Update

I hadn't realized how much time had passed since I last wrote in this blog.

It's a good sign. The more I write, the more unhappy I tend to be. I had managed to change that once...and then I had C. She takes up a lot of my time (of course). I do want to write more, regardless of my mood.

Let's see...A and I definitely consider ourselves a couple. In fact, just over a week ago, he said, "I love you" to me. I paused, looked him in the eyes, and said, "I love you too."

But I am so insecure I kept thinking, "He accidentally said that, he doesn't really love you."

Until he said it again to me, less than 48 hours later. And again.

Okay, so he could, I suppose, accidentally say "I love you" to me three times in a matter of 72 hours. But the chances of that are slim. He's not an idiot by any means. And he's very careful with words and a good speaker...so yes, that nagging voice of self-doubt has to admit defeat on this: he does love me.

And I love him.

It's scary. After being in such a serious, committed relationship and being so heartbroken at it's ending, this is hard for me to accept. That I am worthy of love, that I deserve to be treated so "normally" (because B's behaviour at the end of the relationship was so...odd...). I struggle with the fact that A is most likely NOT going to develop a mental illness at this point in his life; that I won't wake up lying next to a perfect stranger in a very familiar body.

I DID do something this past week that scares me. It shows, however, how much A means to me.

I shared some of my poetry with him.

Now, some of you may not know that I have been writing poetry since...well, forever. And I've kept an electronic collection of everything I've written since 1996. I have won various awards for small selections from my complete collection, and that was what I shared with A this week: the collection for which I won an award from the National Academy of American Poetry.

My poetry is autobiographical; it captures my mood, my emotions, my heart--my essence--at a given time. To share even one poem with A (or anyone else) is to expose myself. It is emotional nakedness, and it's a very scary thing. In fact, I think I'm more comfortable being physically naked then emotionally naked. (TMI, anyone?) I know he will take his time to read it, so we'll see. I do not expect him to like what he reads: I do have to keep reminding myself that his love for me is not dependent on my self-indulgent poetry-writing. . .