As long as I can see the light

So, while I'm doing my thousandth rotation through anhedonia, I've either been sleeping all day or thinking. Which, you know, I fucking love.

Maybe it's a discovery that ultimately means nothing in the long run, but I woke up from a four hour nap at 8pm with the sudden realization that I have no idea how I want to be loved. Need to be loved. Whatever. How I even love anyone else.

Everyone supposedly has a 'love language'. There are five: words of affirmation, acts of service, touch, quality time, and gifts. That's all great and everything, but I also believe it has something to do about how you were raised. Everyone knows my mom's side have no fucking problem letting you know exactly how they feel and where they stand. My Dad's side is a lot more reserved (not stick up the butts, but decidedly much more normal and rational people) and my Dad is my Mom's polar opposite. Since I'm female, I am genetically predisposed (so they say) to seek out men like my Dad. My Dad is a great dad. He's funny and sarcastic, and he's always given me and my sister more than enough. Dad, however, is not big on physical affection. He doesn't say 'I love you' often and we really don't hug or kiss very much. He's more the type to go outside while I'm visiting and check my oil. Once he got bored and cleaned and vacuumed out my entire car. He worries like a mother hen. For example, last night, when I tried to go outside to help someone with their stuff, he told me to not go outside because I was barefoot and I was already coughing, like I was seven or something. He's definitely an acts of service kind of guy, which is fine. I think he always wanted a son and maybe I'm the closest thing he'll ever have. When I was coming up I think his reticence bugged me a lot more than it does now. I didn't start realizing how much I was like him until the last few years. More on that later.

My Mom's side is batshit crazy. Everyone knows this. I spent the majority of my childhood years with them and usually only ever saw my Dad's side for holidays. My Meemaw (my mother's mom) was the head of the family. She was a lot like my Mom-loud, abrasive, demanding. Meemaw was much more accepting in her love, though. It's no secret my Mom and I have had some pretty epic fights, but Meemaw always went to bat for me. She never made me feel less than. She always used to encourage me to be a writer, and made me promise that the first book I wrote would be dedicated to her. She gave me my middle name and scratched my back for hours. The times I spent at her house with Davlyn and Scotty and later Autum were the best times of my young life.

But as loving as she was, Meemaw was not sentimental. At all. My Mom is not either. Meemaw was pragmatic as hell. She never sugarcoated. To give you an example, she told my Nanny (and my mom, too, I guess) that men were going to cheat, no matter what, it was just who they are. They weren't meant to be monogamous and that there was no reason getting upset about it. Now, I can understand that doesn't seem like great advice to give to your daughters (or granddaughters), but she never told me that directly. If you were a romantic (which I was, as a pre-teen, writing excruciatingly drippy NSYNC fiction) you wouldn't do well to go to Meemaw for love advice, and I think she knew that, and didn't want to fuck with my head. What you went to Meemaw for was when the shit went down after. I hate that all I had were stupid preteen issues at the time. I could sure use her now.

Most of the women in my family believe that it is best to find a man who can take care of you, rather than make a love match. Maybe that's just generational, but despite being exposed to that for most of my life, I still don't believe in it, even find it cruel. The only woman who seemed to believe in love was my great grandma Ann, who had been married to my Papa for 73 years at the time of her death, and theirs was definitely a love match to give anyone hope. She was not abrasive as Meemaw or Mom. My Grandma Ann was a Lady with a capital L. She gave me my love of reading. Maybe it's from her I got my romanticism. I don't know. I'll never know. She made me love books and maybe that’s where I got it from. I don’t think you can be a writer without being somewhat of a romantic.

My point is, I grew up with a lot of different ideas on love. My Dad showed it to me from acts of service. The women on my Mom's side gave as much as I could possibly handle, but they were pragmatic with their beliefs about how it should go. My cousin Scotty was gay and a party animal. He sure as hell wasn't romantic, either. Somehow, in the middle of all this, I was still a romantic. Or maybe I was just young and stupid. I don't know.

