Unfinished Happiness

Today I was going to come out here and do what I always do.

Talk through the play-by-play of my life because half the time I still think I’m fucking crazy, and I need something outside of myself to tell me I’m not. I need someone to take all the shit in my head, hold it still for a second, and tell me what the fuck I’m looking at.

But I haven’t really needed to lately.

I haven’t been writing either.

Not really.

And that is weird for me.

Not since He came home.

And I can’t put into words how much I love that.

I love that I haven’t needed to pour myself out just to get through the day. I love that I’ve been so busy living instead of constantly trying to understand why living hurt me so fucking bad.

He makes me so happy it’s fucking annoying sometimes.

Not in some bullshit fairytale way where everything is suddenly easy and beautiful.

That isn’t even close to what this really is.

There have been some really rocky moments. Moments where I’ve thought we couldn’t possibly come back from them. There have been arguments and fear and confusion and circumstances that make this relationship harder than normal. There are things I’m not okay with that I am also somehow okay with for now, because I know where I hope we’re
going.

I want the part where we just get to live and be together.

God, I fucking want that.

I want boring mornings and dumb arguments and laughing in the kitchen and touching each other for no reason. I want to know what it feels like to exist beside somebody without everything feeling like it’s one wrong move from being taken away.

I want our happily ever after.

But no one tells you the truth about love.

People write about it like it’s supposed to make sense. Like it’s one-size-fits-all.

Soft.

Romantic.

Safe.

Beautiful.

And if it hurts, then it can’t be love. If it gets dark, then it must not be real. If you’re confused, scared, overwhelmed, or sometimes completely fucked up by it, then you must be doing it wrong.

I don’t believe that anymore.

Love is messy as hell.

Sometimes it just fucking hurts.

Sometimes someone can make you feel so loved you could cry and smile at the same fucking time. Sometimes all you want is for that person to hold you, but the second they do, your body panics. Like it doesn’t know what to do with what your heart has been begging for. And you still don’t want them to let go.

That has been one of the hardest things for me.

He touches me and holds me, and I love it.

I fucking love it.

And sometimes I start to feel trapped.

Overwhelmed.

Like my body is screaming at me to move even though my mind is begging him not to stop.

Do you hear how fucked up that sounds?

And I struggle with that everyday.

Then he comes up with this whole alone time idea.

I call it my getaway.

I needed this. But I think he knew that already.

I don’t relax.

I don’t sit still.

I’ve never just let myself exist.

I’m always doing something. Fixing something. Planning something. Worrying about something. Someone. Everyone. Thinking ten steps ahead because apparently my brain thinks if I stop moving, the entire fucking world is going to burst into a fireball.

And from the moment we got here, I could feel how different this was going to be already.

He went through the house like a fucking kid. Every room. Touching everything. Looking at everything. He had to know what was behind every door.

And I sat there smiling, just looking at him.

He found these ridiculously soft blankets in a closet. I found a comfortable chair, curled up in it, and wrapped myself in one like I planned on staying there forever.

Then he found it.

Of course he fucking did.

The hot tub.

He was halfway out of his clothes before the thought even finished forming in his head.

Asked me to come in with him. I told him in a little while. And then he gave me that face.

You know the one.

The one that says please baby. With the eyes.

I couldn’t say no.

I was getting in that hot tub.

And that was exactly what I was so nervous about.

It wasn’t just the hot tub.

It was everything that came with it.

Attention.

Touching.

Being alone with him.

Really alone.

No Thomas. No K. No cats. No one needing anything. No interruptions. Nothing to worry about.

Just me and him.

And I knew what moments like that could turn into. I wanted that more than anything. That was the problem. Because sex is one thing. Intimacy is something completely fucking different.

I have had sex.

But looking at someone while they touch you because they want to touch you? Letting somebody really look at you? Being so close that there are feelings involved and nowhere to mentally disappear to?

I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.

And when I got in?

There he was.

Handsome.

Goofy.

Happy.

His hands were all over me, and I didn’t want him to let go.

Until suddenly part of me did.

Not because I didn’t want him.

Fuck, did I want him.

But I could feel myself getting overwhelmed. The panic started building underneath everything else, I couldn’t stop it and I didn’t understand why.

I had exactly what I wanted. I was with the person I wanted. Nothing was wrong. And somehow my body still acted like there was. I told him I was anxious. That I didn’t know how to feel or what to do with nothing to do.

I just had to be there.

With him.

In that moment.

I was so worried about ruining the moment that I almost ruined it for myself anyway. I could feel where things might be going.

I knew he wanted me.

And I wanted him.

But, I was so nervous.

And that is so hard for me to even write.

I don’t know how to have sex anymore.

Not like this.

Not when my presence is actually wanted.

For so long, it was mechanical. Something that happened.

A box checked.

A release.

And when it was over, I would hate myself for it. Then wait for whatever came next. There was no softness in it. No vulnerability. No looking at somebody and feeling exposed because they really meant something to you. I got really good at being there without actually being there.

