(Yes, it’s technically tomorrow, but who’s counting?)
Life has, as always, been coming at me with a startling pace. A lapse of writing for even a week or two results in a massive backlog.
First: Melinda. We are back together. She’s actually living at my Mom’s house.
I just re-read my last blog post, and every sentiment I expressed in there was accurate. Funny enough, more drama happened since then: we started talking again, I drove back up to help her move, and we had an even worse fight that nearly a) resulted in the cops being called (allegedly they were, anyway) and b) had me spontaneously drive the unceremonious seven-and-a-half hour drive.
At which point I was again, of course, completely done. And then she more or less begged me back. We had conversations and vented and nothing seemed likely to come of it. But I slowly had a change of heart. She made other plans, and as those plans began to fell through, I was supporting her through the experience every step of the way. And, well, we re-enacted our old plans — her driving down here and renting out a room with my Mom — and, since then, everything has more or less been copacetic.
All relationships have ups and downs. I don’t write or share all the great things we have together: the great times at Bear Hole; the mind-blowing sexual chemistry, which blows away every other experience I’ve had, combined; the many moments of tender, sweet affection, of crying on each other’s shoulder; the ‘Bonnie and Clyde’ sense of destiny, of ‘us against the world’ loyalty; the quiet nights in, cuddling, watching City of God or True Romance; or the sassy repartee we share on an everyday basis.
Why not? Because no one wants to hear that shit! Hahaha.
But then people only hear the negative, and they start to think, Is that all there is? Of course not. I dunno, maybe it’s just a product of our environment. It feels like I’m rubbing my happiness in other people’s faces. Like being happy with someone is something to be ashamed of.
Then again, it also feels like expressing the perspicacity of the inner workings of our relationship hits a little too close to home for most.
Melinda and I love each other very much, and it would be a significant upset if we weren’t together for many years. It’s not a perfect relationship, but nothing is.
As far as Jill? I got irked at her and called her out on some honest to goodness incongruities. Which she never takes well. Seriously, people take critique far too personally.
Critique is necessary. Because if incongruities are not addressed, resentment builds. It’s rare to find people self-aware enough to know their needs and confident enough to express them, particularly before things snowball to the point of no return. I am one of those people. There really is no other way to address things than, well, to address things. It would be nice if people had a greater ability to practice non-attachment, to not be so invested in their own subjective reality.
I don’t really care about Jill; like I said, my previous blog post stands. She’s stagnacy. Wish her the best, but honestly, I haven’t thought about her at all since our tiff, the title of this post excepted.
Yoga, reading, writing. Doing those every single day, even if it’s only for a little bit, is my No. 1 priority. Everything else is second.
I have a newfound confidence in my ability to navigate relationships, both platonic and romantic. I just know I am such a catch — I am so attractive, open, communicative, honest, intelligent, interesting, thoughtful and aware — that I no longer feel the pervading sense of scarcity, of “loss” if a relationship does not work out or if I outgrow it. Who cares? The world is so large. Grieve, remember, learn, move on.
That is because I am constantly evolving. Developing. Improving.
It may sound arrogant or cocky. It’s really not, but you’re welcome to think that. It’s wonderful not to care! To both care and not care. Words become so limited at this point. It cannot be expressed through the written word; a circuitously clumsy attempt is the only recourse.
Still feel discombobulated. That’s the main reason I haven’t been writing.
But that’s just an excuse. Write anyway. Who cares? Am I writing for me, or the random people I’ve never met who may read or stumble onto this blog and may or may not judge me, for better or for worse? Or the not-so-random people who read this? Or whomever?
It’s for me. Me me me me me. Very selfish. That’s why I made it.
Stay true to me. Don’t care about what you write. Put it all out there. That’s what makes it an art. Keeping it to your self is nothing more than auto-fellatio.