When it came around to Tyler, of course we all knew how that went. Between being my first love and coupled with my new and awesome powers of puberty, it was a total shitshow. From what I remember, Tyler was definitely a romantic. He wrote me letters that made me weak in the knees (you are a beautiful fire and a delicious poison, the closer I get the more I burn and the more I drink the more I suffer and that’s an actual quote that I still remember from memory because I straight up bbqed everything he ever wrote me in 2003) He would bike to my house from Luling to Boutte at 7am, we had to sneak around behind his mom's back so it was all very Romeo and Juliet-ish. He ‘proposed’ to me with a gray metal ring with runes etched into it, we talked about having kids, he drew me half naked once, hell-he was the first guy I was ever fully naked in front of and who I ever did anything wholeheartedly sexual with so obviously there was nothing about that whole relationship that was logical and of course it wasn't, we were fucking sixteen. I had never met a romantic boy in my life, only dreamed them up in my huge notebooks of tentative erotica, which I could barely write without blushing or giggling because who fucking knew what love really felt like? Which would make it a nightmare for me when we broke up, got back together, broke up, got back together, didn't see each other and when we did it was Tension City. This lasted for five years, and I definitely dug into my heartache like a tick and stayed there MUCH longer than what I was supposed to. Tyler didn't know what he wanted. It destroyed me. It seemed so stupid. If you love me, then what the hell?

As a thirty five year old, I chuckle at that. Tyler told me a lot of things, but what sticks out more than any swoon worthy thing he ever said in his letters was this: “You’re a ten. I just have to see if there’s an 11 out there.”

🤐

Enter Rodney, from stage left. Rodney was my first foray into 'love' after Tyler. I don't remember how we got together but somehow it just happened. My mother hated him. My sister hated him. My family tolerated him, so, naturally, I moved in with him. I was an angry little bitch at this time. I don't exactly remember what I was so angry about, but I was a goth girl and still kinda pissed off about Tyler and Rodney and I fought like fucking mad. He and I were like oil and water because he HAD TO BE RIGHT ALL THE TIME AND I WAS NOT BROUGHT UP TO BLINDLY AGREE. When we weren't fighting, we were constantly on a see saw of unemployment. If I was employed, he wasn't, and vice versa. He was the first man I ever lived with, so it was exhausting. The only thing I treasure from that time in my life was the parties, the fun we had, the lack of responsibility.

When we weren’t fighting, Rodney was affectionate. Sometimes overly so. He'd baby talk me like I was 3. He had my virginity (a decision I regret with my whole heart and if I don't regret it it's only because it didn't hurt that much, if you know what I'm saying) and I never could go anywhere with Dani or any of my friends because he HAD to be right there. I guess you could say his love language was quality time, because we were ALWAYS TOGETHER, though I see now that he had a serious case of Fear of Missing Out. He could be so cloyingly affectionate that it would piss me off and drive me away, and then other times he could look right through me and play YuGiOh with his friends all day and not say a word in my general direction. He wrote me sweet notes on his Xanga. And then he fell in love with Dani and didn’t exactly bother to hide it. Doubts began to build. And then I fell in love with...well, you know.

I won't go into that much except to say that it was a lot like Tyler. We couldn't see each other so we had to resort to words, and since I am a sucker for a love letter (even at thirty five) he had me hook, line, and sinker. I used to print out his conversations and dissolve into this pathetic, pulsing heart shaped thing, using those to make myself believe he loved me even when he started playing games with me. The love letters would dissolve, then spring back up after radio silence. It was either he was insane about me or I didn't exist. I let it go on longer than I should have, but after Tyler, I wasn't about to do another five years of purgatory, so, bye Felicia.

(bear in mind, there is no ill will in this next part except to the universe for fucking it up. I'm just stating the facts here, or my view of how it went down at the time. We both handled things terribly, so it wasn’t all on one of us.)

After I broke up with Rodney and fell in whatever with Ugh, I moved back in with my parents. And after Ugh and I stopped talking, I was a wreck. Doing drugs. Had a terrible one night stand. Drinking my ass off. Had really rough and punishing sex with Rodney. I was lost. Definitely nowhere in the market for a relationship. Felt much about it like I do now.

Enter Sid.

Sid is a lot like my Dad, and when I mean a lot, they could probably be father and son. His love language is definitely acts of service. He wasn't a romantic, but he had his ways of showing he cared, and evidently they struck a familiar cord in me because I lived happily with it for a long, long time. And then...BOOM. Bullet, exit gun. Circumstances behind our control. And when all that happened, I started to doubt, because despite acts of service, we had compatibility, trust, and affection behind closed doors. In those ways I knew he needed me, wanted me, and that was okay with me, because I felt safe. He always made me feel safe, and not just because he made sure I was fed. His edges fit my edges. We hardly ever fought, which was a relief after Rodney. I fought enough with my family, I didn’t want to fight with a boyfriend. And now, something that had once come so easily was gone and we were both angry and confused and full of pride and didn’t know how to fix it or talk to each other because we had no idea how to talk to each other without making it worse.

And so I began to doubt. See a pattern, yet?

