January 20, 2013 § 11 Comments
David and I got back together officially on New Year’s Eve, although we’d talked about it for a while before. Some people know and others do not. I’m not sure who falls into which category. I have no desire to talk about or share our relationship with any of my friends, at least for now. I don’t need their opinions about it. If I’m happy, they should support me. My recent history with David has been a convulsion of hurt and turmoil, but, what? We’re not the first couple to have a less than perfect relationship. There are plenty of literary precedents. Cathy and Heathcliff, Nickie and Terry, Frida and Diego, Scarlett and Rhett. Everyone I know should be able to understand difficult relationships from their own experiences, too, but I guess it’s easier to cast a critical eye away from yourself. David and Ariel, Ariel and David. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. He is the only person I could ever see myself with. I’ll always love him.
The biggest worry I have is that I can’t talk to him about this, about anything I’ve written in this blog. I don’t have a single person in my life it’s safe for me to talk about with. It’s created a distance between me and everyone I know. They might not notice, but I do. I’ve cut everyone out of such a huge part of my psyche. It’s necessary. Whenever it comes up, the conversation reaches a dead end immediately. I just want someone to listen to what I say and understand. I’m not especially interested in hearing how strong I am. I don’t care if someone thinks that I’ll move on from it soon. I just want to be able to talk about you, my baby, without the person feeling uncomfortable or irritated with me. I just want to be able to answer the question, “what’s wrong?” No one wants the answer. I guess I feel like they should know already.
I had my birthday this month, 24 on January 11. I worked that day, went out to dinner with my family, then had a few drinks at my favorite bar with David and a mutual friend. I got some good books and DVDs. It was decent, as long as I ignored the fact that it was my birthday. If I thought about how little I’ve accomplished relative to how many mistakes I’ve made, and what I thought I’d be at my age compared to what I am, I felt really depressed. If I treated it as another day, I was fine.