For the past few months, I've been catching up with my oldest friend during the only time we seem available and free to really talk openly. And that's been saturday nights, well past the weekend's events have died to a slow murmur.
He's going through a lot. Transitions in his personal life, little ones growing faster than the speed of light, getting a new business off the ground...fighting the good fight as he's always done since we were burying his G.I. Joe's in the joke we thought was a backyard.
He's one of the few people in my life that's really seen me. One of only two people that could pick up precisely when I was hurting from the inside out and could say words that would immediately quiet my mind enough for me to trust that one day, it'll all be alright. He's always been there and I know he always will be. When that is compounded by over 30 years of service, that makes our body of work as friends pretty impressive.
We talk each other off the ledge, without ever crossing the line that turns friends into messy, alternatives. I sometimes forget we're not actually related when I hear his little ones call me "Auntie" with the belief that I am truly their Daddy's only sister.
I sometimes get ovewhelmed by my inability to express what I feel to people who matter most. I am the communication master when all is well and I'm expressing my love. But if I am hurt, or confused or feeling especially exposed, I let drama take the place of restraint making prideful proclamations that my heart could never mean. I pack up my toys and go home, to anguish in the neverending sorrow that comes from never just telling people what I needed and why I feel so denied.
I am terrified to argue, I told him. I always have this deep-set fear that the people I love will no longer love me if I dare to express some disappointment or discontent. *no comment on where that comes from, though he knows, explicitly* Instead, I repress and repress and repress. He's always been frustrated with me on that. Always concerned about what the long-term effects of being so silent will have on my body and mind. He pulls things out of me, to the point where I sometimes run from him, too. He's oblivious to my cloaked moments, prodding at me and threatening to arrive on my doorstep if I don't come out of hiding. He reminds me that he's always going to be here, even when I defiantly express that I can do just fine by myself.
Sometimes I'm really grateful that he knows what a dramatic and insincere proclamation that truly is. Otherwise, I fear the only one looking for me on a downtime Saturday night...would be me and a host of other characters that will never really know what I'm made of.
Off to the studio. I think it's an earbuds in kinda day. Not up for too much social interaction.