Insecurity is a beaker of volatile acid, and I find myself so often holding it carefully with tongs, sometimes to the benefit of my inner science experiment, and sometimes --
it goes too far and something burns too thin.
There is a gift in vulnerability, in opening up and offering me a glimpse of your insecurities, we begin to share them and find ourselves suddenly able to believe in each other, step out on a wavering limb of trust, knowing that you won't laugh when I can't just hold everything up anymore, and I don't even need to promise to do the same.
But when insecurity goes too far, and you spend our Saturday night overanalyzing my smile, snapping in discomfort that I am simply grinning, simply happy to be out on the town and enjoying little good things, space and conversation and company and food.
Sunday I hurled very few words, laundry and hiding out in the kitchen with chopped vegetables and mousse de foie gras, Halibut with just enough cumin, and sinful tartelettes for dessert.
You snapped at me still, taking words you had gifted me with before and stealing them back to see if your barbs will shake my composure.
I don't feel like playing that game. I enjoyed watching the movies, at first, more Evangelion and the fourth Alien and Brazil and when you began complaining about this or that or that or this, we all asquiesced and when the dark and the violence and the imagery was too much I went to sleep on the couch until you tapped me on the head.
"Aren't you having fun? Are you angry at me? Why are you being like that? What's wrong with you? Why did you have to say it like that?"
I'm sorry. When you push that hard I don't feel like making the effort to ease your fears anymore. You don't deserve that digging deep for a sense of peace and reason. I have doled out as much strength as I am willing to spare with a new contract and a hundred other worries on the horizon.
I'll be here for you a hundred times, but the hundred and first when you reach out to take and have been doing nothing but slapping me with that hand, then it will be outside my vision, the beaker put down on the table, my mind elsewhere until the experiment is over.
Yesterday I learned that I have limits. They're high up there, but they're not boundless. Neither is the horizon.
There is a fine line between unconditional and doormat, and I rarely have a problem with doormat either.
I like my naivete just the way it is, and I don't ever plan to not offer up a couch when someone magically appears in whichever town is currently mine.
Sometimes, though, please don't be angry when I reach my limits of emotional support.
I know you're insecure. I know you're having a tough time. I know somewhere inside, despite being hurt that I turned down your offer of sex and erotic massage, that you still somehow appreciate my telling you that you're beautiful when you seemed like you needed to hear it most.
I can't hold anyone up forever, though. Almost forever, seemingly forever, way past the visible horizon, yes, but not forever.
I'm sorry. This impression of penultimate strength is just an impression.
___
Incidentally, I'm a terrible patriot. I not only missed Canada day, I also missed Bastille Day yesterday, although we did some serious shouting along with a few drunken rowdies going on two on Sunday morning.