In so many ways, we were profoundly comfortable and well suited. And you were so nice to me. Affectionate, generous, caring. Dedicated. Loving. Available. Consistent.But too consistent. Frozen in carbonate consistent. Unwilling, if it meant loosening your utter strangle hold, the compulsive denial, the tamping down of your darkness, that actually ran the show.
You implied that you were imperfect, occasionally, with a heaviness that illustrated the shame you carry. Alluded once or maybe twice that you had vague flaws and sinister qualities. But save for superficial, polite faux paus, not once did you ever admit to one. Ever. Not once did you have that courage.
But I felt them. I knew they were there. They hurt me sometimes, but that never changed how I cared for you. You may think that because I am gone now they scared me, but they didn’t. You saw mine, also, and it never changed how you cared for me, either.
But the difference was that I acknowledged myself. You couldn’t give yourself that with me. So we couldn’t share in it together. The vulnerability and effort in that imperative bond only went one way.
That’s what scared me. That’s what ultimately became my decision to be whole with myself, rather than fractioned, and forever reaching, for you.