He still took care of me, of course, but I still had that romantic part of me lodged deep inside that was screaming for air. And to escape reality, I started writing again, and I couldn't deal with or understand with my reality, so I began to live in my story. I put a band aid over it. In my story, A (the male protagonist) is a fictional character against which no real male can compete. Writing about him was like constantly feeling arms around me, which was the only thing keeping me afloat, giving me that desire for safety that went beyond being financially taken care of. In my head, he wasn't real, so I wasn't cheating. Unfortunately, it gave me unrealistic ideas of what I wanted, much like what happened to young girls when Twilight came out. I stupidly thought that I could lean on A, pour my frustrations into him so I didn’t have to put the pressure on Sid while it got figured out. Of course, because things that big just figure themselves out. Duh.

And when A didn't work anymore, someone from the past came back. Someone real, and if by real I mean a humanoid with arms and legs and a pair of lungs. Out of nowhere. After ten years. At the worst possible time. When I‘d fall for anything because I was drowning in two feet of water.

Again with the fancy words, the wonderful promises that I couldn't touch or ask to be proved. I knew better. I know I knew better, but I was too hurt and too scared and I saw Sid depending on someone else. A wasn't working anymore. My whole life was making me angry, reckless and frustrated. There's only so long you can live in a fictional world. My hormones were going fucking nuts. I let all that cloud my judgement, and worse yet, become an excuse, a permission slip. The same old games started again. I was too afraid to have one less thing in my life, even though I really, at my heart, wanted Sid to be saying those things to me. I hated myself. Hated you know who. I still hate myself for it, though it never really did get very far, not as far as it could have possibly gone. And then, well...you know what happened next.

Three years later and I'm starting to realize that I have no idea how to be loved or love anyone else the way they need or deserve. All of the men I've been with in my youth who gave me that affection that my inner romantic needed and wanted, well, they were never stable with it. When I loved a man who took care of me, it worked out fine until...well, you know. My brain has no idea what to do, what to believe, where to go. I don't even know my own love language or how to deal with any kind of love shown to me anymore. My sister tried to comfort me the other day by putting her arms around me, and I fought her off. I fought her off and begged her not to. What kind of fucked up response is that, coming from the family that I do? Hell, what kind of fucked up response is that, period?

The only thing I know is that I'm terrified. I have done what I needed to do-I left a relationship that was making both two people very unhappy and got my place. It was the scariest fucking thing I've ever done, besides this. I made choices. Choices I shouldn’t have that I wish I could go back and change that would transform the here and now into something different. There are times when I feel like throwing all my shit in my car and disappearing. There are many times when I don't see the fucking point of giving a damn. I like things that stay done. Nails that stay nailed. I don’t like wasting my time or anyone else’s. Never have. That's the pragmatic in me that says, "If you're not brave enough to be loved or love anyone, what's the goddamn point of anything? If it’s not gonna stick, why bother starting?”

And then all those years of being with Sid, being my father's daughter, and the Meemaw I have in me, they tell me that I have come too far to do that. We didn’t love halfway in our family, I’m not supposed to even know how. If my Meemaw were here she'd never hear of me shutting down like this. Like I said, she was wholly unsentimental, so she would probably just tell me....well, I don't know what she'd tell me except to get the hell over myself. She's not here. She died not long after Katrina and when she did, there went the last person who I had who would stand directly in the middle of two issues and not point me in either way, but just listen to me.

Whatever advice she did give would be sound and practical, but she knew me. She knew I had a vein of romanticism and she wouldn't want to destroy that. Above all else, she wanted her family happy. Even after growing older and going through all this and being the daughter, ex girlfriend, and granddaughter of sensible people, that part of me, the part that wants companionship, however small, has not died. If it does die, I am fucked.

So, to recap:

My gooey heart lives in a pragmatic body. My heart blinks in and out like a faulty headlight. It has no idea what it wants, or what it needs, so it just shuts down. I want love like anyone else does and I want to love back without being scared of it. I recognize that there is no one perfect like A. I gave him flaws but they were the most romantic of flaws and I know that if I start writing about him so I don't have to deal with things right now that I'm only going to fuck myself over and have unrealistic expectations that will ruin any chance I ever have if I ever do want any chances again. If A did exist anyway he’d probably bore the shit out of me. The sixteen year old romantic inside of me needs love like food and air and drink but I've seen what happens when I get involved with that kind of love. I've also seen what happens when I love someone who takes care of me, and the two of those experiences have melded together so seamlessly that my brain keeps telling me that there's no point. Nobody knows what's going to happen. Least of all me. There’s no guarantee in life about anything. Like you said, we could die tomorrow, so we need to do it. And say it. And live it.

