Okay okay okay okay.

I'll try this again. The previous post was me trying to find something to write about. Never a good start. But then I started clicking that ol' "Next Blog" button up there...

I stumbled upon this: the blog of a mother-to-be, or so it would appear. It brought me to tears...

I have to say this right now. I'm not sad about what I did. I had to do it. I didn't have an option. And I didn't connect with the thing in any way. It wasn't a child, it wasn't even a fetus. It was a vaguely fish-shaped lump.

That said... oh my.
You know what I cry for? Not for that little thing. Not for something I lost. Not for the creature-that-might-have-been. I cry for something I do miss, and something I look forward to having again someday, when the time is more right: the way it changed the feelings between me and him. That feeling of being three, at night, lying together. That feeling of being part of him, and him part of me, in a literal, physical way. The sense us being part of something else... part of living, part of dying. Part of each other and the world in a visceral, primeval way. I felt whole, and filled.

I mentioned below this conviction of mine that women are hollow. In a physical sense this is literally true. We have a place inside that almost never fills, and men have no such corollary. It's why women rage differently. It's why women are more self-contained and insular. It's why a woman can be whole all by herself, where men will always, in some respect, be incomplete: because there is a resonating chamber, where echoes rise, and it's full of potential and silence, full of hope and sorrow and waiting. Women never lose this. And when that place is filled... that's something else again.

That's a validation, it's a clarity and a diffused confusion. It's an answer and a million more questions. It's the use of a thing that has no other use, and that's wonderful. It's a terrifying theft of freedom and self-determination, and that's hard. It's a thing with so many implications that those too fill her up. And it's real love, in a way that will never be equaled by any other sensation: to gift her lover not only with the ultimate safety, holding him within herself and caring for him, but also with the ultimate promise of faith and constancy, assuring him that even this risk is worth it, and that she thinks he's ready, strong enough, healthy enough, happy enough to be a father and help her be a mother.

I think I'm qualified to speak here. I may not be. It doesn't much matter; this is what I got from the experience. Let me reiterate: I do not grieve for what I lost. But I hope and look forward to that sensation, that completion, and that utter companionship with him. Again someday. For real, someday. When I'm ready. When I can handle it. When I've earned it.

I love you. I love what you gave me. I love how you love me and loved me even when I had to throw it away. I hope you'll trust me enough, love me enough, to give it to me again one day.

Labels: Brendon, Dreams, Julia, Love