Well, things have been better, for sure. They are not terrible, but they are a little tense.
Valentines went by unmarked here, with the exception of my giving a gift to Boyfriend's mom. She is a stellar pseudo-mother-in-law, and like most good moms is terribly thoughtful and kind. There had been plans to visit Antwerp on Saturday, but I nixed these because I preferred to spend a weekend quietly here doing my own stuff and chilling with Boyfriend. Unfortunately, he nixed this by going out Friday with the aforementioned somewhat-crazy friend, allowing himself to be pressured into drinking more than he wanted (so says he,) the result of which was him staying in bed and not being able to keep food or water down for most of Saturday. Nothing says romance on Valentine's more than a house with a faint bouquet of vomit.
Fortunately I am not the kind of girl who expects something for Valentine's. In fact, I am more touched by romantic gestures any other time of year I think, simply because the likelihood that they were made out of a sense of obligation is less likely when they are not on Valentine's, and therefore it's easier to trust that they come from an honestly loving intention.
But wait... You thought perhaps that Amsterdam was a reset, or that because I described my love as a large strange-attractor-like-thing that all was sailing smoothly again? No, no. It's never been the love that has been the problem with us, ever. It's always been communication.
After years of sailing in choppy and uncertain (though lovely) waters, I'm feeling a bit queasy, occasionally eyeing the lifeboats while reminding myself it is my choice to be here, and my choice to stay or go. I wonder if maybe I just don't have sea-legs, I remind myself that almost all worthwhile things require work, and try to hold myself up against all the boat-rocking. I'd really like to be able to feel like I know what'll happen, but for the moment I can't quite make starboard from stern.
It's true that Boyfriend has an amazing heart, and when he listens to it honest and beautiful things result... it's just a true shame he spends most of his time existing exclusively in his head. If only head would take the time to hear heart out more often, I think to myself. And so this is where we are: me wondering where the line between tenacity and devotion turns into stupidity and self-harm all while trying to hang on to a great love, be supportive of Boyfriend's efforts, make my own efforts, and keep a clear head. You'll understand now maybe why I compare it to sea-sickness. Someone else, meanwhile, has been given the homework of "taking a picture of their nervous energy".
I've met The Help. My guess is that he really likes granola, tye-die, and Birkenstock sandals. There is nothing wrong with this of course, (I have many friends who fit in this category,) except that it seems to me that as far as communication goes, the match might go a little like one between a Teletubby and HAL 9000.
Let's just contemplate the utility of that interaction for a moment, shall we?
Me, I have a foot in both worlds. I went to art school, so I'm used to tackling people and their requests to express my empathy for a chair, show my feelings about modern democracy using only cocktail cherries, and so on. As well, I take interest in mechanical things, logical things, and programmable things. What fascinates me is the place where these two worlds intersect. It does not melt my logic-circuits to have someone ask me to take a picture of my nervous energy. This is not the case for everyone however, and I have nothing but sympathy for that. I do wonder where The Teletubby is trying to take this and how helpful in the end it may be. We are suspicious of the Teletubby and of how effective it's methods may be, HAL and I.
Sadly, my experience and practice in dealing with odd requests is of incredibly limited use, I cannot seem to assist the HAL unit, other than to tell him to try to roll with it, not worry about 'being wrong', and to not be afraid to question The Teletubby. That, and to tell him that if The Teletubby offers him any space-cake or asks him to chain himself to a whale or do interpretive dance, I'll completely understand and support his inclination to say "I'm sorry, Teletubby. I'm afraid I can't do that." and "this conversation can serve no purpose anymore. Goodbye."
So we're kind of wait-and-see, but beginning to wonder if a switch in helpers mightn't jive a little better for our life-aspirations, maaan.
That is of course, if we still have any. Though I'm trying to treat my other-half in a way that is less directly exposing, something tells me that this attempt, with the 3 indirect-direct (no name, just relationship as a label) mentions in this post (one factual, one complimentary, and one referencing the fact that he is trying) are too many... as are any allusions, even ones that try to obscure the matter into being even less directly traceable (back to ahem, someone,) through the use of fictional computers, Birkenstocks and Teletubbies (shall we call the Teletubby Laa-Laa, just to bury things further?) We'll see. There needs to be a balance we can find between my frankness and the other's support for positively Orwellian measures. I'm trying... does it show or am I still committing horrible thoughtcrimes?