Saturday, December 10, 2005
Smarty-Pants
I wrote this letter to Ben (but didn't send it, and instead posted it on my blog) on 18 October:
First things first: let's dispose of this pink woolly mammoth careening around the room. I am in love with you. I met you on 1 August, and left Toronto thirty days later, but the fact remains, I know what love feels like, and this is it. On our very first date we talked about dogs and vegetable gardens, and I want those things with you. Now, I feel neglected by you recently, and it is frustrating and makes me desperately sad.
You know, when I come to think of it, I might have misrepresented myself a little bit. I told you that I wasn't into drama. And compared to other theatre and dance people, that's really true, but compared to civilians, it is an utterly false statement. Perhaps you find me overwhelming, and I guess I wouldn't blame you for that. In love, I am very effusive. To me, a great part of love includes devotion. Maybe also you feel abandoned by me, and need to distance yourself, because no matter how much I tell you I miss you, I'm just not there. And you don't have any choice about that. It was my choice to go, and because you were not involved in that decision, perhaps you feel left out. And also that you don't have a say, because really, we haven't known one another very long, and we can't really make demands on each other. It's a hard situation. You can't know that, even though I've been "seeing" other men, and I've had one intimate encounter with one of them, that that very encounter confirmed to me that it's of no interest to me. I don't want with anyone else the intimacy that I shared with you before I left for Vancouver. It took me a while to figure it out, but I'm happier being here, waiting for you, than I could ever be in gratifying physical needs.
I'm wrestling with this. On the one hand I don't want to seem needy, and on the other hand, this is where I am right now. For me to expect you to understand how intense this whole artistic and sociological process is for me is unrealistic, and for me to demand of myself that I tone it down is equally fantastical. I censor myself mercilessly, and I'm working against that habit. I "round the edges", because I'm afraid of other people's reactions to me. This is the case in joy and in despair. I endure extremes of emotion and then dull these extremes. That's probably not fair to anyone. So how about this? I am going to risk not rounding the edges with you. I mean, if we're going to be together, it's all going to come out eventually anyway, or else I'd be living a fake life to rival that of my mother before she left my father. And really, let's not repeat that destructive little pattern. So here it is: if you called me tonight and said that you loved me and missed me, I'd be over the moon. Because it's an offer of light in my life. So I'm offering you the unshielded, raw, blinding white hot light of the love that I have for you. That's all I can do. I am going to work from the premise that it's not my job to protect you from me. If you need to go running, screaming in the other direction, I must relinquish control over your reaction.
I'm terrified to stay with you in December. I expect that you will tell me that it doesn't work, and I should stay with my father the whole time. Or that you will ignore me while I am there. It's fraught with meaning. Everything is fraught with meaning. I am as afraid to stay with you as I was to move to Vancouver. Which means that I have to do it. I have to expose myself to these depths, if I am going to live a nourished life.
Every little thing is fraught with meaning.
I love you such that my body tries to shut down against this level of feeling.
Matthew
I'm smart. That's a good letter. I should have sent that. It was totally bang on. He did what he had to do. I'll do what I have to do. Some mourning, some letting go, some moving on. Next time I love someone, I'm going to tell him. That scares me to even say it, so I think I'll have to do it.
First things first: let's dispose of this pink woolly mammoth careening around the room. I am in love with you. I met you on 1 August, and left Toronto thirty days later, but the fact remains, I know what love feels like, and this is it. On our very first date we talked about dogs and vegetable gardens, and I want those things with you. Now, I feel neglected by you recently, and it is frustrating and makes me desperately sad.
You know, when I come to think of it, I might have misrepresented myself a little bit. I told you that I wasn't into drama. And compared to other theatre and dance people, that's really true, but compared to civilians, it is an utterly false statement. Perhaps you find me overwhelming, and I guess I wouldn't blame you for that. In love, I am very effusive. To me, a great part of love includes devotion. Maybe also you feel abandoned by me, and need to distance yourself, because no matter how much I tell you I miss you, I'm just not there. And you don't have any choice about that. It was my choice to go, and because you were not involved in that decision, perhaps you feel left out. And also that you don't have a say, because really, we haven't known one another very long, and we can't really make demands on each other. It's a hard situation. You can't know that, even though I've been "seeing" other men, and I've had one intimate encounter with one of them, that that very encounter confirmed to me that it's of no interest to me. I don't want with anyone else the intimacy that I shared with you before I left for Vancouver. It took me a while to figure it out, but I'm happier being here, waiting for you, than I could ever be in gratifying physical needs.
I'm wrestling with this. On the one hand I don't want to seem needy, and on the other hand, this is where I am right now. For me to expect you to understand how intense this whole artistic and sociological process is for me is unrealistic, and for me to demand of myself that I tone it down is equally fantastical. I censor myself mercilessly, and I'm working against that habit. I "round the edges", because I'm afraid of other people's reactions to me. This is the case in joy and in despair. I endure extremes of emotion and then dull these extremes. That's probably not fair to anyone. So how about this? I am going to risk not rounding the edges with you. I mean, if we're going to be together, it's all going to come out eventually anyway, or else I'd be living a fake life to rival that of my mother before she left my father. And really, let's not repeat that destructive little pattern. So here it is: if you called me tonight and said that you loved me and missed me, I'd be over the moon. Because it's an offer of light in my life. So I'm offering you the unshielded, raw, blinding white hot light of the love that I have for you. That's all I can do. I am going to work from the premise that it's not my job to protect you from me. If you need to go running, screaming in the other direction, I must relinquish control over your reaction.
I'm terrified to stay with you in December. I expect that you will tell me that it doesn't work, and I should stay with my father the whole time. Or that you will ignore me while I am there. It's fraught with meaning. Everything is fraught with meaning. I am as afraid to stay with you as I was to move to Vancouver. Which means that I have to do it. I have to expose myself to these depths, if I am going to live a nourished life.
Every little thing is fraught with meaning.
I love you such that my body tries to shut down against this level of feeling.
Matthew
I'm smart. That's a good letter. I should have sent that. It was totally bang on. He did what he had to do. I'll do what I have to do. Some mourning, some letting go, some moving on. Next time I love someone, I'm going to tell him. That scares me to even say it, so I think I'll have to do it.
// posted by MSR @ 11:18 PM 
