Not almost

I woke up this morning wrapped in his arms, not wanting to breath, afraid to break this moment. But then he shifted and pulled me in tighter, and I breathed out, knowing nothing would break this moment.

I’ve waited for a long time for this. Almost seven years of being alone. Almost seven years of wondering if anyone would ever hold me like that again. Almost seven years of almosts.

This is not an almost.

I’m not sure what this is yet but there is no doubt that this is not an almost.

The Filmmaker has surprised me in ways I didn’t think I could be surprised in. Even if this is all it ever is, the last 48 hours have been filled with delight and surprise and little, teeny, beautiful romantic moments that made me feel special, made me feel like I’m the most incredible woman on earth. There is no question about how he feels, no wondering if he wants to be with me, if he finds me attractive, if he just wants me. I can’t remember my ex ever making me feel that way.

I’m finding it kind of strange that, at almost 50, I have never felt attractive, really. Rarely has a man told me that I’m beautiful. And only my gay male friends have ever called me sexy. And I usually pride myself for being smart, not beautiful, because I know my intelligence with always win out over my boobs.

However, I’m still a girl deep inside. And when I got dressed at the Filmmaker’s place last night to go out to this event and I came down the stairs in my sexy black, thigh-slit skirt, my fishnets and my heels, and he stopped what he was doing and just whispered, “wow”, I felt like the most beautiful woman on earth.

In a hundred ways over the past 48 hours, he has made me feel so beautiful, so sexy, so incredible, more so than my ex did in almost sixteen years.

And, for the first time in these past almost seven years, I’m not trying to figure out who to be or what to do to make him want to be with me. Because he wants to be with me. No question, no almost, no wondering. Falling asleep in his arms last night clarified that very quickly.

The difficult thing has been the clowns trying to rally in my head and find something wrong. Something has to be wrong because this doesn’t happen to me. I don’t get to have the kind, sweet, not-seriously-fucked-up-and-afraid-to-get-close guy. I get to have the seriously-fucked-up-I-want-you-oh-wait-no-I-don’t guy. The one who won’t hold me, the one who won’t gasp when I walk into the room, the one who won’t even hold my hand. The almosts. That’s what I get because I don’t deserve the good, kind, grown-up man.

Until now.

And last night, the clowns tried to get me to leave, to run away, before things could go exactly where I wanted them to go. As the past 48 hours have become more and more what I wanted them to become, the clowns have tried to get louder and louder, to convince me that there’s something wrong because he couldn’t possibly be what he appears to be, that he couldn’t possibly be doing these darling things without there being an exit strategy, without there being some kind of mother-fucking whopper of a hurt on the other end of it.

And I almost listened to them.

Almost.

There were so many moments yesterday where I almost walked away from the absolutely-not-almost because I couldn’t believe that this was really happening. I fought the urge to call him and say, you know what, I don’t think I’m ready for this, kthxbai.

Even as I was sitting thisclose to him, his hand on my thigh, his eyes locked with mine, I fought the urge to run screaming from the room because this couldn’t possibly be happening. I don’t get to have this. I get the almosts.

And it wasn’t until he wrapped his arms around me as we lay in his bed last night that I finally breathed out and believed. Believed that I could have this, for however long I have it. Just today, last night, just that is almost enough. If it’s only another week, another day, another night, it’s almost enough. Because at least this wasn’t an almost.

And I woke up this morning, certain that the almost would return. That he would turn away, find an excuse, be a hundred miles away as we woke up.

Then he pulled me close, almost asleep, and snuggled in behind me and I knew he wouldn’t turn away. He wasn’t a hundred miles away. He wasn’t even inches away. He was present, he was there and there was no almost anymore.

(Sorry, I’m having a moment of “I can’t believe I’m writing this”. But I always swore this blog would be no-holds-barred, so here we are - no holds barred.)

And without a word, without explaining anything, without talking things to death, I felt safe. I felt secure. I felt no almost.

And that was just about as scary.

I’ve had such fucked up relationships in my life that I don’t know what to do with a non-fucked-up one. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop - and it may well yet - and it makes me a little sad that I have been taught to not believe in good things. That I have been taught to question what feels right, what feels good, and keep a distance there so I can’t get hurt again, to protect my heart, protect myself, so I can’t be destroyed again.

But if I stay there, if I stay where I cannot be reached, then all those years with him, all the hurt he caused me, all the ways he tried to destroy me will be valid, will accomplish what he (unintentionally) did to me. If I don’t let myself go and let myself fall and believe and just try, then I may have just stayed with him, just stayed where I was afraid and abused and empty. If I don’t let someone in, especially someone who wants to come in, then these last almost seven years have been for nothing.

So I will leap, I will embrace, I will let myself be taken away by this darling, sweet man who simply understands where I am. This man who will let me talk about where I am and how I feel and what’s gone on and just accept it and treat me with gentleness and care. I will hold my breath and try not to let the clowns get too loud and just be with him, without expectation, without planning, without trying to figure it all out so I can do it perfect and do it right and do it well, for once, goddamit. I will be present and be there and be moment to moment, knowing that he isn’t the only one who gets to choose how this goes. I get to choose, too. I can be there, I can walk away. I have a choice in how I participate. I’ve never felt like that before.

And I look forward to the next time his arms are around me, the next time he gazes at me that way, the next time I wake up in warmth and care and gentleness. Even if it’s only one more time or if it’s a hundred times. Each one will be treasured, because each one is real and true and not almost. It is just is.