Lately I have felt like writing, but not like posting. Partly it’s increasingly tough to find the time to find pictures. 😉 And partly it’s that I have a lot to say but I’d like to say it, mostly, to me. And to Robbie.

So I’ve been writing things down and talking to him. And sometimes I write them down, let them sit, and then think, well, it’s okay to post this now, it’s not too raw–we are cool and it is cool, and it would be good to have this record of where we have been. Someday we may want it.

This is from a few weeks ago.

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One of the hazards of writing about your love life is that your lover reads it and doesn’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I don’t say my problem is new, and I’m not complaining. I’m the one who insists on scribbling away here.


But last night, in the midst of one of our incredibly rare disagreements, Robbie mentioned that one of the differences between us, as he understood it, was that I wanted always to believe everything was going to work out, that our relationship would last. And that I wanted him to act like that was true, even if things were far from good. After all, hadn’t I said it?

(For those too lazy (read: wise) to click, I quote myself:)

I want him to tell me he loves me, and I want him to tell me it’s all going to be alright. I want him to repeat these, as often as necessary, even when he’s not sure they’re true.)

When I heard him draw this distinction between us, I huffed the huff of the unjustifiably outraged. I was feeling mizundastood.

What I meant when I wrote that was not that I wanted false assurances about our relationship–God forbid. I don’t want him to lie to me about how he’s feeling, what’s going on with him. That would be a sham of a relationship.

I want him to tell me what’s not even really a lie . . . I want him to tell me “everything’s going to be alright”–in the Bob Marley sense, in the Christian “have faith” sense, in the Julian of Norwich “all shall be well, all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well” sense, in the Zen “nothing really matters” sense–or is that the Madonna “nothing really matters” sense?

I worry. He is one of my worries, but mostly, I just worry. And the best way to have my worry go away, I find, is to have someone I love say “it’s going to be okay, you’ll find a way.” Not even “we’ll find a way”, though that can be very good–but “it will turn out okay, you’re still here, it’s fine.”

And as for that incredibly rare fight? We worked it out. Everything’s gonna be alright.

Image from Madonna’s video for “Nothing Really Matters”