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It's Not All About Me

When I look at myself in the mirror lately - whether that be the one on the wall, or the symbolic one into my heart - I don't know that I understand what I see, or that I even care to. I see a face that's growing old: when I furrow my brow, my forehead wrinkles; when I tilt my head, I see my hairline receding; my skin is getting dryer, my waist is getting wider, and my nose and ears are growing hair. I hate what I see, and I am scared that Rich sees it too - and I am so afraid I could wake up tomorrow and find that I am too ugly, too old, or too fat for him, or anyone, to care about me. When I stare deep into the abyss of my mind and heart, I see a man lacking in confidence, unsure of his decisions, and too emotionally empty to be a good friend, a good lover, or even a good person.

The fact is, I am insecure, I am scared, and amidst it all, I am experiencing a recurrence of the depression I thought I left behind a decade ago. I am taking Prozac and Seroquel every night religiously, happy that they help ease the internal anguish and the constant crying, but medication can't bring respite to a soul uncertain of the future and determined to relive the past. My nights are spent wondering why Rich comes in but doesn't seem happy to see me. Why doesn't he come and give me a kiss when he first walks in? Why does he not hold my hand when we watch a movie on the couch? Is this distance something I have created in my head, or is it real? To me, it's as palpable as the chilly autumn air I breathe, as real as a cloudy sky or November's hard, frosty ground.

Last night, after Rich came home and went to the kitchen with barely a word and no hug and kiss, I asked, "when you come home, are you happy to see me?" I suppose, like many of us, I had hopes that I would get the ultimate response: a hug, a kiss, an "of course I am, baby," any kind of reassurance that my insecurities are products of an overactive imagination, and not an indication of my own failings. Instead, I got "why wouldn't I be?" There was no attempt to communicate what was on his mind, no reassurance, and to a heart that just wants closeness, apathy stings just as much as anger or resentment. When I pressed the issue, he was angry: he didn't want to deal with it right now, he said. It isn't about Kevin, maybe he had a bad day, he said. I was shocked, because I needed to much to feel a warm touch and soft words, and instead my desperation for that comfort only served to drive him away. We didn't say anything for a while, and then he got up, kissed me goodnight, said "I love you," and went to bed.

As I watched the electoral map on MSNBC take on a red hue, it seemed as though the leftover blue was filling my heart, and all at once, I was angry that I have to work so hard to get the affection I should be getting without looking for it, hurt that I felt so alone at a time I most needed the one I love to be with me, and worried that what I want is either too much to expect, or too selfish. One moment I would vow to stop caring so much and just do whatever it took to make me happy, and the next minute I wanted to cry out how much I loved him - and how much I want that same kind of love in return.

I am passionate about everything I do. As a violinist, singer, and composer, passion infuses the music that I create in the hopes that I can communicate its incredible meaning to those that want to understand it. I have a lot of enthusiasm for games, and I enjoy the way the best ones immerse me in a world different from my own. I love the same way: with every piece of me, from the bottom of my toes to the very tip of my head. When I love you, I want to tell you, to show you, to make you feel like the only person on earth that matters, and somewhere along the line, I must have come to believe that this is how everyone loves: deeply, passionately, with wild abandon. A Gone-With-The-Wind love, a Moulin-Rouge love, a violins-serenading-in-the-background love. It's my nature to give all I have, and my hopes to feel the same kind of dedication from someone else keep resulting in disappointment. I want to feel that kind of love, and the more I search for it, the more I fear I may drive Rich away.

So now, I am faced with a choice: stay with someone that may never want me the way I want to be had, and never experience that love I know must exist for me somewhere; or leave and take a chance, possibly only to discover that I had everything I wanted the entire time and I was too foolish to enjoy it.

I feel lost, forgotten, unimportant, and unwanted. I don't want it to be all about me - but I want someone to make their love all about me, the way my love is all about Rich. Am I asking too much, am I compromising more than I should - or is what I want simply more than I can ever actually have or deserve? When I see the wrinkles on my forehead and the extra weight on my belly, I don't know that I am even ready for the answer.