“Thank you,” I gasp, collapsing beside him on the bed.
He raises an eyebrow, even though his face is flooded with afterglow. “Thank you.”
It is a dream to be so savored, to have my perversion welcomed, to sleep bundled by warm arms, to be asked what’s wrong, invited to discuss my troubles, encouraged to cry.
That’s probably why I feel so lost.
I had thought the bulk of my trouble lie in processing and accepting what all had happened to me over the years, the toll of being born to perfectionist parents (one mercurial and hypercritical, the other a socially stunted and absent workaholic) heavy on criticism and light on praise, the string of abusive relationships (each bestowing a different neurosis), the cross country relocation, a failed marriage. While that’s important work and something I’m trudging through, it’s occurred to me that while I have plenty of coping mechanisms for dealing with stress and tolerating difficult people, I don’t have any idea what to do with joy, acceptance, love.
So I’m in new territory. No compass. No map. Skyspook’s advice: “Pick a direction and start walking.”