"The story of human intimacy is one of constantly allowing ourselves to see those we love most deeply in a new, more fractured light. Look hard. Risk that." -Cheryl Strayed
He could sense that the constant noise of a fuller-than-normal house was beginning to take its' toll on me. Concerned by my very rare silence, he told me to go take some time for myself. I assured him that I was fine, that the noise wasn't that bad, only to be given the look.
Oh, the look. I don't particularly like that look, if only, because it means that I've been figured out. The look tells me that someone else knows better. Even though my principles tell me otherwise, I no longer waste precious time protesting that look because I know that it's one of the things my husband does best.
He sees me.
And we all just want to be seen, don't we?
I haven't always appreciated being seen. Somewhere between desire to maintain a certain level of mystery in our relationship and realizing that true intimacy involves intrinsic transparency, Joe and I began seeing each other in a way that nobody else does-- or can.
Even ten years in, it can still feel pretty fucking scary to walk around without any of the armor I spent my youth piling on. It often feels like the biggest risk of my life trusting someone to see me better than I see myself, to not abuse the power that resides within marrow of that trust.
But, mostly, it feels a lot like love.
Thanks, J, for always seeing me and for liking me anyway.