bleached

I have a little achey hollow feeling in my chest today. It is less than it was yesterday, and I am pleased to say I can sit still for more than 10 minutes at a time. Which is an improvement on earlier in the week. This is what heart-sore feels like. And it brings with it a dull memory, sharpened in pulsing waves if I am inanimate too long. It feels a bit silly. This wee grieving thing. For after all, it was but a brief and barely tangible thing. A non-relationship in a Summer’s month. So I wonder at my sadness. I wonder why I am feeling some kind of bereft. And I think “What is this actually about?”

What is creating this sorrow and how is it after such short moments in the company of him, might I feel this?  After all, it was fun but not exciting, it was good but not overwhelming, it was entertaining but not enlightening, it was growing but not all-consuming… so what?

I’ve walked away from more respectful interludes, extricated myself from better bedroom romps, and prised my way out of the mind-meld of shared intellect. So what’s this one about?

Chemistry. Faith. Possibilities.

Well, they aren’t much of anything to base your hope on. Yeesh. Could you be more wishy-washy, lady?

Oh, but that Chemistry! Damn. The instant hurricane in my head and nethers. Interesting and powerful and fun and a little bit dark.

I was ready. I took a step. I had Faith. Still do. Still think that this one could have been pretty damn amazing. Hell, I came out of retirement for it. I wasn’t looking for a happy-ever-after (it doesn’t exist), or a wedding ring (I don’t do marriage), and I certainly wasn’t thinking about longevity. But I had faith that we could build great adventures and make each other smile.

I don’t dream of spiraling towers and fairy-tale journeys, but I do want to share a colourful vision of possibilities. Maybe that’s the problem.

If you are with an unavailable man, who is not ready… to let you paint those landscapes; of pleasure and respect and adventure and love, then it doesn’t matter how great the chemistry or how strongly you feel it’s right or what you think the future may hold. And even if the future you are talking about is just next week, it wont matter.

He’s taking your gifts, but not accepting them. He wont allow you you to seduce him with the thrilling, or shower him with spontaneity, or let you be so amazing he can’t stand for fear of falling for you. He will not forgive a small error or wonder how you are feeling, or ask a personal question. He wont want to know your dreams or see if there’s something you need. Hell, he wont even ask if you’re getting cramp in that position.

He is going to create domesticity and speed up timelines and sweep you up in his enthusiasm. Avoid emotional intimacy with deftness, divert around sharing of wants and hopes and hurts and crazy. All without a glance. Straight to the sex and throw in some domestic bliss. You are going to equal his energy because you are awesome, and ignore the niggling feeling that this seems way fast… and suddenly you are at home every night snuggling on the sofa and he’s cooking you dinner, and you think…

“This isn’t sexy or fun any more and certainly happened very quickly but it is nice, and he seems happy. He’s the one driving this outfit after all…”

He’s going to say things like

“We have plenty of time, there’s so much I want to show you..”
and he sings to you and says you’re gorgeous…

And you create little in-jokes together and still, you’re thinking he is wonderful but what’s in his head? Where is he? Why doesn’t he ask me about my past or my people or my passions? Instead, he skips the part where you entice and capture and develop and enjoy each other… and gives you the dubious role of ‘home’. Which, in a dopamine addled brain you accept unthinkingly. Of course. You know he is scarred. You can smell his fear. You are both cagey and careful and cautious of letting go. But the difference, lady, is that you wanted to. You were ready.

He kisses me goodbye one morning with a skip and a promise. Then he shuts down, goes off radar, and I never see his face again. And what I feel, is cheated. I feel like I wasn’t given the chance to be amazing. That I could have blown his mind as a lover and a co-adventurer if he’d given me space to be the enchantress, create my own role. I am neither demanding nor high maintenance. I am independent and happy in my own company, others gravitate to me. Strong and flexible, funny and empathic, I am the best kind of thing. Ah, so some of this grief is the acknowledgement of rejection.

*sigh*

If this one was fully present and healed and ready, I would be honoured to cherish him at his own pace. To care quietly or love profoundly, playfully partner or with a mad-consuming passion. He is good and wise and knowing. He is kind and generous. He is beautiful and ridiculous. But he is not ready.

I can believe that this was going to be big and powerful and a giant adventure of the senses. But life, with all it’s emotional obstacles and relationship residue, is always going to get in the way.

And if he isn’t ready… he’s going to let it.

cuppa


A sign of emotional maturity is understanding the true motivation of others. Of putting aside your own natural self-centredness and hearing with authenticity and trust, what another may be trying to impart. Rarely, are these wisdoms offered without care or the wish for safety. Many a sound piece of advice has been diminished by a reception of indignation. Take a moment. Breathe a little. Know that your actions and behaviour have impacts on those around you. Take a beat. Whilst you push your boundaries, we observe the broken responses and await the pattern’s repeat.

beach bench