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Did you really not think of me on New Years Eve?

“Now don’t blow smoke up my ass, say things you don’t mean…”

Dressed for him, eye makeup, hair, and lotion, selected my jeans, shoes, shirt. I was complimented at bar by guy on my shirt. Jeff complimented the jacket I chose previously, and the manicurist complimented my jeans.

It was all for him. What about him? Was I not attractive? Did I not succeed in looking good for him? Did he not think I looked pretty? Did he not appreciate me? Worse yet, does he think that I had dressed for someone else? Does he think that I do it for anyone else? Does he know it was all for him, and that it always is? Does he know that I look forward to seeing him and picking outfits to appeal to him and doing my makeup to please him?Does he know that all this makes me happy?

Dreaming of him… “you and I are…” he says, and I wake up. I know what we are. So strongly that I wake up and am here wide awake still.


You think I shouldn’t need to feel your touch


To know that you love me


I shouldn’t need to hear your words


To know that you care


I shouldn’t need your gifts


To feel special


I shouldn’t need your time


To know that it’s me


How is it that I should know?


I wonder


But still my madness is that I do


Without your touch I long for you


Without your words I need you


But without you I still believe


You love me.

I begin to wonder what it would be like if you were to reach out to me, to start the night anew, if it were to go differently, if you were to affirm me—not even us, but just me…

I open the door, and you step in to close the space between us and give me a big warm hug. Told me, wow—you look great! I love that… shirt, glow on your skin, your hair, your smile, your outfit. (Instead you didn’t compliment me, but denigrated yourself—commenting on your coat. It made me wishI had been faster to compliment you, because as usual you were stunning to me…but it was then too late to tell you.) What if you had brought something to the night to tell me about? Something that you wanted to share with me? The problem you might have solved, all the apartments you’d seen, what you did this weekend while I was busy, how you’re looking forward to your first weekend after working again. What if in the car you reached out to me? Offered me your hand, or your arm, or guided me by your hand on my back? What if when I showed my insecurity, you turned to me and hugged me tight, kissed my forehead and told me that I’m beautiful and you’re so happy that we were getting to spend time together? What if walking to the bar you had wrapped your arm around my shoulder walking with me side-by-side? What if you had laughed, smiled, caught eyes, asked questions, or interjected—in short, contributed to any of the stories I told? At the bar, what if it wasn’t every other man’s eyes, but yours that were on me? If you looked at me, instead of staring ahead or at the television? What if you reached out to me with little touches here and there as I do to you, a quick rub on the back, a touch on the knee, a moment resting your hand on my arm?

Things that told me that you love me, last night:

You smacked my ass playfully as we walked up the stairs.

You told me that you like my talking.

You took me to the Irish bar instead of just going home after giving up on La Puerta.

You walked me to my car door when we were going home.

Nip/Tuck had a quote about Julia—the only way she felt she could get your attention is through screaming or sex. That quote struck me so hard. Of course, I thought, I have always known that I desperately desire your attention, but it had not occurred to me that what happened to us was an unhealthy shift to my trying to obtain it by either screaming, or sex.

Last night when you got mean, which is what you do when you go on defense, you told me that what did I want, you to say things you don’t mean or blow smoke up my ass? I was hurt and retaliated. I spit at you that you just like to hang out on the cheating side of town. Could you ever been faithful to someone? You said with venom, yes. I of course heard what you wanted me to, yes you could, just not to me.

I am a failure that I do not inspire you to care for me. I long so desperately for your touch, your words. I learned that it was acts of service, which make you feel loved, and I began to look for ways to show my love in that manner. Making dinners for you, for us—shopping, cooking, and cleaning. All the offers to do things that you don’t let me do—wash your clothes when you were visiting, return your shirt, mail your phone. I asked for you to show me love in your language—would you repair the leg on my wine cabinet (you had even offered!), would you hang my mirror and my pictures? I appreciated when you hooked up the Wii for me.

Do you know that I hurt so much when you asked if I wanted you to say things you didn’t mean, to blow smoke up my ass, because I believe that there’s no way possible that you couldn’t have thought there was something you could have offered to me that night. 

Do you know that I feel madness in loving you because I feel you still, you there, just beneath this cold veneer, this shell, this surface?

I hang on to the tiniest things.  You will have to cut me off entirely to make me give up on you. I recall you telling me how you were pleased that I looked hot the night we went to the Mizzou game at the bar. You may have chosen to tell me as a stab when you were being mean, instead of just telling me upfront, but I remember it regardless. It has fueled my continued pleasure in dressing for you. You smacked my ass last night. It was spontaneous, and playful. It was reaching outside of yourself for something you wanted to do. It was touch. It means something to me. I imagine that you don’t go around smacking other people’s asses like that. I immediately thought of Christian, who I spent nearly all weekend avoiding being smacked by (and failed miserably) and just as immediately knew how I loved that you smacked mine. I would never avoid your smack—only playfully. It gave me the courage to ask for permission to kiss. I will hang on to that you like to hear me talk, that you want to date someone like me who does talk.

