Enough? More?

Thinking about the first time he kissed me. At my front door. An evening of delight and surprise and giddiness.

Thinking about the first night we made love. Nerves, giggles, beautiful.

Thinking about that night on the balcony. Full moon, wine, long talk. Exquisite.

Thinking about so many nights of climbing in bed, his eyes sparkling, his smile, my heart beating like it’s the first time.

Thinking about him at my bedside, waiting for my second surgery. Laughing, smiling. Never letting go of my hand.

Thinking about all the mornings of comfortable silence over breakfast. Safe. Secure. So lovely.

Thinking about him taping up my leaking boob. Unphased. Calm. Keeping me calm.

Thinking about him shaving my head. Gentle. Kind. Loving. Laughing.

Thinking about him coming up my stairs, his coat floating up like something out of a movie. My Batman.

So many things, so many beautiful times. So much to think about.

This should be enough. His beautiful eyes, falling asleep with his arm around me, my head on his shoulder. Excellent sex. Comfortable nights and days. One night turning into three days without any discussion. No rush, no hurry. Just being.

This should be enough. His hand on my hip. Rubbing my now bald head and smiling at me.

This should be enough.

It should.

But…

Maybe it’s not.

As close as he holds me, there’s an arm’s length he keeps me at. He’s so good at keeping all the elements of his life compartmentalized. And I have my own special compartment. And it’s beautiful. But it’s still over there, not quite a part of his life. Almost a year, so many things we’ve gone through and done and been. And it’s still there, that arm’s length.

I get it with his children. And I respect that. They are his life. And he wants to protect them. So that’s an area I’m more than happy to let him decide how to include me with them. I’m always thrilled when he does because it is such a precious part of his life.

But still…

Arm’s length makes me feel invisible at times. And that’s my issue. I’ve lived my whole life feeling invisible. My family, my marriage. Invisible.

And this man, who makes me feel so amazing and beautiful and incredible, still holds me invisibly from parts of his life. And that’s tough for me.

And I’m finding I’m doing the same things I’ve done before - trying to figure out who to be and what to do to make him love me. What do I have to do in order not to be invisible?

Yet…

I’m not always invisible. I’m mostly very visible. And maybe it’s my own issues that make me feel this. But still…

Arm’s length.

I’m so used to arm’s length. Arm’s length is what I know. The almosts. The so-close. I can’t say anything because it’ll rock the boat and I’ll be punished. What I have will be gone, taken away. That’s why I accept invisible. That’s why I accept almosts. Because they’re better than nothing.

And it’s not huge things. He’s there when I need him. And he’s been so incredible throughout my treatment, especially considering I figured he’d be gone when I was diagnosed. But he’s still here.

And the huge majority of our relationship is wonderful. And beautiful. And easy. And comfortable. And exactly what I want it to be.

But…

As we get closer, the arm’s length is more obvious. There is a barrier there and I don’t know how to get over it. And I don’t know what it is.

Well, maybe I do.

It’s fear. It’s always fear. And it’s always what I do - I get too close and they don’t like it. Sort of. They want it but don’t know what to do with it when it’s right there.

And he’s afraid. I know it. His marriage ending killed him and I don’t think he ever wants to be that close again. Because it would hurt too much if another one ever left him. So he’s become an expert at arm’s length, because then he’ll never have to hurt again.

But arm’s length is not where I want to be, regardless of everything else. I need that arm to bend, to bring me closer, to take me out of that compartment and let me into his life. His whole life. His real life. Not just this wonderful little fantasy we’ve created. His whole life.

But, truth be told, I don’t think that arm will ever bend. Maybe not with me. And I have to decide if this is enough. This wonderful, beautiful almost we have. Is that enough?

I don’t know right now. I can’t imagine my life without him. But I can’t see where we’re going or where we’ll be.

And all I can think of is this:

“Spaces there are
That won't be filled,
Not by remembering
Or reaching.
Sometimes the distance
Separating those who love
Lies between them
In the same small bed.
And though the separation
Is but inches
It might as well be miles.
Distance is distance
And holding one the other close
Is arms length all the same.”
Rod McKuen


I hope we find a way to cross that distance and leave it behind.

Because…

I’m tired of almost.