Is vulnerability ever supposed to be easy? I can be so hard,
so withdrawn sometimes, stiffening against his gentle love. It doesn’t take
much- a sharp word, a dismissal, a perceived criticism, and I’m sucked deep
back into myself, emergency shutters slamming. And as he senses my system
arming, I sense the way it hurts him, that deep rejection I project. This
fortress tower only holds room for one.
At least it’s safe. My own hurt hides under a quilt of anger
that wraps itself around me. There’s no warmth but it does burn. I wish it
could be his arms. I wish I wasn’t so quick to prepare for battle, wasn’t
always slapping mortar between the stones. I don’t know anything else though- I
long ago learned how much of war I could handle, and began developing my
defences. I think it’s strong, this shield, but if I had any real courage I’d
run into the field without it and accept the blows as they come. What is life without
that copper tang on your tongue? A taste so preferable to the sour stickiness of fear.
I don’t want to live this way. After all, he doesn’t deserve
the barricade, and I didn’t build it for him. It was to hold out all the
poison, like ivy that grows on and in these walls, tries to find a crack. It
sprouted at age six, at twelve, at thirteen, at sixteen, at twenty. It spread
patiently, insidiously. It knows I’m not easily startled, and that it must
encroach gradually if it is to successfully swallow me up. And so I assemble
quickly, and fear creeps slowly, and nothing gets in, but nothing gets out
either.
I did escape once− when we met I was still entombed, yet
found the strength to kick through doors and leap from a window without a line.
Just so I could feel his hands, his skin against mine. I was blind to the
potential pain, and in that sightless paradise we stumbled around bound tightly
together. Within that world we’re at our best, like we can feel the very
colours under our feet, and even with our eyes closed it could never be darker
than that darkness I inhabit alone. When I’m free our sparks set everything
aglow.
But even with goodness illuminated, it’s still so tough to
believe in anyone, anything. You never know your own vulnerability until
someone pricks the surface of it, and then you swear it won’t happen again.
Then you’re the You after, the You
who sees with clouded vision and wonders what’s underneath each amiable mask. You
remember the moments of abandonment, and assault, and abuse; you remember the broken
possessions and how you still feel like damaged goods. You remember being
pressed against your will onto a dirty floor and the way it stung your nose.
How you should have gotten out then, but didn’t− you stayed. All the times you
stayed quiet, and the shame you feel even for the times you didn’t.
You remember how masterful you became at pretending you were never
in pain. You see the way each broken moment took a little piece of you with it,
and you guard what’s left like a dragon clutching its gold, hoarding it within
sharp claws. All the things you never shared with anyone, until him. You try
desperately not to punish him for the sins of your fathers, your brothers, your lovers, your friends.
Of course, he isn’t perfect; he’s contributed his fair share
to my collection of stones. But he’s broken many apart too, turned them to dust
in his large, calloused hands and reached for me. I don’t keep track of those very
well though−
it’s difficult when they’re sand at our feet. It’s easier to record the rocks
he’s added, each boulder stacked like cards against him. Sometimes, pressed up
against the slate I feel like I’m becoming one of them, cold and unyielding.
But I must be unyielding; or at least, never surrender to
the urge to run. I must fight the voice that begs me to escape to my concrete
panic room, and instead, swing the door open. And not one time either− I need
to muster up the courage again and again, every time he hands me a new stone.
For every rock he creates, we must grind ten more to grit until the whole
castle comes crashing down around us. If love is deceiving, and life is
revealing, my survival depends on my ability to choose uncertainty, every day,
every time I’d rather withdraw to where it hurts less. Not just for us, but for myself.
Because nothing grows back here, deprived of soil and
sunshine. There’s no heart to this house. It’s secure, but barren. Dead.
And for the first time in my life, the walls feel more like an obstruction than
protection. Keeping me not only from the bad but also from the good, from all
those poignant, fervent flavours. It will turn me grey like itself, if I let
it. In truth, I’d rather bare my pink skin to harm; I’d rather bleed. I’d
rather live a short life with him than a long life with anyone else. For even
with his mistakes, he’s still one of the few who has ever earned that effort.
And most importantly, so have I. Despite what’s happened to
Me Too, I can’t punish myself, can’t deny myself water because I’m
afraid I’ll drown. Mostly, I can’t let those moments steal any more from me than
they already, greedily have. Trust and vulnerability are hard, but at 28 I’m
determined not to transform into anything harder.
