The stories I tell myself

(March 21, 2015)

I've been thinking about grieving over the death of a narrative.

Once you can see it.  Once you can give it a name.  Once you can say it.
Out loud.

(February 12, 2026)

Then it's already changed.

The pain evolves

with us

and we learn to handle ourselves more gently

while the pain tries to teach us 

about our hearts.

Funny how often this comes up. How powerful the stories we tell ourselves are truth. 

During the two days that I believed "Adam" was a real person, I had imagined an entire life together. Starting with discussion of bookshelves in our home library, ending with me thinking about where we could find a duplex to live next door to each other happily ever after. 

I know as those things are happening that my brain is getting ahead of me. I know to pull myself back into the present. But the sensation of excitement is more pronounced when something is more rare, and connections that bring together the brain, body, and soul for me are very difficult to ignore or see as no big deal. They feel like a very big deal. They feel mostly impossible otherwise, so when something shows up at my door, I can't help but invite him in for a while. And that means letting myself hope and imagine and consider the possibility of actually being able to build a life with someone rather than alone with lots of friends who still support me, but who aren't there when I wake up and when I go to bed. 

Maybe I just need a good stuffed animal, though I got close to that with the body pillow I used for a while.

But for real. The narrative develops very quickly in my mind, before I even know it's happening. Day two and there are still so many questions actual me has for him, while fantasy me is nesting within the apartment we're already sharing, cooking meals for each other and dancing in the kitchen together to our favorite R&B songs. Doing the tango on a Wednesday afternoon when we both happen to be home, or better yet took off to spend the day alone together. I imagine all the experiences I think I'd like to have with someone, even though I'm not not enjoying the actual experiences I'm having--both with the person, getting to know them, and with myself, the time I spend intentionally nurturing my soul and my needs in all the various ways my complex brain requires to feel satisfied and spent, active and engaged within my life. I create the version of him that I hope he is, that I know the real him can never compete with, because there is no way for someone to be all the things that I need. Because that is another illusion that's been sold to us. 

In the case with my mom, I repeatedly grieved the loss of the narrative I wanted to be true as well: that we could be closer and she would be able to stop hurting me and instead be more gentle with me, or at least more honest when she was not in a space to provide the support I was reaching out for. That she would become the type of mom who believes in me unconditionally, and recognizes that my depression and autism are disabilities, not because of the ways I limit myself, but for the ways that I am limited within a society that does not care about people with disabilities. 

The reality for both romantic and familial fantasies is that I must be that person for myself. This is both empowering and very lonely feeling. I am simultaneously strong enough to be the support I need in the moments when I'm lowest and most anxious, and I am also tired of doing so much alone. 

When I'm even more honest with myself, I know that my desires are not the cohabitating type. Really, I dont' want someone else in my life except for those moments in bed when I hate being by myself. Then they can go away and do their own thing--as long as they're there when I go to sleep, when i wake, and when I have stretches of time off from working for someone to enjoy myself. I like the idea of body doubling with the love of my life, but the whole time feeling very aware and appreciative of their presence. It makes me wonder if what I really do want is just the fantasy. I mean. If I accept that it is a fantasy, and so am just happy to have fuel to feed that story that remains in the realm of my mind, and can never disappoint me, because i'm in charge of the way it changes. The details. The things it does to keep me entertained, intruigued, and interested. 

Maybe that's what appeals about the friendship with...yeah. Maybe. There's a portion of it that exists in this fantasy space where we both visit. Not together. Not simultaneously, but we both play there, and we know that the other person has added to the furnishings there for us to use. It started with consent to think about the other person when we were masturbating, and it's now become this cooperative relationship of asking for more of the fantasy, getting it, and then getting off knowing the other person has created this space for that to happen. There is still consent. There is still romance in the imaginings, which can be as sweet, as tender, as comfortable and perfect as our brains will allow, without any of the consequences. No need for birth control. No need to pull out. No need to go to any lengths to prepare. It's simple and it can never fail when we're the ones actually in charge of having our own orgasms. It's a narrative that doesn't have to die, because nothing in reality will ever make it impossible to imagine what it would be like to be unleashed again with each other.