what I can't have

You are reading http://livinginthehood.blogspot.com

Ah, the story of my life: another unavailable, attached man who quotes romantic comedies at me.

And all this, just as I'm at the cusp of realizing that, while all the work I'm doing is really helping me heal, what I really need is love.

I'd reconciled myself to spending the rest of my life in celibacy. My ugly, broken teeth; my exploded and weakened body; my traumatized mind: I'm just too repulsive for the status quo.

It's an American thing; Mexican dudes have no problem with my body, but my mind seems to be too much for everybody -- even me.

But, quite by accident, I stumbled onto a disoriented soul. I enjoyed this man, the moment I met him. I never even considered a possibility of anything intimate.

But, very recently, I felt a pang of hope. And that empty spot of skin between my shoulders that my arms can't reach began craving human touch.

I know I'll never feel complete without that.

I also know that the circumstances of both our lives are in total disarray and radical paradigm shift, and that any circling of animals, catching scent, could be devistating to one or both of us.

And I know that any physical contact -- which I suddenly find myself craving like an abandoned child -- is now a constant current in me, every time I even think of him.

I rehearse approaches. I choreograph encounters. I imagine bursting bubbles, pushing envelopes, pushing buttons.

And I also know it's not him I'm craving. It's love. He's merely the object of my projections.

I want it all. I want to get my freak on, be someone's old lady, lie safe in tender arms and cry myself out. I want to seduce. I want to nurture. I want to overwhelm both of us with the power of sexuality and the grace of tenderness.

And I dread the next time I see him, the next time he writes to me. I'm terrified of my own clumsy, consuming need. I never was good at hiding, and my attempts are more obvious than just saying what's on my mind.

And then you write me with that movie quote.

I don't even LIKE Jack Nicholson, but when he said, "you make me want to be a better man" to Helen Hunt, I broke down and wept.

Hope terrifies me. My old heart's so far beyond broken, it's pathetic.

And risking any approach to this man is risking more than I can afford to lose.

I'm accustomed to doing things for and by myself. I rarely even get lonely.

But love is the one place where, no matter how well I take care of myself, I can't do it all. I'm a human; we're social animals.

I don't need a man to repair my car, pay my bills, give me direction or even to love.

But I need someone.

I wonder who and I wonder if and I wonder when.