Rooted, I used to think.

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Wednesday, Mar. 11, 2020 @ 12:42 pm
Who Will Love Me?

Peter and I go for another run, again at sunset. Another eight kilometers of apparently zero interest in my life. Why is he wanting to spend time with me? What is going on with him?

After the run, I go up to his apartment. I pour myself a glass of water and look around. Everything is the same as before. The sparkling view and the couch where I fell asleep against him. The table where we ate Thai food that he ordered in after we made love until four o'clock in the afternoon.

I glance down the hallway to his bedroom. His ten shirts hung neatly and ironed in his closet. I’m nervous and jumpy.

“By the way,” he says, “I meant to tell you that this run was your chance to vent after I dumped on you about my ex last time.”

“Oh! Hah. Thanks. I appreciate that. I have no complaints, though. I’m very happy.”

“So, do you want to run again? Or maybe go for a swim?”

The look on his face.

He is lonely. I was nice for him. Things with me are simple.

I love him. I could slip into this, the ease of a comforting yet passionate friendship. His brown eyes. I could be all that he desires.

I could, but I won’t. He needs to do more than this.

I cycle home and think about all of this. What I need. What’s missing. Why am I running with Peter?

I realize that I do have a complaint. I realize that I have an unmet need - the need for someone to express their feelings to me, the need for verbal reassurance of my importance in their life.

I spend time with others, and there needs to be reciprocity in those relationships. I choose to spend time with you, and I tell you what you mean to me. I deserve to have that returned. And I need to choose someone who will give that to me.

My greatest desire in life, my biggest wish, is to have a man that I care about look me in the eyes and express his feelings towards me. My insides crumple, and I can hardly breathe when I imagine the moment.

I think of all of the things that I have done over the years, the futile attempts to conjure love. Right from the start of my life. I tried to be a son to try to win love from my father: I rode my bicycle beside him on his Saturday morning runs; I learned to check the oil on the Volkswagen; I built birdhouses in the workshop using hand tools. I tried to be a good girl to win the love of my mother: I helped her with pancakes on Sunday mornings, I made my bed, did my homework, followed all of the rules, and did everything that she said that I should. I tried to be an old-fashioned child to win the love of my grandfather: I did not speak unless spoken to, I crossed my ankles when wearing a dress, I curtseyed on command, and when I rode horses I smartly snapped my whip against the horse’s flank when he was watching to show that I was plucky. I became a rock climber to win the love of Gordon. I starved myself to rail-thin to win the love of Daniel, mistakenly thinking that he might express desire for me if I was delicate and hallowed like a model.

I know now that I do not need to do anything to be lovable. I am already fully deserving of love.

And so I continue to love. To love others. To see and appreciate and care for others. And hope that one day someone trusts that I am real, that I will not disappear.

That I am worth jumping into the abyss.

Roots | Shoots