While I wish I could stay on the highs, I feel like maybe you’d understand me better—my madness—if I continue in train of thought… the point is to understand the oscillation between feeling love from you while there being no evidence that it’s true, and feeling rejected. As such, I’ll tell you that from those highs I’m reminded of the things you don’t do. I spoke to you once about the book I had been reading at the time—about bids. It meant the world to me when you referred to bids later in conversation with me. You were listening to me! Something I said had enough value that you would adopt the terminology! But here we are now, and I wonder why you don’t respond to any of my bids. I wonder if you even see how classically I am constantly begging for affirmation, reaching out, and instead being rejected. How you turn away, or turn against, but very rarely turn towards. Are you doing it on purpose? Last night I told you that I know that you are intelligent. I think that you are capable of being the cruelest man on the earth. It’s actually a compliment—I think that you are so very intelligent that you could ruin someone quietly while standing by their side as if loving them. I just don’t think that you could that to me, at least I won’t let you do so without awareness.

Then I think about New Years Day. I think about how I wonder how I could offer you more affirmation and love, and what your needs are. You give so little to me, that I have focused so much on what I desire and forget to offer in kind what I seek. As much as I don’t forget the little highs, the notes that remind me so securely that you love me despite your desire to deny it, I also don’t forget the moments the remind me that we are both people who have been incredibly hurt by life. New Years Day, you honor me by asking me to breakfast, while I was still in bed myself. Then you arrive mere moments later. I open the door, and you joke about worrying that you would have arrived to an awkward situation—me in bed with someone else, while you stand at the door.Oops! You “joked”. In that moment, I was saddened because I never believed that it was anything more than a thinly veiled confession of the fear truth. I took it that you honestly believed that I would have been in such a position. Later what saddened me was two-fold. One, not that you don’t know me well enough to know that I wouldn’t do that, and instead to you would believe that I would, but that you don’t know how much I love you and how much I live my life loving you, regardless of what you choose to do, or where and with whom you sleep with on New Years Eve. And secondly, that the joke was a joke about you. You weren’t actually insulting me, but showing your vulnerability. I want you to know thatI appreciate your showing up at my door, your inviting me to breakfast, your knocking once you arrived and had that moment of fear; I appreciate your taking the chance at having gotten hurt.

And that moves me to the breakfast where we leave and you want to show me Carlsbad… the drive up the coast, driving in Leroy with the topdown together. It’s another moment that I hang on to where I know that you love me.

I know that you love me because you don’t hide that you are with me to Randy. When he calls, instead of avoiding saying that with you’re with me (as little as I feel he values me) you affirm me by acknowledging my presence. I even feel like it’s with pride. Are you proud of me? Do I add value to your manliness? Am I the kind of girl that you’re proud to tell your buddies that she’s with me, and yeah, she wants to be?

I can’t appreciate how much it is that while Vanessa and my entire family may know many gory details of our relationship that require a stomach of steel to swallow, that you have not shared any of this with Heidi (or Gretchen). That you instead of recent told me that you present me as something desirable, as worthy of competition, as someone you love… that means the world to me.

The sun is coming up. I suppose I should try to get some sleep, and I think now that I might be able to.

I will send this letter as an email. I will probably wait until around 4ish or something… late enough that you possibly have time to read and digest it and perhaps that it alters the course of the evening, but not so early that it distracts you from your day, your focus at work.

You see, I believe in you. I believe that you are a beautiful and so incredibly strong man. I believe that you are a loving person, and that you are good. That is to say, that I believe that you cannot turn a deaf ear to my pleas, that your heart could be untouched by an appropriate expression of my love. We have gone so far off our path, but I don’t believe that it’s hopeless. More than anything else that you could desire in someone that you would share your life with, understand this—I believe in me. I believe in you. And I believe in us. Those are three unique and individual statements.

Believing in me is what is required for me to find my way back to wherever it is that I left my smile. You cannot save me.

Believing in you. That’s the most special thing I have in the world. Believing in you as I do is a unique experience that I have shared only with you, and you alone. Believing in you is so close to loving you. The first two days we shared together were the happiest of my life. But they were not love. I did not believe in you. I will never forget the moment I looked at you and I knew… the moment where I believed in you. I believed in you as a man, as a partner. I will never forget that moment, because that is also the moment where I knew that it was true, it was love, that I had fallen in love with you, and it was truly love. Those first two days, and the first week or so after you moved so swift and sure. I wasn’t there. The irony is that we changed places.Once I knew I was yours, I moved swift and sure, and you were uncertain. I then was the one to come on too strong.

Micheal, in this time of darkness in our life together, I wait for the day when you look at me and tell me that you have decided to love me. I keep hoping each time I see you that you have chosen to love me.

Our life will not exist without love. We are special. I don’t quite know how to express that I feel that we are so entwined. I’ll try…

Friendship is love. You love your friends. What you desire to share with me is a friendship. To be friends, you must love me. To love me, you must look at me and act lovingly in my best interest, as a friend would doin kind. To love me right now, I need affirmation and touch. I am a friend in need.

Tonight I realized that what I seek from you is completely okay, even in the context of just a friendship. If you were to go back and read what I’ve written again, you’ll see that. I am seeking support. To receive your support is to be loved. To be loved is to be restored. Love is the strength tor ecover.

The careful thing is, the disclaimer that you must know, is that if you were to act kindly to me; if you were to support me; if you were to love me; then we would fall in love again.

We are intertwined.

Being near you without your love destroys me. Likewise, to be loved by you is more than anything I’ve ever known in my life.

I want to find my sparkle, and restore my smile and the light in my eyes.

I am asking you for your help. I am asking if you can choose to love me, to be my friend.

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