Contradictory Me

It’s fucking cold in New York City tonight. Having just returned from my sojourn to New England, where I spent an inexplicably (wait, but isn’t that what I’m trying to do, explain things in words) amazing time with my grandmother and learned – really learned – about aspects of my family history that shocked me in a good way, that made me realize the beauty and the strength of my family (‘ancestors’ sounds like too much of a weird word for me; family is true), dating back to my great-great-grandparents, (some of the strength and beauty has had to filter down to me, I hope), that helped explain the mass of contradictory emotions I feel so often, and the feelings and subsequent actions I take based upon those feelings, I am back in New York.

So regarding contradictions, I talked to my ex-boyfriend last night. Really talked. Both of us were sober, and in my sobriety, I ironically am less guarded about my feelings and although he might not know it, I think he is, too. I can hear the intentions behind the words and I can – with all of my perceptive ability unclouded – stop myself from falling into the pattern that I used to allow myself to fall into with him. I know this is the opposite of how the drunk/sober dichotomy is “supposed” to be, but speaking and really listening with untainted clarity, I heard the “him” I knew he was. Is. That word in and of itself says a lot.

And therein lies the contradiction. I thought I had turned the corner. Maybe I would have kept on walking, if I just would have just continued to push it all away. But I don’t know what good – for me – pushing everything away is. Maybe my icky childhood habit of scratching my bugbites has transformed into a mental habit of picking those scars you’re not supposed to pick because the bleeding will begin again. And I’m scared of hell of that, of the bleeding. But one person I do believe in is myself and my intuition and my intuition about who he is. Present tense. Intended.

Everything I have said before is true. This is key: before I could ever trust him again, I need to know that he recognizes that he hurt me and how much he hurt me and why. But I’m putting the proverbial cart before the horse here (hey, I think too much) – we’re just becoming friends again. Perhaps.

And even within these lines I can read myself slipping, slipping back into the possibility of falling in love again, and therefore slipping back into the possibility of getting so unbelievably hurt that I can’t imagine how a human being can push herself through that pain – although I have before, I would not wish it upon myself nor upon anyone else, ever.

Are there any guarantees? No…