has come to an end. It was really driving me crazy not knowing what J. was thinking, so I sent him a very basic email. Something like "I'm not trying to intrude on your space, but I was hoping to find out what's going on in your head."
So he called me several hours later...and I don't know if we're in a better position or not. Here's my stance - I love him. I want to be with him. I know that we could work together, for a long, long time if we're both willing to give a certain amount. We have a lot in common when it comes to "big picture" things and life philosophies. Our relationship has been under a lot of stress in the last year, however.
I graduated from college and entered the work force. I didn't make a big deal out of this. I just did it. I didn't even go to my graduation, I basically went to a job interview and took a job about 2 weeks later. And just onward from there. I didn't really take the time to process it.That was probably a mistake.
Meanwhile, he's really taken an interest in his personal and professional life. He spends a lot of time reading, studying, reading, studying. He has strong passion for his interests and his work, taking things seriously, more so than ever before. He quit his part-time job to take 18 hours of classes and finish school...he has been in school for about 2.5 years straight...no summers off, nothing.
We've both been acting a little bit more like grownups. I've dealt with a lot more stress. While school was definitely stressful for me, I have experienced a deeper kind of stress in the work force. I have always had a strong sense of self, a knowledge of "what kind of person" I was, generally what I wanted (not specifically, but generally), and what I sought in a relationship. After 2-3 years together, a lot of people started asking me when/if me and J. were going to get married. Aside from this being a rude and personal question to ask if you're not my close personal friend, it was also irrelevant to me at the time. I had a great philosophy, which was "if we are enjoying our relationship, then we are going to be in it, there's no reason to change that or call it something different if it's going well."
Somewhere along the way, I stopped saying that. I stopped saying it to myself, I stopped saying it to other people. Instead, I started saying, "we'll probably get married in the next few years." In a year or two, I told myself. Why? I don't know. I really don't. Some combination of living in the South, where if you're not married by 23 you're an old maid and my job, in which I work with 100s of brides on a daily basis and write somewhat in-depth stories about how much they and their husbands are in love and want to tell the world. Literally six people that I knew got engaged and/or married, including my friend. I was her Maid of Honor. This crap takes a toll on you, as a southern woman. Despite my childhood ambition of being a single, professional, free spirit professional woman, I am still southern. Add my lost perspective to the extra stress, the untreated issues of depression, anxiety, bipolar, whatever, and I probably haven't been much fun for a young man to deal with.
He said tonight that he once felt like our relationship was young and carefree, a no-brainer, a natural thing. Now, he says, it didn't feel like that. He said he loved me, but that he didn't have the same feelings. I reminded him that when we met, we were 19. Now, we're 24 going on 25. It's not possible to have a happy-go-lucky relationship all the time forever, especially since we're not college students hanging out getting drunk. But I know what he means about the feeling. I feel like that feeling stuff, that excitement, fun and happiness is mostly my fault. I've seen us both look to other places for that fun and enjoyment. One example - he's gone off with his friends (they're all Eastern European) to hang out at his uncle's farm--did I go? No. I was invited. The main reason I didn't go is so stupid it's embarrassing for me to admit to myself.
I didn't go because his friends, at least the girls, are really skinny. I have always, always wished that I was one of those "tiny" girls -- a pixie-size miniature version of a human. Alas, I grew up in America, where an overabundance of food and an ancestry of people who also enjoyed this food abundance grew taller, bigger boned, and with extra fat packets and passed down their big ole American genes to me. I'm not saying I'm a fat monster, I'm just not that Russian-model sized girl. I couldn't bear the thought of running around in the sweltering heat at a farm, watching their stick legs stick out of their tiny shorts, while I, in my baggy skirt and T-shirt felt like a fatty. This, of course, is ridiculous. First of all, J. thinks I'm hot and loves my shape and size. Second of all, these girls aren't American, so they probably don't have the kind of complex we do about comparing ourselves to other women. Thirdly, if they did think badly of my thighs, then who gives a fuck? But really, the worst part about my psychosis about this matter is the fact that I told J. this. I told him that I would feel bad about my size compared to theirs.
There are some things better left unsaid. Some internal thoughts that ought not to be shared. That was a dysfunctional thought that I should have shared with a) a diary, b) a therapist or c) a close girlfriend who might have a better understanding and told me to shut-up. That's not boyfriend sharing with material. This lack of self-esteem on my part was repeated OVER and OVER again, and J. even told me that hearing that kind of thing was damaging to his view of me. It also crossed over into other areas of my life, telling myself how bad at was at this or that, or how I was a failure in this or that.
Undoubtedly, this was the single most damaging aspect of j.'s feelings for me.
More on what he actually said...coming.
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