Saturday 10:30 AM
I post Sixteen Years and go back to bed. She has sensed me and woken. Another 3:30 AM together; another two hours of talking and being. At the end I take a moment and the post down comes down.I will repost Sixteen Years. I have re-read it and while there is so much more to things, it still stands on its own. And it is time to add some further thoughts. One might say when will I learn to leave well enough alone but those who have read my blog will know that is not who I am.
KA has not been having an easy time. All of my baggage just bringing all of her baggage to the surface. Her therapist is worried – I am worried – she has not joined me in tears. We both know the sadness is there and we fear the torrents when allowed their day.
So another Saturday and I find myself lacking a keyboard but owning a pen. There is a strange comfort in writing. I look at my marriage and realize how much there is but also wonder what went wrong. Yes, we have the gay thing, yes KA has her baggage, but sixteen years does not come tumbling down in six months like this. We dance around the topic – in therapy and at home: what was missing that I was so desperate to be released.
KA tells me she wants me, wants us. Her seeming pushing me away on to my journey is a defense against the pain she fears will be coming. She is torn, we know that my journey has come too far and we also know this is no controlled experiment, no predicting of the outcome.
We talk of my just going back to semi-anonymous sex, a “lunch” with no danger of commitment. She tells me I am better than that. I would like to say no, but she is right – the tem is not “better” (she is too kind) but “beyond.” My “lunch” partner e-mailed last week. He is happy to get together. I finally gave him my blog URL – he is amazed but still wants to get together. I would like to say no – I am married and maybe bi and if I am gay don’t I want more than “lunch”. But I feel the yes in me and I feel compelled and repelled, both emotions existing together.
Of all that I have said, wrote, shared (purposefully and inadvertently) one thing comes back. Now this should not have been a surprise – months ago I made a comment in my Washington Then post, a line that did not register until quoted back to me in my comments. “I slept in his arms. Somehow that felt more gay then being fucked.”
So it should not have been a surprise that of all the things I wrote, my description of spooning with Jerry caused the most pain. She has pride and living with the thought of your husband giving a blowjob must be painful, but the intimacy of spooning – it must be excruciating.
Maybe that is why she cannot cry. We are no longer in the land of sobbing, no dab of a tissue will do. We have crossed to a land of cascades and all we can do is pray that the tears will water and nourish something, “something we can’t even name” and from that again will grow our lives. Lives as healthier individuals that may then be able to re-integrate and build again. Lives that keep moving forward with prayers and faith, and yes, fears and worries.