Therapy

When I think about the future, there are always two versions of the same situation.  Like when I think about the future with my boyfriend, there’s a version that makes my heart explode with happiness because I’ve finally found a man who can take care of me the way I need, and is brave enough to trust me to reciprocate.  A version that makes me impatient and excited to throw the big “L” word at him.

The other version is a little grungy, hardly ever happy, mostly tolerating each other’s presence.  Content with the days we say nothing to each other and dreading the days we do, because it will only end in an argument and hurt feelings.  We shuffle around the house, mostly from the T.V. to the kitchen and back, before I go to bed first and he follows several hours later.  In this version, we’re both so exhausted and unhappy with our jobs that we can’t help but take out our frustration on each other.  This is the version that makes me afraid of the day I spit the big “L” word at him, because there’s no taking it back.  This anxiety doesn’t make the fact untrue, just makes me afraid of the truth.

That’s why I love him, but I haven’t been able to physically say the word.  Doubt is a dangerous thing.

“I’m just a big kid,” he says, taking a half second from Call of Duty to grin over me, “life with me will be all joking around and...ah damn,” he’d been hit with a grenade.

I giggled as he re spawned on a different area of the game map.  

I’m not a giggler and never really have been, but with him I’ve turned into one.  It’s one of very few girly things about me aside from my girlish figure.  I hardly ever wear makeup because my skin is too sensitive, I can’t even use over the counter lotions.  I pluck my eyebrows when I think about it or I notice they’re ridiculous, but they’re crooked anywa because of the oven cleaner I splashed on the tip of my left one when I was seventeen and worked cleaning vacant apartments for Colorado State University.  

I do some girly crafts like crochet and sew.  My crochet skills are increasing, however my sewing skills have remained at a steady plateau of about a two out of ten.  

He’s a nerd, particularly knowledgeable in the areas of Star Trek and Star Wars.  He loves watching T.V. and new movies, but he loves to game.  He’s also a handyman at the University, which is where I met him almost eleven years ago; working for my dad maintaining the very apartments I was hired to clean.  

“What’s new, kiddo?” he’d say when he walked into the apartment I was cleaning.  I loved that, him having a name for me.  I’m sure he talked to any of the other teenage hourlies the same way, but none on my team.  I loved, and still think about, the days I used to find him replacing the laminate flooring, or painting, in a vacant apartment and help him for an hour or two.  Mostly I’d just watch, but I’d fill nail holes for him, or grab him a tool from across the room he’d need.

The skill set he’s learned from his continuing time there is incredibly valuable and downright sexy.  The man is completely renovating his own tri-level house by himself.  The wiring, plumbing, and everything is done by him and his dad.  

He’s also significantly older than me and has been single for the same amount of time I was married.  He’s set in his ways and I’m set in some of mine, though most have been upturned since I’ve had to once again figure out how to live on my own.  

I’m incredibly happy with him as I’m thinking about all of this.  Most of the time I’m with him, even while we’re watching a movie, I’ll fantasize about a life with him where we have his cat and my two, his house is finished, and there’s an infant in my arms, and maybe a little kid playing in the next room over.  I look at my clock, see that it’s 8:30 or 9 and smile sweetly over at him, a silent request to put the other one to bed.  

When I think about our future, the outlook is usually really, really good.  But there’s always that doubt there, always that devil whispering in my ear that it’s not everything it seems.  That he’s hiding something, he’s pulling the reigns on his normal behavior to trap me or he’s got another girl on the side.  I’m waiting for something to rear it’s ugly head, though I’d rather it all be in my paranoid head.

This blog isn't about making money, or gaining followers or readers. This blog's purpose is not to entertain, brag, or evoke pity. This blog is about getting out of my head every little damaging thing that has been going through it for the last six plus years.

Welcome to my version of therapy.