“I’m a good swimmer,” he says.
He can take it. All of it. Ripples, waves, crashing, roiling.
I’m so full of words. I could write all day from the moment I wake until I pass out asleep, and it would never be enough to get it all out.
“Why am I like this?” I ask him.
“Why can’t I stop being too much?”
He says likes me that way. He says I have a need to connect.
“Quiet people need to connect.” I say.
But in the questioning comes answers.
I think back to how he dived into my waves. I would come in, all words. Full of thoughts and questions. It could be the moon, or plastic soldiers, or the tender sense of domesticity I thought we’d never have. Our conversations ranged from childhood homes, ex-lovers, and Star Trek, to body image. From a song that made our hearts ache, and movies that made us cry.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I can never truly know how relationships are going to turn out. It seems some people have ideas about that kind of thing. And it works out! They make their five and ten year plans. Bless them.
To the lovers who thought me too much, thank you for your grace, and for helping me learn lessons about myself. And for coming back after the awkwardness faded.
To the lovers who misunderstood what they saw in me … I recognize your curiosity was pure. I’m more careful about who I let in now, it keeps my heart safer that way. I still feel the warm of embarrassment on my neck and flush my cheeks. I recognize that I wasn’t what you thought, but that doesn’t mean I’m not good. It just means we weren’t a good fit.
To the lovers who lied–I maybe learned the most from you. Hopefully, never again.
So here I am, the Little Tsunami of feelings and words. I think of it as neurotic needs to be understood because I spent so much of my life before him with people who invalidated me daily. Who asked me to be quiet. And who didn’t want my words. So, I stayed quiet. I kept my words locked away, for decades.
So now, I will sip wine and try to keep from drowning everything in sight. But like with all powers of nature, sometimes it flows out of me in a torrent. I will write the words pouring out of my wild heart–because it cannot be tamed, and he doesn’t try to tame it. He likes me wild and he likes my muchness.