Thursday, March 10, 2011

All In

Ella and Louis didn't entirely know what they were singing about, to sound this happy.

This week Vincent and I had the first, and hopefully last, misunderstanding (that's not a euphemism for fight. I've had lots of fights, and this wasn't one!) of our relationship. It was horrible. The night it began, I couldn't sleep until 3am for thinking about it (I did however manage to clean the toilet and sink, conquer the mountain of folding, and start a new book: Fishing In The Styx by Ruth Park - which, if you're wondering, is great), and spent the next day very unhappily. (This might not seem like a big deal but I, like my mother, used to be almost coldly adept at compartmentalising. I do it less and less now after finding that by doing it I was distancing myself so far from my feelings I almost had none about certain things, and while it got me past some hard times, I didn't really go through them, and I definitely confused/hurt people I cared about in doing so. Besides which, I wasn't living. Praise Nietzsche, he really gets it.) Everything has been explained to each other now and I'm able to sleep and happy again, but it has made me confront the intensity of how I feel about Vincent. It's one thing to know I would follow him to the ends of the earth, and to read Wuthering Heights and find it strikes a chord, but times like yesterday, I realise we have, as Vincent put it, put all our eggs in one basket, and it's not jazzy or rosy; it's fucking scary, scarier still to not have chosen to do it. I could try harder not to give absolutely everything to one person but I wouldn't be true to myself if I didn't; that doesn't even look like it could make sense, but it does to me. But I can't try; with Vincent it isn't a choice, it's a compulsion. I don't want my own "things"; I don't want separate interests or gender-specific nights. I want Vincent to be my conjoined twin from birth, there for everything that's been, everything that will be, and whose corpse I'll drag around (or mine, he) when he's dead, so people know I'm not a whole person (and subsequently, that I'm not to be left alone with children).

To me, love is all-consuming and all-demanding. If there's a halfway point, it's not love; I accept it is for a lot of people and they live happy lives and keep their hair and complexions, but not me. I'd rather tear mine out, have black circles and a restraining order.

Like a dear friend in her fifties said to me today: "It's how I roll".

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