Norman's plane left for Seattle yesterday morning. He's there visiting family for the holidays.
Strange, how unfamiliar it suddenly feels to be apart from him.
We've been together since Labor Day or so -- nearly four months. And since then... well, what the fuck, I don't even know what's happened... Since then, we've spent five nights out of seven together... Since then, we've practically been living together... Since then, we've memorized each other's schedules; I show up sometimes when I know he's playing guitar somewhere, and he shows up sometimes when I'm at work... Since then, it's become acceptable for me to sneak in in the middle of the night, use his spare key to get in, and either snuggle up to him in bed, or snuggle into bed and wait for him to come home. I'm comfortable using his phone; he's comfortable asking me to lend him money. If I felt like it, I'd go over to his apartment right now, pick through his books until I found one that sounded good, take a shower, and curl up in his bed with the book.
Things are warm and cozy and just freaking lovely. I love Norman. And I'm beginning to think he's actually capable of loving me -- there's really not much I hide from him anymore, no little secrets I'm ashamed to mention to him... well, not many anyway; one ought to have a few secrets that nobody else knows, I think... I used to think I was one big enigma, and didn't really believe Norman when he said he loved me. I wanted to say, "you don't even KNOW me... How can you think you love me?" Seemed that he loved me for my body and my customer service skills more than anything. But I've let myself become a lot more transparent, I think. And I suppose that Norman kind of knows me better than he lets on. I suppose we know each other pretty well now.
I miss him. It's only been a day and a half, but I miss him already.
I suppose it will be good, though, to have a short vacation from each other. Why? I'm not sure. Maybe to remember what we're like when we're not with each other. I think I need to check up on myself, make sure I'm still me, still capable of being happy with my own life and my own little world with Norman not present. So I'm going to do that -- live through the next week in relative solitude, just to remember what I'm like as Helena Thomas, rather than one-half of Helena-and-Norman.
But still, I let Norman be present with me. I found a list this evening online -- somebody's top-100 favorite movies, a few of which I've seen with Norman and a LOT of which Norman's said we ought to see together. So I copied down the whole list. And I can't wait to show it to him. But I'm not going to email it to him. I'm going to wait, and I'm going to clean my apartment and read some books and go see "Requiem For a Dream" at the Art Theater on Saturday. I'm going to sleep in my tiny little bed, alone, and I'm going to catch up on emails and letters and taking my garbage out. I'm going to go to work, and come home, and feed my kitty, and tape all my Jones Soda labels to the window on my door. Just to make sure I'm still me.
I think I am.
A year ago, if Peter had gone to New York for the weekend, I wouldn't have been able to sleep. I wouldn't have been able to function. I would have gone to work heavy-hearted and terrified. I would have forgotten to eat for three days. I would have emailed him half a dozen times: a few saying, "I miss you" and a few saying, "you fucking asshole." But my life is not tied down to Norman's. I'm not dependent on him for survival. I'm not wasting away thinking of him. It's nice to be with someone and not want to die because of it. It's nice to have a little group of friends, and a couple jobs, and a kitty, and an apartment of my own, and a relationship that actually respects all of that.
I love to watch Norman when he plays guitar. He could be playing Garth fucking Brooks songs, and I'd still love to watch him. He has such a lovely and expressive face. I suppose when he reads this, he'll shrug and kind of roll his eyes and say, "but baby... I make funny faces when I play..." I'd grin and say, "Yeah, yeah you do..."
Gahd, I am so happy with you...
I never suspected this would happen. I never suspected that the cute guy I picked up at work who wanted to go to the movies with me would end up being this close to me, this much a part of my life, and yet, not someone who's closed me into a little box. I never thought I'd care for somebody and not feel guilty about it. Shit, after everything that's happened in the past year, I never thought I'd be able to love like a halfway-normal person again. I thought I'd block all the emotional exits and entrances; fuck people and walk away. I thought I'd "date," that is, go out with people once or twice, get acquainted with them, and forget all about them. For some reason, it didn't work out that way, and I'm quite happy.
It seems that Norman is a fairly difficult person to understand. My friends seem fairly distant, and maybe a little suspicious, when they see him around. Some of my co-workers think he's a jerk; others just don't have anything to say, and get kind of awkwardly silent around him. Maybe it's because they've never seen him cuddled up next to me watching a movie and holding my hand during the icky parts, whispering little nonsense things in my ear: "Helena, you're my special little pumpkin seed." Maybe it's just that people don't expect me to be dating a real live semi-normal human being.
Oh, there have been a few not-so-good moments. Norman and I have trouble coordinating our schedules. He wants to sleep when I want to get up and have lunch and find something to do; I want to sleep when he wants to stay up and practice a song a zillon times... And then *cringe* there's the age-thing... No matter how Norman tries to reassure me, I can't quite believe he's comfortable with the world knowing he's dating someone so much younger than himself. Oh, he kisses me in public, in front of his friends; we go out together, and we talk about each other with friends and family... But nobody really knows how old I am, or how old he is. He looks somewhere between 23 and 29, and I look somewhere between 18 and 24. It's still a difficult situation, particularly because I still can't go to bars and play a game of pool without having my hands stamped and a bartender threatening to kick me out. Surprisingly, the years between us don't seem to make as much of a difference as the rest of the world would like to think. And the fact that he's a little more nocturnal than I am doesn't seem to make much difference either... A little bit, sometimes...
I love you baby... I'll see you in a week and a half or so...
Goodnight.
Love,
~Helena*