In 24 hours, I will be standing in front of the (most recent) love of my life. Normally, the distance separating us is equivalent to 2800 miles.
A lot of people like to exaggerate and say "He lives like 4,000 miles!" or "That's an 8 hour plane ride!"
2,800 is 2,800. And it's a five-hour plane ride, thank you.
The corrections don't make it easier. It's hard to build intimacy through text message, so I'm lucky we've known each other for some time, and one of his best friends is one of my best friends; someone who has never steered me wrong or introduced me to someone I didn't like.
I'm not sure this post has a point or a moral like they usually do. I try to find a way to inspire the 40-75 people who eventually read my posts, to tell all of you something reflective.
I feel like when I tell my family and friends I'm in love, the correct response (or unsurprising response) would be, "What else is new?"
I took the six months I said I would. I dated (women) like I said I would. Got to know myself. Started exploring pieces of myself I didn't know were there. Stretched and rolled and reached for something higher. Had one of my best girl friends move in. Watched a few of my favorite couples dissolve. Got smack in the middle of one of them (god rest our souls).
And while he's 2800 miles away, I'm still exploring. So I guess the long distance is not so bad, after all. Although I'd dearly love a firm end date.
One of the first things I did in therapy was let go of narrative fantasy as entirely as possible, finally recognizing all I reaped from it over the years were a handful of fruitless relationships and broken hearts. That said, I'm having trouble breaking back into my heart and having as many feelings of romance without them. It's not that they aren't there, it's just hard to feel like me.
I suppose it's a matter of letting go and letting him in. It takes a long time.
I can try. It's all anyone can ask of me.
