On Honesty

I just got the divorce post (first in a series maybe?) out of the way.  Often, when I start writing these personal journal-type entries, I have one thing in mind but as I type it morphs into another thing altogether.  I was going to talk more generally about pain and honesty and fear, but found myself really wanting to vent about the Ex.  So, new post for the pain/honesty/fear.

The other night, I had something on my mind.  It was the night that turned into the fucking on the couch plus singing plus smoking and drinking et cetra incident I mentioned earlier.  I had met up with Jonathan (the one that gave me the incomprehensible name) earlier for drinks and conversation.  We used to be lovers – in a very serious sense – and had found our way into bed at least once since then.  The dissolution of the serious phase was hard.  It’s always hard, but made more so when the other party is one of the best friends you’ll ever have but you cannot return his level of passion.  After ending up together again, I felt massively guilty about offering a taste of something I could never really follow through on.  That tension was playing with my nerves  as we talked about our lives and ordered more rounds of whiskey.  I reached the part of the evening where I could either cut myself off and drive home later, or keep going if I had a safe place to crash.  Such as his place, which was walking distance from the bar.  I couldn’t let myself end up at his place drunk, since drunkenness brings out horniness in full force, unless I got the guilt out in the open.  I looked him in the eye and told him that if I went home with him, I would have sex with him.  I would enjoy it, he would probably enjoy it, but I told him I knew he was in love with me in a way I could never return.  I said I didn’t want to hurt him.  We’d been over this years ago, but I had to say it again.  And then he said the hottest thing back to me.  He said, “You can’t hurt me.”

So the drinking continued, and then there was the fun dirty crazy early-morning sex, and it all worked.  It all worked because I had admitted to my fears honestly, and he gave me an honest answer.

I went home the next morning electrified by how well two people can work together once all the issues and problems and fears are laid out and confronted.  And electrified by the power of someone being able to say those words.  It’s harder than love.  The last person I said “I love you” to can still hurt me.  I am entirely aware of this.  It makes me wary of love.  I cannot think of a single person I could say “You can’t hurt me” to at this point in my life and mean it.  Well, I could say it to lots of people, but not in the way I mean.  I mean loving someone in a way that is so absolute that love will always be stronger than pain.  For that to happen, you have to feel the full force of the pain, and then live through it, and then still feel enough love that it overpowers the pain the proceeded it.

Which brings me to the direct consequence of that evening.  I’ve been doing a lot of writing back and forth with Potential Sir.  I was already aware that I could end up in love again.  I was aware that part of me didn’t want to, since I have nothing in my personal experience to suggest that could ever go well for me.  It’s a limited experience, sure, but bad enough to freak me out.  The path a normal, sane person would take is not to say anything and then run off when things started looking bad.  Since I’m neither normal nor sane, I went ahead and wrote out a message telling him that I was getting into a weird place.  That I’m excited, but also terrified.  That I wanted to go ahead and be honest, since hiding it won’t do me any good.  If I’m going to get hurt it could still happen (and might happen more easily) even if I don’t own up to all the conflicting scary emotions.

So I went ahead and did it, with the nervous part of me saying “Don’t send that!” and the Death Goddess part of me saying “Send it.  Hiding is for the weak.”  And I got a response.  It’s okay that I’m getting all weird.  It’s okay that I want to talk about it.  It’s okay.

I’m well aware that in a week or a month or a year I could be writing about how I’m more hurt than I have ever been in my life, but I’m also aware that even with all the stress and painful memories I’m dealing with right now I’m much happier for being able to be open about myself.  Even the ugly parts, or the silly parts, or the parts I don’t much care for.  I’d rather pull all those out and deal with them than go hide and fret.  I’ll just know, this time, that as soon as my weight is called into question I need to get the fuck out.  Lesson learned – thanks Mr Ex.

 

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One Response to “On Honesty”

  1. J. Wilson Says:

    More than anything else, I know that you are not a coward and never will be. Knowing pain is the beginning of love, not it’s end.

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