Filling the hole (Part Two): Now the post about being a lesbian.

And although I’m not one, I still feel I can speak about it because I am in love with one. And she’s so quickly and fluently become my everything. When I look into her eyes, it gives me faith in the crooked tragedy of the path that lead me here. The way she lets me in. Lets me see who she is, her insecurities and her strengths. She lays bare for me and I don’t just mean in a slutty way.

Emotionally intelligent, we get each other. And in this way I see how same sex relationships make sense. She tells me daily how she’d happily forgo happiness with me if she could go back and undo the holes: make it so Dylan had lived. I fall in love with her harder every time she says it because her selflessness is beauty and love in it’s human form. And my heart breaks a little too because my feelings are split. Of course I would want my baby back, I can’t deny the strength of that, but the pain comes from knowing it would mean I would never be with her, in this new life. And how can I wish for the undoing of the one thing that’s saved me? How can I remove her from the equation now I have grown to love her? The paradox is too great and the result of which makes me a shithead which ever way I choose.

I want it to be perfect for her, although I know it isn’t. Living in the shadow of what came before, it’s not easy. His photo’s are down but his footprints are everywhere. But she accepts it with grace and dignity and love. Living with my mum, you think she’d complain of the lack of privacy once in a while. But she doesn’t. She’s gentle and loving and treats my mother like her own. Showing interest in the things she talks about, doing DIY and making her coffee the way she likes it. And she makes her laugh: the biggest gift anyone could ever give me is hearing my mum laugh. When the three of us are together, it’s amazing how much we laugh. Constantly cackling wildly and honestly, seeing my mum’s face contorted and stretched in the most uncontrollably delicious way, sides splitting with laugher, I melt and smile and breath. Because I’m lucky to have this. Truly. And when I think of a day when my mum might not be here and it makes me love her harder in the now: the only definite there is.

She gave me back the love I once had for my home. She makes me want to be there. To stop running and to rebuild from the mess that was left behind. It’s befitting I finally ended up in a relationship with a  woman, given my love of womanhood. It makes sense with who I am now and who I have been. There’s no dilemma despite the lack of definition. Together, we make sense.

Not just for the L of it.

knitheart

Sexuality is fluid: like the pouring of a cold coke on a hot day. And haven’t I always said that ‘it’s about the peanut and not the shell’? So this new romance shouldn’t surprise those that know me. And if it does, well, what can I say, life is full of surprises.

So I fell for someone who wasn’t Phil. I never thought that would be possible. I didn’t want it to be possible, because moving on means you’re really finished…and I’ve never been good with endings. God knows I’ve said goodbye to too many people to now start doing it willingly. But life is a constant lesson in impermanence, and I feel like I’m learning it the hard way. He went one way, and I went the other. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. Looking over my shoulder constantly, remembering how sweet it used to be…before either of us knew really what devastation was. I drag myself forward kicking and screaming, the way my mother took me to school every day. I brat it up big style, sulking my fucking socks off till finally I look up: huffy, over the top of my glasses, arms folded, chin squashed to tits and what do I see? Something that was already there to begin with, right under my nose. The sympathetic blue of her eyes met with the begrudging brunt of my brown. A shining smiling patient beautiful soul that always saw something other than just darkness within me. Offering her hand, ‘come on you silly cow, get up’. And she was there. More ‘there’ than I ever allowed a friend to be. And although it took me a while, eventually I took her hand.

It’s been that way ever since. And now everyone knows about it and fuck knows what they really think but I’m not going to ask because quite frankly….I couldn’t give a flying fuck. Nope. Not one. I really couldn’t. All they really need to know is I’m happy…after a really long time. I’m happy. And no happiness it isn’t conducive to dark edgy writing and god knows this gay new image doesn’t suit the sorrow that’s been my shawl for so long. But fuck it, it’s what I need and it’s what I want. That should be all that matters but I know it isn’t always going to be to everyone, to some of the people who love me the most, to random fuckwits on the street. But I’m not repentant and I’m certainly not reluctant, instead I’m revelling in this romance that leaves me swooning like a sap and I’ll do everything I did when I dated a guy. I’ll hold hands in public, I wont refer to her ambiguously as my ‘partner’ or my ‘friend’ and I wont suddenly crop my long locks dyke short and act all geeze, ogling everybody’s tits thinking I can get away with it because I’m a girl. No I won’t, because my friends, this isn’t a political movement, it’s an eternal moment. It’s a romance between two souls and when all’s said and done surely THAT is the meaning of life. I don’t kiss her soft pink lips to make a political point. I don’t flaunt my attraction for her to show off or get attention or to rub anyone’s nose in it. I do it because it feels natural and it should be taken so. I do it because a new romance should always piss people off and nauseate with its cutesiness. A new romance is something to be thankful for because your friends can now stop worrying about you being bereft of a kindred. They can rest easy, knowing you’re looked after and the panic is over.

And what will be of him, I hear you ask? The him that will always have a special place in my heart. The him that was here before her. He will simply be. We chose this: he as well as I. And when the two of us meet there’s no hatred. A little sadness, sure, but that’s to be expected. We can smile and we can be honest and we have respect for one another and that is more than I could have ever asked for. That’s more than most ex-marriages have. I want it to be this way because I’m fucked if I lied before all the people we know and respect when I said ’till death do us part’. I meant it and I will always mean it. Granted, not in the same way, but certainly with the same strength and with the same conviction. And I know one day in the future I’ll be proud to say I loved both the best man AND the best woman. Through my terrible misfortune I’ll hopefully be able to come out the other side and say I was one lucky fucker to have had this.

If you saw her, you’d know how we came to be. Because she has a soul the size of a galaxy and a capacity for love and laughter that I cant help but adore. And me, with my tiny shrivelled sultana of a soul, how could I not be moved and amazing and quietly in awe? She is quite something in her own right and she sees both the wood AND the trees. When they get to know her, they’ll see she is both the birds AND the bees. I know they’ll instantly see what I see: a true sister of my soul. Hopefully then gender will be as irrelevant to them as the urinals that segregate it because the really worrying thing isn’t that I’m sleeping with a woman: it’s that I’m now listening to dance music!