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Found this in my drafts folder

  • Sep. 4th, 2014 at 10:51 PM
jic: Daniel Jackson (SG1) firing weapon, caption "skill to do comes of doing" (Default)
Pretty sure I wrote it over a year ago....

I'd really rather shed blood than have this conversation, but the silences I should fill with this confession are only ever almost long enough for me to gather the courage.

I've been pining for about three years now -- since before December 2010.  Not sure just how much before.  Unrequited affections aren't really a thing I set an anniversary on.  Honestly, it seems like much longer.  I was just gearing up to confess my interest -- for my next pon farr -- when a younger, prettier woman made her declaration to you and changed everything.

Regrets.  I have too many.

You both vowed our relationships wouldn't change, and on the surface they didn't.  But I knew we were never bound to be a triad, and I never loved your young woman as you did.  I liked that she made you smile.  Everything changes with time, and this was one more thing.

I poured out my tears of loneliness on the shoulder of another.  She allowed one of her chosen to tell me of their blossoming threesome mere hours later.

My pon farr came and went.  I enjoyed the twitterpation while it lasted, and was glad when it was over.  The young man who shared my first kiss in years shared nothing more.  With the transitory nature of my hormonal drives, I didn't want to wound my inner self with yet another encounter with someone who cared no more for me than a wick cares for oil.

I didn't intend for this to become a memoir or a history.  Certainly not anything to inspire guilt or regret in you.  But my cowardice drives me to rambling misdirection.  Rather than what was, I must speak to what is.

I am smitten -- struck with admiration and affection absent of hormonal urges.
I am lonely.
I am terrified of change.  I fear that opening this door will lead not to in invitation to enter but an awkward rebuff.
I am insecure, and I want more than anything for that insecurity to be washed away by the assurance of returned affection.

I slept in the midst of writing this, and woke from a bad dream featuring frustration with my ex-husband.

I wish I weren't caught in the unmapped region between what I yearn for in a relationship and what I'm unable to promise.  I want the security of shared plans. I want a shoulder to rest on that doesn't feel like an imposition.  I want to hold hands.  I want to snuggle.  I want to take turns paying for dinner instead of always splitting the check.  I want a shared account where we both put money we set aside for sharing and then together decide how to spend it (contrast with putting all money into shared coffers and "setting some aside" for ourselves).  I want to breathe deeply and smell familiarity.  I want to share kisses good-bye and hello.  I want my joy in your laughter to be untainted by the premonition of your departure.  I want to say "I love you" and have it mean something a bit deeper than "Love ya'."  I want to be a comfort and a solace.  I want to watch TV sharing a pillow, or one of us using the other's shoulder for a pillow.

I can't promise sexual desire.  It seems like only one hang up, but I have no viable or even visible social narrative for how a person like me can pursue a relationship.  The dominant cultural narrative depends on sexual attraction to tell the partners they are "in love".  All I know is how to want good things for another person, and a little bit of how to facilitate their non-physical joy.  I don't know how to make out and not have it turn into sex I resent or frustration my partner resents.  I don't know how to flirt without making crude offers I'm not ready to fulfill. 

I could maybe start this conversation if I employed one of my reliable distancing tactics -- referring to myself in the first person plural, or even the third person singular.  She and We are somehow less vulnerable than I am.  But I can't see how doing that would come off as anything but (a) distancing, which is both accurate and inappropriate to a topic of this magnitude, however necessary it feels, (b) insincere, which is the opposite of my intent, or (c) not entirely healthy in the mind, which is not something that exactly screams, "Pick me! Pick me!  I'm the best for you!"

My nails are too long on the keyboard, and saying so is just another sign of how terribly hard it is for me to be this afraid and to keep making true words anyway.

But Gator's awaits, and I will no doubt write more later.

Still true
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