I am afraid.

I am sitting on my sofa, watching a football game, with FM’s dog curled up next to me.

A few minutes ago, I checked BV’s facebook page and saw that he’d added a friend about an hour ago . . . his first activity since Tuesday, when he left (I think) for home.  It made me happy to see that he’s alive, presumably okay.  I have been worried since we stood in front of his building looking for a cab in the rain on Tuesday.

I have not been convinced he left, as he was so entirely freaked out.  I should have gone with him to the airport.  I should have stayed with him until he got on the plane.  I should have done a lot of things . . .

So, while I have been worried about him all week, I have also been socially engaging with other people.  I am so afraid to admit to myself that I love him as much as I do.  He’s so wrong for me, but that’s not what I am afraid of.  I am afraid he won’t love me enough.   I know he loves me, but I need to know he will love me enough.

And I am afraid that he won’t.

My fears overwhelm me.  I am terrible at the start of a relationship, a complete, unmitigated disaster every time. Except notably with LP, when I stayed in and engaged for far too long, trying so hard to course correct.

I always doubt the other’s sincerity.  I always doubt the depth of his feelings.  I always discount everything he says.  I don’t think I am wrong.  I think I am right.  I think I am right to have healthy skepticism and remove.

And yet I have been so very wrong.  I was wrong about PR.  He was ready, and I assumed he wasn’t.  He made promises, statements, etc., and I was dismissive.  Now, I still believe I was right, but who knows what this past year would have been had I taken the leap with him.

Instead of saying those words so often mocked: “not asking, don’t care.”

Oof.

I make mistakes.  I make more mistakes than anyone.

Here, I am paralyzed by fear.  I am incapable of sending a text to a man who told me he loves me.  Not, he loves me but . . .  Just “I love you.”

I am incapable of saying “I’ve been thinking about you all week, I hope you’re doing well.” Not “your alma mater may be playing in a really funny bowl game.” Not “I miss you.”

I am afraid to reach out.  I don’t want him to be put off by me, although history has shown that’s not the case.

I am afraid to let myself think this could be real, which is why I ended up making out with the college professor on Thursday.  But, despite being at CP’s house, in the dark, I couldn’t fathom spending the night with someone who was not BV, and I went home.

FM last night made some statement that “you know we’ll end up having sex again,” and nothing is further from my mind.  I mean it. Like nothing is further from my mind.  I am not interested in sleeping with him or with anyone else right now.  In fact, the friend of a friend, I need to shut that down.

But, despite my lack of interest in others, despite our proclamations of love, despite the commitment we made, I am not convinced we’re together.

I am that afraid.

And I hate that I am afraid.  I should have faith.  I should enable myself to say, I know my heart and his.  As I knew going in, I knew he loved me.  It’s never been just about loving each other.  We knew we loved each other.  I don’t know how we knew, but we did.  Those words from our second date: “this is serious, this is real” echo in my mind.  We knew then.  I knew when he cried that I loved him.  I knew when . . .

And, just like that, some of the fear is receding.  I knew and he knew.  I knew when he cried at my favorite bar on Tuesday, when I was telling him who he is, that was when we knew without a doubt, but he’d known before.  He knew he loved me and I loved him, which is why I got the call when he was despondent.  He called though he did not know if I’d be angry, if I’d punish him for leaving me, if I’d turn on him.  He called me because he had faith in me and in us.

And when I told him who he was, that I know him, that I know his heart, he knew.  He’s always known that he can tell me anything, that he can be completely honest with me, even if it hurts him and me.

I am beating myself up over nothing because I am afraid.  We had an intense 20 hours or so, and then he left and he’s been silent.  But that’s not a pattern break for him, that’s normal.  But when I remember what happened, I know we’re as fine as we’ve been, and a hell of a lot closer.  We shared all of our bullshit and we survived it.

Maybe at some point I will be brave enough to send him a text.  Something innocuous, perhaps, simply “how are you.”

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