I sat on the couch and words fell out of my mouth. Not the kind you rehearse so your hurt or expectations don’t make the other person too uncomfortable, but the kind that happens because something in you just breaks open.
I watched how my partner had tried so hard to meet my ever-shifting needs and expectations. How he had learned to sense when my mood would shift, usually into anxiety, and would try to figure out the right words or tone that would land exactly the way I desperately needed them to. How he was making himself smaller or different or whatever I needed him to be because the thought of disappointing me felt so heavy.
I had thought I was the only one tracking moods and shaping myself to fit what I thought the relationship needed. But I was realizing, with a pain I can’t quite name, that I didn’t really know the person in front of me anymore. Not because of a lack of love or effort or care, but because I was so scared he wasn’t who I needed anymore that I superimposed my ideal onto who he really was.
But here was the kicker. When I started to realize that I was slowly eroding the great between us, I knew it was far scarier to imagine each of us slowly disappearing than to face my fear that he wasn’t absolutely everything I needed.
And he isn’t. And that’s okay. (Or at least it will be.)
The gift, though, has been calming my nervous system long enough to see him. Like, really see him. How, when he responds to questions about his inner life or how he sees the world with sound, imagery, metaphor, and symbolism, something in me feels more spacious. It bypasses my constant internal monologue and feels like I finally get to rest in the song, painting, or photograph he’s creating for me.
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