An Ode to M.

If you know me intimately, you know I struggle with intimacy.

I am still unsure who, or what, to blame for this very-Gary dysfunction - though I have some hunches. Repressing the queer and non cisgendered parts of myself while growing up no doubt did its damage. Physical touch, especially in public, terrified me as a kid. I used to go to mass (Catholic) with my mom and sit there for the first half hour in dread waiting for the moment when I’d have to offer random parishioners around me “signs of peace” by shaking their hands. I remember being delighted when the swine flu outbreak motivated a handshake ban in church and everyone would just awkwardly smile at or bow to one another.

And school dances were absolute nightmares.

An aversion to touch as a kid, I think, was a symptom of my general fear of intimacy. This ain’t no psychiatric mystery; in order to kill certain feelings I had for certain people, which proved tedious and impossible, I resorted to disabling the whole of my emotional intelligence. I was raised by two caring and lovely people (Hey Ma! / Yo Pops!) as well as watched over by a sweet an intuitive older sister (Hi Ames!), but we were not the kind of family that discussed our feelings openly. I don’t ever recall saying the words “I feel…”. Ever. And to this day, each time I hear those words come out of my extremely emotionally intelligent partner’s mouth, I can’t help but find them a little strange, a bit much, sometimes selfish. Though, of course, I believe they’re very generous words.

Weddings are my most recent affect-allergy - those school dances re-manifested. No matter how progressive, alternative, or queer the participants, still only certain forms of intimacy get celebrated at these shindigs. Such prompting, and my resultant emotional shutdowns, brings me back to being a little gremlin; a 87 year old crotchety woman trapped inside a 10 year old boy’s head. I’ve made leaps, and a few bounds, but there are congealed layers inside I’ve yet to melt. There are still parts of me I’d like to reach. Sometimes I see the cracks, painfully squeeze through them, and come out alive on some other side, feeling better. M and I saw a play a couple years back about intimacy, cancer, dying, and losing your words. Loads of fun! Afterwards, I was completely gutted. I crawled to the bathroom, sat down, and sobbed. I still was a mess when I stumbled back out to find M in the lobby. We jokingly reference this moment often. But, it’s not that funny, though telling.

It’s Halloween, and it’s the anniversary of the day I met M nine years ago at a party in Brooklyn, NY. The point of this post is to express gratitude for that day. Honestly, I’m already starting to feel gross. My head is filling with dark thoughts about social media, stupid forms of optimism, limited notions of love, the vulnerability of transparency, public affection, people over-sharing, and how embarrassingly obvious loneliness and insecurities often are through our words. So, I don’t have a lot of time before I retreat. I need to say that it’s really great to have this guy around. Those who know M know why. He is a beautiful person. We are constantly working at a relationship that is generative, never stifling, for both of us. It’s hard, but when it’s working, it feels really good. I feel really good. I am wincing as I share all this, but this is an effective reminder to that 10 year old gremlin and to that 31 year old PhD student 8 years deep into graduate school that it’s ok to feel good, to want to feel good, to not feel good, and to talk openly about all of the above along the way.

M: thanks for being here.

Love: G.

Photo credit: The lovely and talented Adam Moco