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Eight Words
Sep. 12th, 2009 06:33 pmEight words, he gave me.
Eight words, written in pen, on an index card. With a date, and a signature.
Tucked into an alcove not far from Looney Labs, at Origins this year. Which, let's face it, honestly kinda sucked, and sure, there were games and there was fun, and people I don't get to see very often, but it sucked, and I spent an awful lot of time getting out of the way of the rest of the world and crying.
But somehow he figured out that that was happening, and caught me alone and made me tell and held me. I don't get held very often, not when I need it, and every time it happens it is the most wondrous and kind and loving gesture in the world, and the idea that someone would be willing to give that to me is often not an idea that can actually be believed, not at all.
And he held me, and he wrote eight words, and he gave them to me. And with them, he gave me something I need sometimes --the memory of someone who cares. The memory of someone who not only cares, but cares enough to leave his other social obligations behind for a bit, because somehow he knows I'm not able to ask him to leave them.
(Because I'm not able to ask him to leave them. I'm not ever able to ask anyone to leave their other friends, lovers, family for me, even for a moment. They have just a much of a right to your time, maybe more, and I can't go to the two of you and ask just for one.)
So it's that hug, and it's another hug, from later in the visit. In my bedroom, curled on my bed, and letting me confess the secrets the secrets that I don't confess, not ever, and certainly not in person, without barriers and barriers of words and screens and keyboards between us to protect me. It's two hugs, and it's eight words.
And I think maybe that might be enough for me to know I'll be okay. I'm crying now, I'll probably BE crying for a while still, and damned if I've an idea why. I'm not okay, I'm not even stable. I'm sure as hell not happy. But two hugs means I can pretend to a lifetime more, and eight words means I am loved.
And I think that means it'll all work out in the end.
MOOP!
Eight words, written in pen, on an index card. With a date, and a signature.
Tucked into an alcove not far from Looney Labs, at Origins this year. Which, let's face it, honestly kinda sucked, and sure, there were games and there was fun, and people I don't get to see very often, but it sucked, and I spent an awful lot of time getting out of the way of the rest of the world and crying.
But somehow he figured out that that was happening, and caught me alone and made me tell and held me. I don't get held very often, not when I need it, and every time it happens it is the most wondrous and kind and loving gesture in the world, and the idea that someone would be willing to give that to me is often not an idea that can actually be believed, not at all.
And he held me, and he wrote eight words, and he gave them to me. And with them, he gave me something I need sometimes --the memory of someone who cares. The memory of someone who not only cares, but cares enough to leave his other social obligations behind for a bit, because somehow he knows I'm not able to ask him to leave them.
(Because I'm not able to ask him to leave them. I'm not ever able to ask anyone to leave their other friends, lovers, family for me, even for a moment. They have just a much of a right to your time, maybe more, and I can't go to the two of you and ask just for one.)
So it's that hug, and it's another hug, from later in the visit. In my bedroom, curled on my bed, and letting me confess the secrets the secrets that I don't confess, not ever, and certainly not in person, without barriers and barriers of words and screens and keyboards between us to protect me. It's two hugs, and it's eight words.
And I think maybe that might be enough for me to know I'll be okay. I'm crying now, I'll probably BE crying for a while still, and damned if I've an idea why. I'm not okay, I'm not even stable. I'm sure as hell not happy. But two hugs means I can pretend to a lifetime more, and eight words means I am loved.
And I think that means it'll all work out in the end.
MOOP!