My psych asked me yesterday if I had considered calling him to tell him how I felt, suggesting that maybe he thought I wouldn’t answer a call from him.
Or what would I do if he contacted me and told me it was all a mistake. What would I do if he contacted me in a month or two months’ time.
I understand the intention behind this line of questioning; it’s to give me hope. If we have hope, we perk, we buck, we keep it together, gain strength, get back up.
I’ve been down that path. I did it with Married. Every single time he implied he had feelings, I grasped to the suggestion with the tips of my fingers like a mountain climber clinging precariously to a cliff face.
The problem is that unless you keep moving, you will eventually lose that hold. You fall or you move forward. Usually I fell.
I’m tired of falling. I’m tired of reading between the lines, of deciphering mixed messages, of looking for signs and signals that just don’t exist. It’s exhausting.
Our last night together, when we were away camping, we were drunk and happy. As I was falling asleep, the words I’d been choking on for a few weeks slipped out. They slid from my mouth like a birth. I was mostly sure he was asleep. I was too tired and drunk to care. Now I wonder if he had heard.
I know what I felt was real. And I guess that will have to be enough for me.