I am of a thousand minds right now. Maybe writing out what I’m thinking will help.
He’s not pushing me to meet him, at all, but, subtextually, because he’s emphatic that it’s my choice and it’s fine regardless, but you know, life…is about this sort of shit and it would be nice…it’s like there’s a thing now. It’s this will I, won’t I question. And I’m not pushing myself, but I am. Because I already know the answer. Like, of course, it’s obvious that I want to meet him even if I know how ruddy awful these things have been for me in the end. It feels like this already decided thing. And that’s what I find frustrating and weird…because I am causing this because I want to pre-empt the request. I want Schrodinger’s Cat. I want status quo. I want this to not cause me any disruptions or force me out onto any new ledges.
He understands all of that. He’s a lot of that in his own way. He’s got a lot of the stuff I have. He’s not giving me advice. He’s saying, okay, well, I care, but it won’t be the end of the world if we miss out on one another or if we miss out on the figuring out its never going to happen. It’d be nice, but he can’t control if I choose to never meet him and so, it’s not his problem. It’s something I have to choose. He says it like an adult person says things. Like someone rational dealing with someone behind a screen, who could really be anything would say without being coy.
So, of course, my impulse is to write back and ask, do you want to get some coffee?
And then, the whole armored fleet of reasons I had to try and circumvent this sort of talk turns up. One of the first things I wrote was like, hey, I don’t know if I will meet you, like ever. Just saying. He said he’d never demand that.
And now that it’s come up again after this long series of emotionally genuine exchanges, he mentions something about avoiding abstraction and I saw in it a roundabout way of saying, hey, let’s get to working on erasing this literary distance we have between us. And so, he’s making it clear for me, he didn’t mean that, but since I mentioned it…fear is lame. And I ought to be less down on myself. Which sounds like a curt summation, and it isn’t and wasn’t, but it was sent kindly. But clearly.
And I…don’t know. I feel like it would almost be easier just to do it and let the whole thing get swept out to sea. I don’t know what I want as a final, end result of all of this, and I feel really odd. It’s the car thing, the body thing, the social anxiety thing, it’s a lot of things that are inconveniently not resolved yet.
And I think it’s okay. But I want it to be better than okay. And if it can be on my terms, then, I don’t want to be rushed. And I’m not…okay. I don’t know.
This is not helping!
My aunt last night said just be open.