Wr1tt3n0ne

Bunches and bunches
2020-06-24 10:13:17 (UTC)

Id You Kidding Me?

Since the advent of Mr. Curved Line, I have been having these dreams. You know the ones where it's test day and you are unprepared. Meandering dreams where time is running out and I am a semester or two behind with mere hours to go. They are the stressful sh*t I am happy to awake from and realize that I am out of school now, retired, and none of this applies to me. Oh happy day!

Except...Except that that is my Id. Much of life can be random but I've yet to find my Id to be so. Still nothing like that was in my life, no looming deadlines, other than a few self-imposed external ones, like appointments and the like, it is just a day to day. Into all of this entered Mr. Curved Line. Things have been amazingly aligned in most of it, sex being the very last piece of that. All the myriad of other concerns with him, and those are multiplied by the polyamourous concerns and structure, have been getting dealt with and handled in a frank and direct manner. And with ample understanding and care, these issues are beginning to fall in such a way as to form a solid foundation.

I wondered at the compounding nature of the dreams, no longer just some missing homework or trouble recalling my locker combination, the increasing nature became nothing done until the hours before the end of the term and only finals left in the day. Basically my Id was screaming loudly about missing out on something, being fundamentally unprepared in a way that might actually ruin my chances at something big. And my Id was relentless.

So here's the punchline...I know what I was referencing now. Mr. Curved Line, I am in love with him and totally caught napping. With my aversion to having deeply felt convictions about people, moreover, not needing nor wanting to equate sex with love. And likely suffering from the inability to easily trust so integral to relationship formation, I have had years of compartmentalization. At that I am a fine purveyor, full of rules, boundaries and firm shoe boxes. I wanted a relationship, used loosely to be read as interaction, that I could take down the shoe box from my closet and enjoy reminiscing on and return to its shelf and promptly have out of sight and mind until I should feel nostalgic again. Note that I am speaking past tense as if I have already lived it and am now merely recalling it. That is my ideal, not to have to live it in real time.

Living with love in real time seemed a mess compared to remembering it as a clean, discrete memory. I eschew messy emotional lives, even if it means I live more in my past than my present. In my past I can reign with thought and purpose and the world can play my nemesis. In actual love, I have to own my own sh*t. I have to relegate my waltzing to stepping awkwardly on another's feet and finding myself rhythmless. So as my relationship with Mr. Curved Line progressed, my Id took to warning me, that I was ill-equipped to handle it.

Indubitably and until now, unreceived, my Id went ignored. Looking around this crystalline morning after, I see it all now. All of my marveling at my inability to understand myself before can be summed up as Id you kidding me?




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