And yet I am a fucking coward. Not proud. Not happy about it. I wasn't raised by cowards. Neurotic shrieking messes, yes, but not cowards. When it came to being there for you I was never a coward, and now I am.

I guess the whole point of this rambling bullshit is to say that there's such a tug of war going on in my heart and in my brain. I've never heard them fight louder. It makes my appetite disappear and my feet heavy and I haven't talked to really anyone about this situation because I feel enough like a goddamn pussy, and I am saturated with guilt. Because I know everyone will just say, "Oh, well, you just have to take a chance!" Duh. I know that. I have a teeny tiny gremlin squatting in my heart at all hours of the day screaming "YOU'RE GOING TO DIE ALONE, FETID WENCH!" Believe me. I know. I’ve spent nonsensical hours waiting for a knock on my door that won’t come and I can’t blame you. Not after this.

I have no idea how I'm supposed to fix this. I have no idea how to tell that thing in my chest and that thing in my head to stop fighting and get over themselves. I don't even know if they ever will. I don't know how to take a chance anymore. When I find myself in a relationship where I am loved by someone who writes me sweet things and dotes on me, I am always going to be waiting for the hammer to drop, for the love to die, for them to fall for someone else. I am always going to be the pragmatic one in that scenario and make them feel like shit because I'm too afraid to step into the fire, and God, I know how much it hurts to someone accept your love so logically and not reciprocate that way, because I have been there. And If I am loved by someone who believes in acts of service, I am going to always feel like the private things we do to show each other love are going to be halted by some nameless and sudden tragedy, which leaves us with nothing to build off of. The icing on top of this fucking sundae is that there are needs and desires that live in me that I can’t ignore. There are coping mechanisms and flight or fight responses in me that I am horrified and ashamed of. I am afraid of what I’m capable of if things go sideways and I feel alone when I’m supposed to have someone there. I am afraid of speaking up because it might make it worse. I want the whole world yesterday and I always have, but I can’t figure out how to slow down to get it. If something holds me up, I go on without it. I can’t figure out how to stop and wait for someone. In my head, if I stop moving, I will die. Like a shark. If I let someone take my heart over so completely, I won’t be able to function enough to get things done if things go south. Life does not give a fuck if you’re heartbroken. The bills are always due.

Maybe this will take time. I don't know. I'm not ancient but I'm sure as hell not twenty anymore. People I know from high school are on their second, third kid and here I am bingeing Roseanne until my CBD gummy kicks in. Unlike the first time I was a royal mess after you know who, I don’t have the luxury of moving in with my parents. No one can save me this time. Just me, and I brought tweezers to a knife fight.

I've survived a lot longer in here then I thought I would. I can take of myself, but I don't want my life to be just taking care of myself. Even through the fear, I know I don’t want that.

As I always do when I'm sad, I reread The Man I Love by Suann Laqueur. If anything, ANYTHING, in this world gives me hope, those books do. If anything could make me turn around and stop being a coward, it's those books. Suann Laqueur and I follow each other on Instagram (something I still can't believe is a fucking fact) and one night while I was fucked up I commented on one of her TMIL pictures and told her I was experiencing a crisis of faith in the love area and that I didn't believe in it anymore, but to thank her for always giving me a glimmer of hope. While I'm sure she was silently thanking her stars that she lives in New York, away from crazy people like me, she wrote me back and told me that she was writing again:

This is my favorite author. She wrote books that changed me, that changed my writing. Nobody even knows about her, which is a fucking shame. It's really weird because the book I'm writing (with A) is a book about love and war, too, which obviously means I need to go to New York and live on her back porch or something.

When I read or watch anything it's always in hope that I'll read something that will change me or my story. I don't find it very often or if it at all, but she did it for me. I read that book about a year or so ago and I still haven't found anything that lifts me up that way. She wrote about someone who was so fucked up and scarred from love that they shut themselves down and ruined everything in their life because they were afraid. When she did have him turn around, it was the epitome of everything I ever wanted to find in a love story. I mean, it took him twelve years to do that, but still. Her characters are real people. With real flaws. Not like A and H. They have real conversations. You can read it and think, "Wow, these guys have problems. But they're real. I can do that. I can be real like that and still believe it's worth a damn."

I just want to turn around. Not after twelve years. Even if it's just halfway. Just let me turn around. All I’ve written in this entry is I, I, I. Let me turn around for a we.

-Rae