Impossible, Again

I remember what it was like to feel my chest tighten every time you stopped loving me. How my body learned the pattern before my mind did. Oh the panic when I could not bargain for what was not on offer, no matter how hard I tried.

I’m listening to Shontelle’s Impossible. A reminder that I should have been careful. A reminder that it’s happened again because I wasn’t careful. A warning that I should be careful now.

I know what it feels like when my chest tightens and my whole nervous system goes into red alert. I have lived inside that moment before. Called him love even when he was warm and cold. All conversations shifting into raised voices and I could not tell what set the landmines off. When love disappeared while still standing in front of me. I hold that pain without naming it, because naming it makes it too real to ignore.

I hate how I have taught my heart that love feels like longing. That waiting is intimacy. That confusion is invitation. I distrust letting my guard down, such a setup, to be blindsided when quickly the ground beneath gives way.

You say you are a safe space. And I find myself wondering what that really means, how it looks when trusted, how it holds when I am not quiet or convenient or composed. I want to believe you. I want to rest there. But my heart hesitates, not because it doubts you, but because it remembers.

I am noticing how easily your reassurance calms me, and how quickly I begin to fear needing it again. I am curious about why having needs feels like asking for too much. About why my instinct is to shrink when what I want is to reach. About how often I silence myself in the hope that love will stay.

I wonder if you feel it too. The subtle distance that appears when my anxiety rises. The way I try to soften my needs as you pull, unsure whether closeness is something we move toward together, or something I am meant to manage alone. I am not certain where this leads. I am only aware of the tension between wanting to go with the flow and wanting to feel safe.

Perhaps this is where I am meant to listen.. to my body, to the music, to the quiet truths that surface. Perhaps this is where I am meant to pause. To live in the moment. To notice your gentleness.