I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want

Less than 60 days.

That’s how long I’ve been seeing the Filmmaker.

Wild how much can change in 60 days.

(SIDE NOTE: The Filmmaker wants to read this blog. Heart-stopping fear that he might actually do it cuz THAT won’t freak him out…)

And, of course, the clowns has been battling hard to circle their little clown cars and tear this thing apart.

Because I don’t know what this thing is yet. We spend about half the week together, very spontaneous, not a lot of planning. Comfortable, easy, simple.

And the clowns hate that.

They want to hang signs and define things because that makes it easier to say it’s not what it’s supposed to be. But if there is no “what it’s supposed to be”, how can they tear things apart?

But they’ve been trying. Kicking their little squeaky shoes against my heart, trying to break in and break things up.

And they’re really pissed because he is doing almost exactly what I want someone in my life to do. He continually surprises me, almost like he’s reading my mind. He does a million simple, considerate, thoughtful things constantly, which just blows my mind.

But the one thing the clowns have managed to sneak through is the word “almost”.

And that one single word gives me pause.

Almost.

What’s not quite there that makes me whisper “almost”? And is it really something that’s not there or is it my clown-brain trying to find something wrong so I can run back to my solitary life and go, “See? I tried. It didn’t work. Nobody will ever love me again and I’ll die in the snow.” (Not gonna explain “die in the snow” - way too long and probably not that interesting to you all.)

Almost.

And it makes me wonder, will there ever not be an “almost”?

I don’t know how to do this.

Sixteen years of emotional abuse and seven years alone have left me unprepared to be in a relationship of any sort.

I’ve spent the past seven years pondering what I would want in a relationship with someone. And here I am, with someone who is smart, funny (oh, my god, funny), kind, adorable, who treats me well, who thinks I’m beautiful, and yet, I sit here, wondering if it’s going well, wondering if it’s going to still be there after he gets back from his holiday trip home.

And thinking, almost.

We’re in that limbo between casual and serious. Spending so much time together. Lots of spontaneity. Comfortable enough to fall asleep on the couch watching Jon Stewart. Yet very little thought of making plans beyond the next day or two. Kind of touching on things we’re both doing in the future but not yet ready to say, hey, we’re gonna do this together.

Almost.

Maybe he’s just as scared of being something more at this point. He’s dated a lot. I mean, a lot. Of course, compared to me, the Pope has dated a lot. But I think he likes his life as it is, loose, easy, simple. Spends time with his kids without the complication of having a girlfriend involved in that. Having someone like me who’s there consistently but not committed.

Almost.

And part of me is also enjoying this loose, crazy, spontaneous way we are. The thrill when he does text me and say, hey, what’re you doing? And that he’s the one reaching out to me, not me constantly badgering him.

Almost.

And when we’re wrapped up in each other, his arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer if I shift the slightest bit away from him, those are the moments when there is no almost. Those are the moments of just pure honesty. There is no thought, there is no interference, there are no clowns. There’s his breath on my neck and my leg twisted up with his, his arms around my back, and there is nothing else. And the casual intimacy in the morning, when he makes breakfast and texts me from downstairs that breakfast is ready, and we just sit and talk and be, there is no almost. There just is.

But eventually, the almost sneaks back in when I leave and when I’m home and he’s not here.

And this holiday has been particularly interesting for me because he’s been gone since before Christmas. And he’s gone until after the first. Ten very long days.

And the clowns start whispering “almost”. And they want me to think about what’s missing, what’s not quite there, what’s “almost”.

And, like any relationship, it’s way too easy to find what makes it almost. And the clowns fool me for a second into thinking about what I want and that maybe this isn’t exactly what I want.

So let’s explore this.

What I want, what I really, really want.

A man who treats me like I’m the most beautiful, sexy, intelligent woman on earth. Um, check.

A man who is smart and curious and fascinated by the world around him. Um, check. He does the New York Times crossword and listens to KCRW and NPR and has an amazing library of eclectic books.

A man who knows how to laugh and how to embrace joy. Quadruple check. He plays ukulele and sings to me. He lives for funny, whether it’s movies or TV, anything that makes him laugh.

A man who is just easy, who is healthy, who is a grown up. Check.

A man who sees my broken, busted, chrome-plated heart and who knows how to handle it, without fanfare, without making a big deal about it, who can just cradle it in his hands and make me feel comforted. Not enough checks in the world for this one.

Of course, he’s not perfect. Nobody is. There are things about him that give me pause, just as I’m sure there are things about me that must give him pause. I am not easy. Sixteen years of abuse leave a lot of scars, no matter how well one learns how to deal with them and no matter how much they heal. Scars are scars and those scars are what can get in the way.

The scars that make me want to define this and know what it is so I know how to deal with it. The scars that make me want to hear from him every minute that we’re apart because I’m terrified of silence. Silence equals abandonment. Silence means we’re done. Silence means I’ve done something wrong and driven him away. Silence is not my friend.

Almost.

And maybe almost is what I need. Something undefined. Something lazy and easy and loose. Something simple and beautiful and organic. Something that doesn’t fit in a box.

Something that forces me to trust. Trust in the feelings buried deep in my heart. Trust in that moment when he pulls me closer in his sleep, not letting me go. Trust that silence just means absolutely nothing. Trust that, when he gets back home, he’ll come to me and there will be laughter and passion and comfort, and the clowns will vanish, taking their “almost” with them.

Trust that I can do this. Trust that this is healthy and normal and honest. Trust that he won’t just fade away like the other chickenshit men in my life who couldn’t allow themselves to be with me. Trust that he can handle the full impact of me.

Maybe I can… almost.