What she wants
Feb. 21st, 2006 11:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
emskIt's funny. For all that I say I want freedom, it isn't really true.
I don't want to be alone, untrammeled by people, unchained by obligations. I don't want loneliness. I don't want to come home to an empty flat, sterile and clean with no possessions, no responsibilities, no-one to care for but myself. I want those obligations. I want lovers, friends, family, cats around me, people that need and want my help and my care, people that in turn love and care for me.
But what those people give me is the freedom to be myself.
One of my warm memories is from two years ago. I was with the man that I loved, at that time. A room full of people, sleeping bags and fold out couches, not even sharing blankets, curled up side by side. I remember waking up when the alarm went off, totally content, though we weren't even touching. With him, with all of them, I could just be me. And it's true, I've changed a lot since. Two years later, I couldn't be happy there, couldn't be happy with what I had. But I'm content with that. Because I still have a good friend in Cyclenut. I haven't lost a thing.
That freedom is partly why I want to spend some time living alone. To get used to working out what I want to do with my day. To be that lady who talks to her cat as she hangs out laundry, the crazy geek who spends Saturday morning online, talking to people on the other side of the world.
It's a mark of my mother's care for me that, despite our problems over the years, she understands this desire. And she's doing all she can to support me in it. She's paying for the truck to move my gear. Her brother is helping me to move. She's packed so much of my stuff, without my even asking. If there is one thing I cannot fault my mother for, it's for doing her best to love me.
But no, even that's not really enough, not any more. It's not just my own space I want. But someone who will accept me as I am. Someone who can lie next to me as I'm sleeping, who'll accept the random shoutiness as I complain at the cockroaches crawling through my code. Being able to look over the top of a book or laptop and just know he's there, within my reach, should I choose to use it.
Years ago, with a teenage boyfriend, I fell asleep after school. Curled up, using his stomach as a pillow, gripping his arm in my sleep. I've lost touch with him, somewhat, over the years, but it's still a pleasant memory, that he let me stay there, stroking my hair, slowly losing circulation in that hand. (Funny what we do, sleeping.) I always felt safe around him, and for years, he remained a friend and confidant.
Why this reminiscence? Last week, Frustration hit Tobermorey and I. Continual interruption by the planet. Missed phonecalls, and expensive ones at that, continual failure to end up online at the same time, and eventually a conversation where we both laughed and hiccuped and grizzled at each other, and the bloody stupid planet. It's funny, he and I think too alike. I was worried that he was worried that I'd be worried, and it's true, I was, but it was just frustration at missing him. And he was worried that I'd get sick of the mucking around, and decide he belonged in the Too Hard basket.
I don't expect, or want, perfection. I don't expect to never argue, I don't expect to never be hurt and upset and whiny. I don't expect to come home to someone who's always content in my company, I expect to argue and cry and disagree.
But really, that's the point, isn't it? I don't want freedom from those obligations. I want to be tied to the obligations of loving someone. I want to be tied to the responsibilities of caring for someone's affections and emotions. I want to know that the actions I take will affect someone who cares about me. I want to realize I've been stupid and apologise, I want to know that there's someone who matters that much to me..
For that, I'll happily give away my freedom.
I don't want to be alone, untrammeled by people, unchained by obligations. I don't want loneliness. I don't want to come home to an empty flat, sterile and clean with no possessions, no responsibilities, no-one to care for but myself. I want those obligations. I want lovers, friends, family, cats around me, people that need and want my help and my care, people that in turn love and care for me.
But what those people give me is the freedom to be myself.
One of my warm memories is from two years ago. I was with the man that I loved, at that time. A room full of people, sleeping bags and fold out couches, not even sharing blankets, curled up side by side. I remember waking up when the alarm went off, totally content, though we weren't even touching. With him, with all of them, I could just be me. And it's true, I've changed a lot since. Two years later, I couldn't be happy there, couldn't be happy with what I had. But I'm content with that. Because I still have a good friend in Cyclenut. I haven't lost a thing.
That freedom is partly why I want to spend some time living alone. To get used to working out what I want to do with my day. To be that lady who talks to her cat as she hangs out laundry, the crazy geek who spends Saturday morning online, talking to people on the other side of the world.
It's a mark of my mother's care for me that, despite our problems over the years, she understands this desire. And she's doing all she can to support me in it. She's paying for the truck to move my gear. Her brother is helping me to move. She's packed so much of my stuff, without my even asking. If there is one thing I cannot fault my mother for, it's for doing her best to love me.
But no, even that's not really enough, not any more. It's not just my own space I want. But someone who will accept me as I am. Someone who can lie next to me as I'm sleeping, who'll accept the random shoutiness as I complain at the cockroaches crawling through my code. Being able to look over the top of a book or laptop and just know he's there, within my reach, should I choose to use it.
Years ago, with a teenage boyfriend, I fell asleep after school. Curled up, using his stomach as a pillow, gripping his arm in my sleep. I've lost touch with him, somewhat, over the years, but it's still a pleasant memory, that he let me stay there, stroking my hair, slowly losing circulation in that hand. (Funny what we do, sleeping.) I always felt safe around him, and for years, he remained a friend and confidant.
Why this reminiscence? Last week, Frustration hit Tobermorey and I. Continual interruption by the planet. Missed phonecalls, and expensive ones at that, continual failure to end up online at the same time, and eventually a conversation where we both laughed and hiccuped and grizzled at each other, and the bloody stupid planet. It's funny, he and I think too alike. I was worried that he was worried that I'd be worried, and it's true, I was, but it was just frustration at missing him. And he was worried that I'd get sick of the mucking around, and decide he belonged in the Too Hard basket.
I don't expect, or want, perfection. I don't expect to never argue, I don't expect to never be hurt and upset and whiny. I don't expect to come home to someone who's always content in my company, I expect to argue and cry and disagree.
But really, that's the point, isn't it? I don't want freedom from those obligations. I want to be tied to the obligations of loving someone. I want to be tied to the responsibilities of caring for someone's affections and emotions. I want to know that the actions I take will affect someone who cares about me. I want to realize I've been stupid and apologise, I want to know that there's someone who matters that much to me..
For that, I'll happily give away my freedom.
