On Intimacy

I'm still mulling over the "why do you blog" question the Chef posed recently.

I have frequently said that what I miss the most, not being in a relationship, is intimacy. When I say intimacy, I don't mean the flesh-to-flesh component of intimacy, although that's also lacking. I mean the ability to lie pillow-to-pillow or sit across a cuppa and pour my heart out, both the happinesses and the sadnesses. And listen; listen as my loved one tells me what he's thinking about current presidential candidates or the price of gas or how he felt when he hit that last golf ball or how much he enjoys our life together. Anything on the spectrum — just the sharing. The sharing of our hearts. I miss that.

So I share my feelings in cyberspace. It doesn't matter to me whether anyone reads or not. But the knowledge that someone may be reading, and that people send me e-mails off-blog commenting on my current happiness or sadness, lets me feel that I'm heard.

The Chef wondered aloud how I could bare my soul the way I do. I think I pride myself on being open — an open book. And part of the reason I put the blog behind lock and key — err, password — after beginning my job hunt, is because I do bare my soul, no holds barred, in a venue that's visible to all eyes, friend or foe. I didn't want some employer Googling me after reading my resumé and choosing a more private person to employ.

As I thought about the lack of intimacy on my drive in this morning, I felt my throat constrict and my eyes well with tears. I'm missing John horribly. I'm missing the ease and comfort and utter compatibility of that relationship, that man, that life.

I fantasize that his last thought before closing his eyes the final time was how much joy he brought me.