one of those things

I sent a picture of the sunset this week. It was a whim, because she'd been on my mind lately.  I seduce myself into believing something difficult to qualify. That we're connected or that she knows me really well. Even now that seems utterly believable to me. But more than half of our brief correspondence seems to reflect misunderstanding of sentiment in both directions. That makes me ask myself what makes me say that and I answer, 'It feels off.' Stilted, not flowing. Then I wonder how it can feel off if people can't make each other feel anything and I fall into that rabbit hole. 

That day in the slant of afternoon shadows, instead of hearing "I care about how you feel" she responded to, "I think I can control how you feel." I had been about to explain why I am delicate with my wording about specific topics, like my feelings for her. And the conversation turned from going deeper into an area we'd never discussed to being about semantics, which is to say not just going back to the shallow end but not even about either of us. About a philosophy. Deflective. I have met so many women (surely there are men, too) who adhere to the adage that other people cannot make us feel anything. And it harkens back to my early days with C, too. Where I expressed believing the purpose and use (and therefore why I was afraid) of therapy was to make me 'normal.' She said it was to make me more me. Her explanation sounded like Buddha-mind, and I found comfort in that. 

And what I learned over the years is that I want to feel. I want others to make me feel things, to build a bridge across any perceived duality. And I want to use what I feel to learn more and more about myself. I can scarcely imagine not wanting that. In fact, I have practiced it and am getting better and better at it. It's helped me with parenting, with co-parenting, with being a boss, and being a partner. Sure, I have gotten stung but isn't that, too, a gift? 

I thought when we ended, we would evolve into something new. Butterfly. Moth! Meaning we'd still be this awesome thing, but it would be different. But the transformation has been akin to the change that happens when you turn a lamp off. And then I thought well, it will take more time than I realized, and I was ok with that. But now I am beginning to think this is really it. Some vaguely friendly texts and an email or so per annum. If I'm being honest this is sadder than a final goodbye would have been. Less painful maybe, though. And frankly intolerable until I came to an understanding by weaving together themes from across time. Seeing me as an equal or peer is not an option - I won't speculate on why - and so we're stuck in this kiddie pool, outsized and awkward.  

But it's not me. And that's the headline. The pithy disregards about a deep connection, about romantic relationships in general, most recently about feelings, these have been there all along. But I didn't hear them as a summation. And so, I have stopped waiting. That's the point. I waited for her which was my choice and I was happy to do it. Indeed it was an expression of love. But now I will love her with different expressions. Or maybe with no expressions. I guess we'll see. 

hard

 It's been a hard winter, but I think the worst is over. I seem to be back to normal or very nearly. Dreams have been weird, and sleeping is sometimes not in the cards but otherwise my mental and emotional state is finding ebb and flow that is easier, now. 

Today something unexpected happened. Out of nowhere, C pulsed through me. I mean in the old way, when there was intensity between us. She was on her back, which is to say open to me, relaxed. Like other people see images, I felt it. My tongue sliding around and over her clit. It was jarring as hell. She was so wet, and we were really connected. It caught me so off guard. Jesus. I lingered there, pushing inside. Letting my heart open completely to give, to receive. 

Now I am alone again and can explore it. What happened? It was like an arrow. Silent, penetrating. Thoroughly wounding. Should I tell her. Ask her if she knows from whence the bow took aim?Maybe if we were close still, but it seems like it could come off as pretty smarmy or solicitous. 

I used to write us a scene. Write us a room. A bed. Velvet curtains for quiet and privacy. I wrote her as a domme at least once. I smuggled us out of the country to the Middle East or north Africa. It wasn't clear, but the rules and laws fell away there. We could be us. This was when I thought we felt the same ways. After she said I got in, and I thought I knew what she meant. The problem is what I don't want is a fantasy version of what could have happened, who she might be. I want kisses that taste of dinner we had together, garlic and red wine. And other scents and flavors, sweat, the earth, and the sea. 

But I don't know what she smells or tastes like. I don't know if I pushed her into a dark corner if she'd feel some relief, like me. If she'd pull me into the kiss, too. Or if she'd slap me. Would she put her hands on my face, softly bite my lip, throw her arms around my shoulders sweetly, whisper 'fucking finally?' Would she give me a dark, disapproving look, trust withering away between us? 

flickering flame

 I have entered the dark night. Somethings I had not noticed before. I dissociate in meetings when I have to talk. Depression carries such shame with it. So it has to be private. That privacy is relentlessly isolating. There's shame. You overcompensate. Your sense of how you seem to others is both bloated and emaciated. You hate yourself for it the unsteady image you hold, it's disproportions both constant and in flux. The world doesn't stop spinning. Time cannot afford you relief. I size people up too much. Trying to sense what they can detect of me. This creates some kind of unintentional connection. Intimacy by accident. It's too tender there. Skinned knee. And all this is a loop. Wooden rollercoaster clattering stuttering havoc. 

Have you thought about it? Have you considered it? Have you made a plan? Have you begun implementing a plan? Have you made an attempt? Stepping stones to the river. You are here. X marks the spot. 

Today I was standing in the kitchen making lunch and I heard my own voice say with some sense of certainty, "I don't think so." I hadn't been talking or really thinking about anything. Just making lunch. It was surprising and not as surreal as you'd expect. Which was also surprising. 

This depression arrives with what I think is anxiety. I'm not great at naming emotions or states of mind but I told S I have been low-key angry and I don't know why and she asked more about it and said my description sounded like what she experiences as anxiety. If it is, I rather dislike how it combines with depression. I've mostly come to a place of peace with depression. But this robs me of that peace. 

Everything is a jumble and I crave peace. 

I hoped writing this here would discharge it and let me asleep in peace.