I have never questioned the naming and claiming of the involuntary muscle in my chest to explain how I feel.
“It wasn’t until I felt actual physical pain when you left the room that I knew I was in love”.
Dangerous Liasons
I know the quickening, swelling, breaking, bruising and aching void that can only be described as a sucking chest wound. The center of my being lies in my rib cage. The bars are too far apart and heart is prone to slip out and sit on my sleeve, enjoying the view.
Oh honey, it’s not safe out there.
Certain lyrics, tones, words, songs thunder punch me in the heart. My body reacts.
She flutters, beats a staccato. On occasion it murmurs.
My heart is my last vestige of childhood, she never grew past 3 when happiness was clouds, flowers, sunshine, red winged blackbirds, swing sets and fresh baked bread. She still believes in fairies and an indescribable goodness, loves cupcakes, tiaras and sunsets. She speaks in that magical language that occurs between toddler and articulation. She hums and coos, babbles when she is excited. When she is lost or hurt she sends out a whale song, low moans traveling the vast oceans of time and space looking for comfort.
I read a meme a few months back.
“Find someone who loves the way you love”.
I simultaneously jumped back from my laptop and closed the tab, knocked my chair over and sent the dogs into a fit of barking. They were scared. I was HORRIFIED.
I will, on occasion, exaggerate for dramatic effect. This is not one of those times. I am being literal, in the literal sense of the word literal, which means that actually happened.
Terrified of being loved like I love? What the ever loving fuck?
I giggled a nervous giggle, righted my chair and posted (quickly) to Facebook, thinking ‘ha ha Universe, good joke.’
Oh wait, I need to add that to the list of things to ponder. In fact, that has to be the list. A list of just that one thing.
I pondered. At great length, saw the meme again the other day and sighed a contented sigh.
I think we need more words for love, in love.
Once upon a time, a girl walked into a strip club, the one I was working at. I watched her glide across the room, didn’t make eye contact or speak a word. Fell in love with her instantly. Loved everything she ever was or ever would be. It was months before we met. That first feeling I had was justified.
Work with me here for a minute. Here is why I think we need more words for love, a LOT more. I didn’t fall in love with her and want to fuck her or touch her beyond holding hands. You don’t fuck art.
I mean in a Namaste kind of way. The universe in me saw the universe in her, and recognized her as home, familiar, sacred contract, soul sister. Love. When I told her, she smiled and said she knew and felt the same.
She loves the way I love. Loves me like that.
She isn’t my only soul sister. I have a few. In no way do I covet what they have or what they are. My contentment comes from knowing they exist and their energy, which is compatible and recognizable to mine.
I think where my block and fear come from is this.
I have never been completely me.
I have never been loved, by a man As Is.
They loved what I showed them. I never loved me, so they couldn’t either. I would also become all consumed and lost in the person I was with, safer to hide behind them than to come forward and show myself and risk rejection. The fear of rejection is bred in my bones, if I could be misunderstood forever it would be better than being turned away for being me, it’s not real hurt if it’s not really me.
I am fucking over it.
Love is not some fiery passionate mess. It is finding home with another person. It’s looking at this man and thinking ‘you are my favorite’, and feeling that warmth back.
Dear heart, that is not frightening at all, it is the safest thing there is.