we are reciprocal

My bones have been tense to the marrow since the beginning of August. Something deep in my psyche believes that it must be true that ‘one year in’ means it’s all downhill from here. That it’s simply about time he decides I’m not for him; that the intensity of my love is stifling, that it will never outweigh the agonizing heaves of shaky breaths into his chest after convincing myself he’s leaving. Sending him away, full throttle, just to beg for an instant return.

It’s easy to assume that I’m the catalyst for all of the wrong. I’m phenomenal at clinging onto what the worst in myself might mean, but even better at deciding that I’m far too much. I do it often. I ask myself how he can love me past my layers of flaws, insecurities and second-guesses. I sometimes forget that he’d be able to ask the same thing. Love, after all, is knowing someone’s irregularities, and still choosing who they are today. He’s teaching me that I’m worthy of being chosen even when I don’t feel that I am. Maybe especially when I don’t think I am. Who am I to deny his right to decide?

Being wholly seen by someone is all I’ve ever really wanted. To be known is to be loved, as they say. But no amount of daydreaming and fantasizing about what it was going to be like could’ve prepared me. Being known means being held accountable. And being held accountable is a full-time feat. It means deciding to be better even when you’re down low yourself; but wanting to do it because that person deserves it. I believe that his safe, stable love warrants a kind just the same. So I either embody that myself, or let him find someone who can. I’ve known for a long time that I couldn’t stand to lose him, therefore I do the work. It’s really that simple.

So despite my soreness, tense from the memories I’ve forgotten but my body hasn’t, I keep trying. I learn and adjust my habits accordingly. I tell myself that I’m safe now, and that I’m not who I was in my younger years. I hold space for the version of myself that wasn’t allowed to love without bounds or speak up for herself. I remind myself that ‘one year in’ means whatever we want it to. To me, it means the beginning of what I hope will be a lifetime of loving each other. Growing, learning, changing, finding, being. Together.

Orchid (1985) by Robert Mapplethorpe