all my couple-trouble posts and see what exactly is wrong with
me.
Confusingly, with The Shy Ones, my trouble wasn’t
really with the hierarchy. I was more than ready to defer to the wife-and-kids
of it all. I felt honored to put my desires on hold for Ramadan, to, in my own
spiritual-not-religious way, submit to something higher. Even/especially since
it wasn’t my something, even if the thing I was submitting to was just what
time the sun set each day—that’s a lot. I liked letting myself be small,
treating his life and his faith with honor and deference—it was one of the most
meaningful relationship months of my storied life.
That lovely feeling of letting myself be small, the relief
of bowing to him/them metaphorically if not literally, was possible because I
felt equal as a human being. I was equally-but-differently valued, adored, and
praised. When he momentarily balked at the idea of getting mail from me, that
egalitarian feeling began to crack. When he told me I needed to pretend we were
just friends if I posted pictures of him on my public feeds, the possibility of
any kind of equal footing shattered.
Does that possibility of equal-not-the-same exist? I
tried to make it clear to Mrs. Shy One that I knew the right role to occupy,
but that I wanted to be seen as a whole person. I begged her not to see me as a
threat (I should’ve been saying all this to him, I’m so sorry.) but I
absolutely was a threat.
If I’d been allowed/allowed myself to love as much as
I wanted to love him/them and if by some miracle he/they felt that big love
back, all of our lives would have had to grow and change. They were years and
years away from that kind of expansion, if ever.
In these lonely-then-less-so couple of weeks, I’ve
asked myself over and over why I couldn’t fit, why being out of the closet with
him was so important, why the deal broke when I really, REALLY didn’t want it
to.
“I want my heart to be free.” I said, and I have
compassion for myself about that, but what does it even MEAN? What good is a
free heart when I’ve lost someone(s) so dear? I guess that’s what I aim to find
out.
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