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My Profile
Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
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3:16 p.m. - 2010-02-11
It's The Itchy and Scratchy Show! I guess my lungs have forgiven me for my offhand treatment of them. S'okay, my persnickety girlie bits more than make up for whatever leeway my other body parts give me. My bunny is NOT happy with the antibiotic. 'Nuff said. Even the thought of Valentine goodies isn't enough to keep me from being leery of the impending four day weekend. It is a given that if forced into each other's company for more than 72 hours that Mick and I will get into a wrangle. He doesn't like to acknowledge this, but we have a relationship that needs lots of elbow room. Not necessarily a bad thing. Though try telling that to Mick. I am flattered, more than that- grateful, to have a man who is so crazy about me that he can't get enough of my company. And it is my company and not just an audience he wants, Mick thinks I'm the most interesting and insightful person ever. Nice. Mostly I guess I am having a difficult time adjusting to Mick being so attentive. After a lifetime of being an island unto myself I'm having a hard time dealing with being a peninsula. If in the past it was lonely, there was also the privacy and freedom of declaring that my state of being was what it was and nobody ever said otherwise. Mick? The man knows me. His mental radio is always tuned to WLAO. Bad dreams, menstrual cramps, work problems, kid issues, money worries, the man always knows when something is up with me. It's to our relationship's betterment that I am learning to be more forthcoming with what my current deal is rather than rely on the all-purpose "No probs, I'm fine." A statement that covered pretty much everything in my former lives. If it was lonely because no one gave a shit what was doing with me, neither was I obligated to share. I wanted to handle things myself, you know? I am used to being the knower, not the known. I knew when Alex was having girl trouble, when Mike was being skunked by a client, when the foreign kids were homesick, when Wolf was about to rampage from frustration with his inability to communicate, and nobody, I mean, nobody ever knew what my emotional temper was, save for a couple days per cycle when bringing Mom tea and otherwise staying the fuck out of her way was a means toward survival. I never owed anyone any explanations at all. On his part Mick is learning when to press the issue and when to accept I've gone badger and will emerge in my own sweet time. He's learning that a good relationship does NOT mean the object of his affection is 100% happy 100% of the time. Nor does my wrestling with something mean there's anything amiss between him and me. I've got shit. I have two kids. I have an unquiet and nasty past. I have a traitor body. He can't fix everything. Nor do I expect him to. In fact, I am such a loner I am surprised and unreasonably wary that he can. Help, I mean. It's a learned skill and not one I've taken to with any kind of grace or ease that I can be soothed by someone else. My need for comfort is buried beneath a 1,000 layers of charred scar tissue. The blackened remains of dopily trusting those I shouldn't have. Poor Mick got here after it was far, far too late for me to give up the goods easily or well. Yeah, I spent six or so years barfing up my ouchies to you people. And I always was grateful for the ears. For the hugs. For the advice and the simple joy of being assured I was never quite alone as I felt. But whether we admit it or not, there is a remove. From my screen to yours with a nice layer of machinery and wiring between my raw and your ability to touch me. Not so when there's a physical being right here in my very house. One who can put his actual hands on me, one who sees my broken face, my beaten soul and is not dismissed with the touch of an off button. That is some scary shit. It's the pervasive irony of my life that I am far more able to heal others than I am able to heal myself. See into them as clear as a mountain pond, yet I am a mirror dark to my own self. That my gifts such as they are have always been an outward thing. So when I howled my grief and sent out my call for a hero, for finally, finally someone who would love me, care about me, and actually want to take care of me, I got my wish in spades. To end up with someone so far up my ass I will never need a colonoscopy, well, it makes me laugh. Not without a wry nod to the universe, but it is a laugh just the same. Oh, my friends, please, please be careful what you wish for.
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