One Spooky Chick

Love, Fatigue, and Trying to Find The Path Part 2

These posts of mine, they all involve “Love” in the title. Capitalized, front-and-center, seeping into the other ideas like ink coiling through water. I am, despite being a cobbled-together mass of traumas and neuroses, despite being utterly terrified of giving anything of myself in intimacy, very much driven by love. Love has directed my life choices to a degree that has also often starved myself. Love without full intimacy is a drug that I crave desperately, and as a result I have made decisions that are far from self-nourishing, and that must ultimately be horribly frustrating and cruel to my partners.

My husband and I got married in the throes of early love; we had only been talking for a few months, and it all seemed so perfect. Looking back, it was an amazingly stupid decision, and the fact that we’ve made it this far is either a miracle, or a testament to the power of inertia when you get along well enough with someone. I am plagued by frustrated desires, self-criticism, and the awful realization that my frustrations with him are beginning to obscure my ability to even see, much less experience, our relationship in any kind of objective light. On his end, I am sure I seem distant, slightly cruel, nitpicky, and unappreciative of him for himself.

A year ago I lost a friend who I loved dearly, a friend that believed so utterly in my talent and ability to be great that it was sometimes difficult to think of. His regard for people he cared about was like having a sun all your own to pour its light on you; in light like that, you must either grow or hide away, and for too long I chose to hide. I did not write, I did not create, I did not follow my own path, but followed a path partly made for someone else. There is nothing inherently wrong with sharing a path, but it has to be a shared effort, and a shared direction. It must be wide enough for two to swing their arms when needed. I have managed to scrape out a path just wide enough for two to survive, but it fails to allow any kind of healthy journey for either of us. We are cramped in stride, resentful of the space the other tries to claim, starved for air.


I am writing again, even if only these posts at the moment. I dream of my friend, and he tells me to do something. Stories start to push against the membranes of my mind again, trying to break out and take form.

Can I, do I want to, stay in this marriage as I finally allow myself to lengthen my stride, swing my arms, take a deep breath again?

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