Hiding

Short post. It’s late and I should have been in bed 45 minutes ago.

I’m not very good at being open and honest about the poly thing, and it makes me uncomfortable. I’ve had several experiences lately where there weren’t any clear ramifications to coming out, and yet I still found myself dancing around the exact details of my relationship situation, or outright avoiding the details and explicitly only talking about one boyfriend.

I have a lot of thinking to do about how much hiding is okay in my life. How open do I need to be able to be about my personal life? Do I need to push the boundary of what I’m okay talking about (and the reactions I’m okay receiving), or do I need to change my life to match what I’m comfortable with? I’ve been making decisions under the former, but every now and then there’s a tiny part of me that worries that social pressure and my desire to fit in will break me as I am.

The real question is, how do I reassure that tiny part of me? Because I love my boys and I’m hanging on to them.

Perpetual To Dos

My phone broke yesterday (it fell, and its cracked screen cracked some more and has now stopped working); is it worth it to fix the screen and power button or should I just buy a new phone? I have to buy my tickets home (West Africa home) for New Year’s. I start a new rotation tomorrow so I have to read up on my new patients and be ready to take care of them Monday morning. There’s still no art on the walls of our apartment. Do I care enough about the five-ish pounds I’ve gained over the last year to try to lose them or do I just need to make sure I don’t gain any more? The towels smell a little off (sat in the washer for 24hrs before drying); I should rewash them.

I once read, in one of those little books that has a small piece of advice on every page, that there will still be stuff in your inbox when you die. A morbid, but also comforting thought. I may be able to cross off all the items on my to-do list for today, but there will be more tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after. This is not to mean that I should never do anything because there will be more to do, but to realize that while there are many feelings in life that are worth chasing, the feeling of being “completely done” isn’t really one of them. Accomplished is good, but done is not, because it’s a lie.

It’s easy to get caught up in the uncertainty of my life. Will Ember ever move in with us? Or live in the same city again? Where will Catalyst and I move to next year, since we need at least three people to afford the size of apartment we’d prefer in our current neighborhood? Am I going to do a fellowship or just finish residency in four years? Am I going to have children?

I lay in bed this morning, watching Catalyst fold his clothes, my mind racing with those first paragraph thoughts, and then a different kind of thought floated to the foreground: This is nice, this living with someone I love, watching them do something so boring and mundane as folding their clothes and not feeling like I’m wasting precious, borrowed time.

I still need to buy my plane tickets (maybe later tonight, more likely tomorrow), and I need to read about my patients. The art will go up some other day, or maybe in the next place we live. I kind of care about the weight, but my clothes still fit, so it’s okay. I will be rewashing the towels tonight. And I’ve bought a new phone, but it won’t arrive for 4 to 5 weeks, so Catalyst is letting me borrow his (and he’s using Dreamer’s old phone) in the meantime, because he loves me and I use my phone more than he uses his, and I use it mainly to stay in touch with him (and Ember).

It’s been a good Sunday. :)

Identity

I used to identify as a writer. As a teenager, I blogged, I participated in IFs, and I wrote fanfiction, original fiction, plays, poems, and essays. My pursuit of a medical career coincided with reaching my twenties, and writing became less of a creative outlet. My writing since then has been a tool for exploration and connection. Both my current relationships, especially in the early stages, involved lots of long chats and letter length emails (and even handwritten letters!).

Conversation is important to me. Many (most? all?) of my favorite moments with other people have involved one on one conversations. Some of these with people I love, with people I might have loved, with good friends, with acquaintances, with family, and some with people I only had that one conversation with and nothing else. Some were fast paced, almost pressured conversations, the kinds filled with lots of “Me too!” and “I know, right?!” Others were languid, lounging conversations, periodically emerging from comfortable silences filled with cuddles, disappearances into personal thoughts, or pleasant distractions in the form of good food and drink.

But writing is another way of connecting and conversing. It’s a present left on a door stop, and I ring the bell and disappear before you open the door. It’s a vulnerable, perhaps cowardly form of communication, often used for things you can’t bear to say face to face, like confessions, but I believe there can be strength and courage in it as well. Writing feels like a more natural and honest way for me to express myself. The way I write more closely mirrors who I feel I am than the way I talk, and I miss how natural it feels to tinker with words. Yes, I still blog, but I haven’t really been crafting most of my posts. I’ve been telling, not giving a carefully guided tour.

I’ve been thinking for a while about waking up earlier, as a way to cultivate chances to write longer emails to my boyfriends. Then I started seeing people talk about NaNoWriMo this year, and feeling left out. I think writing needs to become an Important Thing again. Not in a regimented way, but in the way that I try to eat well, stay reasonably active, and sleep a bit more than the bare minimum. I’m taking the easy way out by not impulsively jumping on the NaNoWriMo bandwagon (more like sketchy high-speed train), but my goal is to spend even just a few minutes every day this month consciously, carefully writing something, anything (but most likely an email, a snippet of a story, a poem, or a blog post).