But with him, I want it to be different.

But wanting something different doesn’t magically mean I know how to do different.

I am insecure as shit.

I don’t let people see me naked.

I haven’t in years.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with somebody looking at me like they actually want me. How to stop my brain from thinking about whether I’m doing something wrong. What if I look stupid. Am I bad at this?

And I’m worried about telling him all of that. That would make me feel even more naked than taking my clothes off ever would.

I’m trying to change the way my brain reacts to damn near everything.

Trying to learn a new relationship that isn’t really new. Trying not to let old scars from the past make new ones on someone else. Trying to let somebody love me without preparing myself for whatever scary thing my brain decides is going to happen next.

This is all so fucking much.

So when he went back inside, I stayed a little longer.

Alone in the hot tub.

I just needed a minute.

I lit a cigarette.

Took a drag.

Exhaled, listening to the crickets all around me.

Trying to let everything fall off me for five fucking minutes. Loosening my shoulders. Unclenching muscles I didn’t even know I had and my back actually hurt more when I tried to let the tension go. Relaxing took more effort than staying tense. And sitting there realizing that completely fucked with my head.

The truth is, I am more comfortable being uncomfortable.

What the fuck kind of sense does that make?

But it’s the fucking truth.

That is...

I honestly don’t even know what that is.

It’s sad.

That’s what that is.

And I hate that.

The fact that...

Discomfort is familiar.

Tension is familiar.

Waiting.

Ready for the next fire to put out.

That is familiar.

But peace?

Being wanted?

Being held?

Feeling loved?

Letting somebody get close enough to actually see me?

That is the shit my body doesn’t know how to accept yet.

That is so fucked it is almost funny.

My body doesn’t know what the fuck to do when everything is just quiet.

That’s why I felt tense.

Why I couldn’t stop fidgeting.

Why I all but pushed him off of me.

And I told him that.

I trusted him with that.

I told him having nothing to do makes me anxious. Being seen is new, and it shouldn’t, but it makes me uncomfortable. And it’s fucking scary.

And he sees me.

I mean, he really fucking sees me.

He notices little things no one else does. He makes me smile when I am pissed. He makes me feel loved in ways I didn’t even know I was starving for.

When you have been hurt long enough, good things start to feel dangerous too. You start waiting for the moment things turn to shit. Sometimes you go looking for it. And you create the question before the answer can surprise you.

And that is exactly what I did last night.

I woke him up at two in the morning while he was sick and asked him something I already knew the answer to. I didn’t need to hear it again. I just needed the fear to stop. I wanted to find the hurt before it found me.

But his reaction made it more than it ever should have been. He said things that hurt me. And I know that cannot keep happening. He can’t keep pushing me away every time he gets scared or overwhelmed, then tell me I mean the world to him, and then turn around and do
it again.

I understand where some of it comes from.

He’s been hurt too.

You can see it all over him even when he thinks he hides it. He is beautifully complicated, with the biggest heart that he tries not to wear on his sleeve. And sometimes I think he is just as scared of this as I am. I can understand why he hurts me without pretending it
doesn’t hurt.

That is something I am trying to learn.

I can own my shit without taking ownership of his.

I can apologize for waking him up. For asking a question out of insecurity. For pushing when I should have waited. And I can still expect him to own what he did after.

We still need to talk.

I’m not going to let it just disappear.

I’m not going to pretend something didn’t hurt just because things feel good again. But I don’t want to ruin what is good right now either.

I know he loves me.

I love him too.

Shit is hard and weird and different.

And maybe me telling him what scares me, what I think I’m not going to be good at, what I’m not used to, and what I’m willing to change for us will eventually make him feel safe enough to tell me what the fuck is going on inside his head.

I want that conversation.

I need that conversation.

But I want it to happen on its own.

I don’t want to let my fear take over because some part of me is screaming that I need to know right fucking now. That’s another thing I’m learning.

Something can need to be talked about without needing to be talked about right this minute. I can know there are things between us that still need answers and let myself enjoy what is good anyway.

I feel loved.

I feel wanted.

And right now, I’m happy.

The answers can happen later.

That is what matters to me now.

Not whether we ever fuck up.

We will.

I know we will.

How everything is handled after is what really matters.

Do we talk about it?

Do we own our parts?

Do we apologize?

Or do we just keep hurting each other with the same things we apologize for?

I don’t want another relationship like my marriage.

I can not do that again.

I will not do that again.

I don’t want unresolved things rotting underneath everything. I won’t become something I’m not just to keep someone. I won’t make myself smaller or quieter or easier because I’m afraid they’ll leave me. I want someone to finally stay because I am what they want.

All of me.

All my stalker crazy and love every bit of it.

My insecurities.

All my baggage.

I want him to want to help me hold it.

Just writing down scares the shit out of me.

Because I want him.

