But that won't take me anyhow or anywhere, with you

The day I got the key for my apartment, I hyperventilated from my office to the Regions down the street, kept it somewhat together long enough to get two cashiers checks, resumed hyperventilation from Regions to Sunlake, shoved it down long enough to sign the lease, but just barely. When she handed me the key, it took all I had not to lose it in front of Carol, the very nice lady who handled my case from top to bottom. I still have a suspicion that Carol gave me one of the nicer, newer apartments in exchange for having all of my paperwork in a row. Never shirk from having your ducks in a row, you never know what strings you can pull.

Carol insisted on going in with me and going over the various things in the apartment, the hot water heater, the air filter, don't burn it down, don't host orgy parties with midgets, yadda yadda yadda. As I waited for her outside my new home, I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. My tongue was studded with impressions from my teeth. I really didn't want to have to break down in front of this very nice lady, but I was very close to losing my grip. All I wanted to do was lay down on the carpet and take a deep breath. From the moment that the apartment started to become a necessity, that moment was something I had been envisioning, the first deep breath I would have to myself in what seemed like months.

I smiled in all the right places and nodded when I was supposed to, and finally Carol left me to myself. I looked around at the empty space, walked slowly into the middle of my (MY) living room, and sat down.

That moment never came. I couldn't cry, either. I guess spending ten years with a naturally reticent man will do that to someone, though I admit that I could have benefited from some reticence myself, and boy, I got my wish. There were countless times in my life where I begged God or some unseen force to not let me be so goddamn fucking emotional, to rip the heart off of my sleeve, to not bleed more than another person was willing to bleed for me, and I never got my wish. Until now.

I wish I would have asked him (and maybe I have before, but the memory of doing so has escaped me) if not being able to say/express your emotions is like trying to scream with your mouth sewed shut. How even though you may want to, there's a manhole cover over the Emotion Hole, and that sucker is stuck fast. Everything swells up against the levee of self preservation, and as much as you may want to, only just a bit spills over. Enough to keep you human. Sometimes a trickle, sometimes a small fountain, but never enough. 

I don't know if it's like that for him, but I'm starting to understand why he couldn't show me some things. It doesn't mean that it was right, but it doesn't mean that it was wrong. That part of him is as intrinsic to his anatomy as my kamikaze emotions are to mine. It sucks the big fucking one, because as much as we may need to pop the bubble, the bubble needs to stay intact, so the rest of our lives won’t  implode. I feel like I've been muzzled by an unseen assailant, jailed with just one tiny window to look up at, like my heart is constipated. There are too many metaphors for it; I'm sure one or two of them will suffice here. Some reticence is good, but too much of it and you keep falling deeper and deeper into a hole. A ship in port is safe, but that's not what ships are made for. I don't pity him, because I know he would never want that, but I do wish he didn't feel this way, because THIS SUCKS. 

I don't want to fall down deeper into that hole. If I have to drag myself kicking and screaming, I will. 

We loved each other the best we could. 

-Rae