Sometimes, he drives me nuts.
Sometimes, I drive him nuts.
And sometimes, he doesn’t interrupt me and I don’t interrupt him and I can tell him about my most recent imagined heartbreak– and we can talk about other, more serious things that we haven’t talked about before while I sit on the floor, my back to the wall in all sorts of ways as we tug at loose threads: why I stopped being a lawyer, why he stopped being a professor, how he picked up his threads after he stopped his drinking, how he might not like my bookstore job but how I feel like it gets me putting one foot in front of the other every day, and how not feeling like I’ve been heard by various people– him, my mother, my husband, either because they weren’t listening for their (whatever good and not-so-good reasons), I was understating the case because I was afraid/didn’t know, or I wasn’t talking at all because I was just getting talked over– were yes, problems with “feeling things so very much” to the point of wanting to not feel things at all, and how he hoped that I would get through it. And how mostly, most days, I hoped I did too, which was a change from before, even of late.
They’re all things I knew he thought and/or felt, and things that I have been feeling more often than not these days, the better outweighing the worse (that, and upping my meds)– but it was still good to hear and say them. And– I’d never told him before that one of the things that I’d always admired was that despite the drinking (and no, I didn’t get into the blame game, he knows without my saying a damned thing that half my neuroses are ACOA-driven or reinforced) the thing I admired about him was his ability to start over and keep going after something had knocked him down. So– setting aside the chance to tell someone a bit about this new silly thing my heart insists on feeling hung up upon– at least I could say aloud that I know that the cry-source du jour is something I will get over, just like everything else, and that I even know it won’t take forever. It’ll just feel like it will every day until one day, it won’t– and that I could have that discussion with the one person who knows that more than pretty much anyone else in my life? Well.
Sometimes home isn’t just the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in. Sometimes it’s just home.