Relationships are funny things.
Someone asked me the other day, whether I thought that writing out my story for the world to see before my son could see it, whether it wasn’t just a bit premature. Asking if writing about it didn’t cheapen it, somehow.
It’s true that sharing your experiences with someone (or in this case, many, many someones) does indeed make the experiences less personal, a little more objectified. It’s true that sharing my story with a fraction of the population of MySpaz might be seen as whoring out the experiences of my life in order to gain a little attention, a little praise.
But here’s what I told him.
The single biggest acknowledgement I can give to a relationship, any relationship, is to talk about it. To admit it. To make myself vulnerable to that horribly foolish feeling that happens when one has made known that they are in a relationship that then subsequently falls apart, because now you have to admit to all those people that you fucked up somehow, that you thought it was real and it wasn’t, that they didn’t want you, that it’s over and you got taken in yet again. There’s the possibility that just as soon as you’re done saying something incredibly mushy and romantic, about how this one is so special, so different, blah blah blah…and then a week later it’s over. Kaput. And you’re sitting there with those words still hanging in the air and wishing you’d never said a word, because then no one would know and you wouldn’t have to endure the fake sympathy and condolences that somehow seems to hurt as much as the fact that you were wrong.
Writing about my son is my acknowledgement for him. It’s my acknowledgement that I did fuck up. There were people that didn’t want me. There were mistakes I made, and things I did that I’m not proud of. I’m trying not to leave room for sympathy or condolence, because that’s not why I’m doing it. I’m doing it because I want him to know, later, that I did the biggest thing I could for him, which is to share the story of how he came to be.
So, that being said, I’ll tell you something else. I met someone. And I don’t know where it’s going or what will happen, and just now, tonight, this weekend, I’m scared shitless because he matters, you know? He makes a difference in my life. It’s that there is this chance that I wouldn’t be able to walk away as easily from this one as I have from others. I would feel like I was missing something. Sometimes I want to turn my face away and close my eyes really tightly because I just don’t want to go forward not knowing what will happen. I’m assaulted by my own insecurities, my own worries and concerns about the future, and I feel crippled sometimes because of it.
But he’s kind, and patient, and he surprises me every day with his compassion and insight. He doesn’t mind that I can’t cook (at least, not very much). He thinks I’m beautiful, even cute sometimes. He makes me think about everything that I say to him. I can’t give him empty words because he will reject them, returned to sender. He makes me speak, and think, and mean it. He has incredible timing, and a way of selecting his words so carefully that when he offers them up, it’s like a gift, something just for me and no one else. He makes me feel more thoughtful and real than anyone has in a really, really long time. Maybe forever.
I’m grateful, and I talked about it. So there. If it ends, I’m not telling.