God, I fucking want him.

It has been him for years.

Long before he was lying in that guest room. Long before this getaway. Before I got to have those stupid normal things with him that everyone takes for granted.

It’s the little things that matter the most to me.

When he whispers sweet questions that are so much more than he ever meant for it to be.

Like the other night. He asked me if I thought about him.

Shit.

If he only fucking knew.

How many nights he took up space in my head. How many journal entries were all about him. How many pieces. How many times just a quick passing thought about him would have me lost for hours.

I’m not ready to tell him all of that yet.

One day.

Just not yet.

He already tells me he knows I’m stalker crazy.

He says he loves it.

But if he knew all this?

He might actually pack his shit and run for the hills.

But it’s the truth.

It has been him.

And that’s why nights like last night scare me so much.

After we fought and he went inside, I stayed out and wrote this.

I heard him there.

I felt okay.

But then the house went quiet.

I let my fears take over.

And I thought I heard the front door.

Everything in me was telling me that he left.

I sat outside, too terrified to look.

I couldn’t take being right again. I wanted him to still be there. I wanted morning to come. I wanted him to wake up and come talk to me. I wanted us to move forward.

But I was terrified.

And I went inside anyway.

He was there.

In the guest room.

But there.

I went to the master, stuffed my face with cookies and fat cakes, and watched some stupid shit on TV. And somehow that might be one of the biggest things I have done for myself in a long time.

Because nothing got fixed.

And I let it stay messy and confusing.

And this morning?

He is still there.

I don’t know where we stand. I don’t know what he meant last night. I don’t know if he is going to wake up and talk to me or wake up and decide he is done.

I just don’t know.

And that is the part that is real.

I just don’t know.

And I can still fucking breathe.

For most of my life, not knowing felt like suffocating. Every question needed an answer. Every silence needed breaking. Every shift in someone’s mood needed an examination with a fine-toothed comb.

If I didn’t know what was happening, my mind would fill in the blanks with the worst possible answer and wouldn’t stop until I found proof. Sometimes proof that I created and made feel like fact.

But right now?

Everything is still just sitting there.

Nothing is fixed.

Things between us?

To be determined.

And here I am sitting outside on this deck, smoking, looking at a view that does not even look real.

It is quiet.

It is beautiful.

And I am fucking grinning.

I am relaxed.

I feel light.

Being wanted is such a different feeling than being needed.

I mean, in my head I knew there was a difference. But I didn’t actually know what that difference felt like.

And now I do.

And I’m just letting it happen.

I like how it’s going.

It is so fucking nice out here, and I want him to come out here, damn it. There’s this cute little firepit, and I keep thinking about sitting out here with him. One of his things has been that I’m always outside on my computer instead of spending time with him.

Little does he know, so much of what I’m doing out here is about him. About us. About the things he makes me want to look at. The things he makes me want to change. The things he makes me want to try. And this is so scary and exciting and new.

I’m not worried about what’s going on at home. I haven’t checked the cameras. I know K has the house. I taught them well.

I’m not worried.

I’m not anxious.

Whatever happens when we leave here? It’s going to happen no matter what. I’m just happy that I am here.

With him.

Even with the shitty parts. There is still hurt sitting inside me. There are still things that need to be said. There are still questions that do not have answers yet. And none of it feels like it’s swallowing me whole.

Am I scared this is going to end badly?

Yes.

Am I scared he’s going to hurt me?

Yes.

But I’m not going to decide what’s going to happen before it happens. I’m not going to ruin something good trying to protect myself from an ending that isn’t even here. I’m going to ride the wave wherever it takes us. However it crashes. And I’m going to enjoy every fucking moment of it until then.

And to some that may sound stupid.

But I don’t care.

I really don’t want to lose him.

But I’m also so fucking excited to see what tomorrow has in store for us. Those shitty moments matter. And what happens after them matters even more. Because that is what is going to show us what is real.

Not whether we never hurt each other. Not whether we never get scared. Not whether everything between us is always easy. But whether we keep choosing to come back and talk about it.

Whether we listen to one another.

Whether we own our shit.

Whether we learn.

Maybe this is what changing really looks like. Not becoming fearless. Not never fucking up. Not finally having all the damn answers right now. But being scared and still not letting fear make every decision for you. Loving someone without abandoning yourself to keep them. Allowing something beautiful to still be beautiful even when something else hurts. Finally
understanding that a bad night does not have to ruin the morning.

Because right now, nothing in my life is figured out. Things between us are tangled in knots. I still don’t know what will happen when he comes out here. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow.

Or next week.

Or years from now.

And for the first time in my life... I don’t need to.

The view is beautiful.

The air feels good.

I am still here.

I feel loved.

I feel wanted.

I am scared as shit.

I am excited as hell.

And somehow, with all this unfinished shit sitting right beside me...

I am happy.

I am really fucking happy.

And I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.

But I can’t wait to find out when I do.