a part of me in 2013-2014

Aaron said a thing tonight.

I was griping because I don't bruise easily, and even when I do, I discolor even more rarely. I have a smattering of bruises on my legs, but since they're not lit up, I keep forgetting where, exactly, until I put something there or kneel. If I'm going to have the pain, I wish I could at least get the cool highlighter effect. (Also, out of sheer nerdery, I like watching the cellular breakdown in terms of coloration.)

And he said, a little lower, in a rush of non-confrontational words, "You know, you don't have to be so badass all the time. You can... not."

To which I didn't know how to respond, so I didn't, and he didn't press it, and it's like it never happened. Except for the part where it's haunting me.

Kris said something like that a good ten or whatever years ago, except he called it independent.

I don't know what to do with that. I can understand why he would say that, and I think I can understand what he'd like to see. But... that's such a fundamental part. That's my childhood, when my brother was a high-maintenance, needy infant and toddler and I had to get my own drinks and read my own dosages on the Tylenol container. That's why I'm not fretting about on the Internet about how bullying ruined my life and traumatized me. That's how I moved to a new state with zero contacts or family on a giant leap of faith. That's how I do any of the things I do. I don't know how not to be, and the idea of not being scares the dickens out of me.

He's seen me not badass, not independent, when I had my kidney stones. Unless you count mostly still going to work and managing my own medication schedule, but I still had plenty of stress-induced tears and pain-induced vomiting and general weakness. I was still reliant on him to feed me, care for my dog, and drive me to my procedures. I wouldn't consider any of that to be a highpoint of our relationship.

I know he likes me this way. He's proud of me. I also know that I can hide behind it and take it too far and become unreachable. I think he's saying that he would like to see a little bit more vulnerability/need/reliance, rather than me always want/need/have to do it by myself. He's said as much before, in the little things, like carrying groceries inside. It's not a bad thing for him to want that. I'd rather him want that than not want it.

That is such a completely, viscerally terrifying prospect.

I've always been the tough one. That's practically my whole identity, one of the few things that's remained constant about me since I developed a personality. I've never cried, I've always been slightly aloof while still friendly, I've always obsessed over being able to do things all by myself, I've always needed to be stronger and tougher and faster. I've always needed to be independent and to be comfortable relying on myself. For crying out loud, I've lived alone for four years. "If I don't do it, no one will" has been a life-truth for years now. It even held true when I had roommates, or when I lived with my parents. It's how I got through that first year when he was in Afghanistan, for fuck's sake. Just me and Jesus, trucking on through.

I can see both sides of this--everyone needs to be needed and I don't do an awful lot of needing--but my side is blindingly scary.

I should do more needing. I should let him carry half to most of the groceries inside. I should let him unscrew the stubborn jar lids. I should let him carry heavy things and get things off the tall shelves. I do try, when I remember, although sometimes it's after I've already committed to the action, because it's automatic. But I'm afraid of becoming whiny or needy, always asking for something or waiting for it to be done when I could just do it and be done with it. I don't want to be that person. I refuse to be that person. And right now, if I stop with the independence and the badassing, it'll just amount to whining because we're still separated and we'll both feel bad. I can be as needy as anyone could want, but in the end, I'm still carrying in my own groceries and opening my own containers and climbing on furniture to reach the tall shelves. (That's how it always ends, doesn't it? In the end, it's still on you.)

(He sure wasn't complaining when I drove from central Ohio to southern Tennessee that one day while he slept off Benadryl.)

I know he likes when I can step up and hold it all together. I have before, on that Ohio drive, or when he was having his quarter-life crisis. There was one time on the couch where I was holding him and he was the snuggling one, and he was surprised by how much he liked it. So it's probably a thing we need to meet in the middle about, but most of the give is going to be on me. And I am absolutely terrified of letting myself truly become reliant, of needing. What if I lean and nothing's there?

Logically, the answer is that I crash to the ground, bitch and moan and lick my wounds, then use that latent badassery to haul myself up and go about my life with as much dignity as can be salvaged, kicking anything that dares to heckle. Emotionally, I'm still stuck on that whole crash to the ground part. It doesn't hold up to any logic at all, but that's the bitch of it.

It's just... easier, right now, to tuck down deep in the badass and get shit done and move forward. The easier path is never the most fulfilling and the joy is in the careless release, but right now, I'm still functionally on my own. Maybe this will come up again later, when I'm not on my own anymore. It'll definitely still haunt me, if only out of a niggling concern that I'm not meeting a need of his and that's sort of my job.

Hopefully, I'll find the guts to say it this weekend. Hell, I'll be drunk. That's their goal. Everyone loves me good and drunk. Maybe I can mumble something about being scared in the dead of night when I'm supposed to be falling asleep.

I don't need him to make me happy. I don't need him for anything, technically speaking. I won't die or become critically ill without him. That's the healthy, good part, right? Or so I tell myself? Or maybe that's a part of me that I'm selfishly holding onto, out of fear of potential hurt. Maybe it's a part of me that I need to share rather than hide under several feet of concrete. Maybe it's a dank fear that needs to be exposed to some good sunlight.

When you bring spirituality into it, it gets even more confusing. All I need is Jesus. Right? Right. Or are we talking different types of need. Or maybe when we consider the sacrament of marriage, the holiness of it ought to be addressed--marriage is symbolic of Christ and the church, and it's probably okay to elevate that relationship to proper 'need' levels, or it's not worthy of being a sacrament at all. It's just a thing. How many times are widows named in the Bible as warranting special attention and care?

This is one of those scary, enormous things that I'll be chewing on for the next year or whatever. There's going to be pensive drinking nights in my future, that's for sure.