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Old 03-30-2013, 12:42 AM
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fuchka fuchka is offline
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Dropped in to see Grotto at his place last night. "I have a confession to make," he said. "I've read your blog."

Ohhhh dude. The thought of it sucked the life out of me.

Yesterday evening I was at a dinner til late, and wasn't replying to texts. The dinner started at 6pm but went on til nearly midnight. I'd said to Grotto that it shouldn't go on too late and would get in touch with him afterwards to see if there was time to meet him. He'd gotten worried, and then thought I might not be doing okay, so he checked my blog (on here). Then read through it all.

We'd talked about the blog before, and decided (at his suggestion) that I keep this space for me, my own private thoughts. Although of course it is a public blog, he thought it would be better if my partners didn't read it so I didn't have to consider them when I wrote. And since then, I've written as if it's my own sandbox. Not holding back. Ah, love...

I didn't feel betrayal or upset that he read the blog after agreeing not to. I guess that is an issue but I was truly not bothered by that aspect. I know he loves me, and I trust him... he did it out of a compulsion, coming from a place of care, and then got hooked I guess. I know what that's like. Plus he 'fessed up straight away. So, for whatever reason really, I wasn't angry at him for 'breaking my trust' or whatever.

What I did feel was intense, overwhelming... shyness? Shame? Embarrassment? I was struggling for the words, but it was huge and I didn't enjoy it.

While I was taking some time out to process, his flatmate Patch came over and chatted with me. I told him roughly what had happened, that I was sorting through emotions... P suggested maybe it was that I felt "exposed," which fit better than other words I'd been thinking of, but still didn't quite get at it.

It felt awful, though, whenever I turned my mind to it. I told Grotto it didn't bear thinking of. My mind kept tripping on particular posts, things I'd said, the ways I'd said them, and I drowned in the shame. Not shame that I had written those things, but shame that Grotto (someone who knows me, knows the circumstances, knows the people involved, etc) had read it. He knows the turns of phrase, my inner fucked-uped-ness, the gross, childish fantasies that I've constructed out of the scrap paper reality of my relationships.

Oh, it's not so bad, right?

I imagined if he had asked first. I probably would have been very very very shy and awkward, but let him read (in the end.) So now it was as if, him having read it first, I was getting all the shyness in a giant ball post-fact. Here, baby, have some nausea.

My upset over this was making Grotto sad. He said "sorry" over and over. Said he wished he hadn't. Was beating himself up. We needed to talk.

In bed, I try again to explain what I'm feeling. He can see I'm affected, but isn't exactly sure why. Hmm.

I say, "you know how some people sing in the shower, just by themselves? And are really shy of singing in public? I guess I feel like that person, if they realised they'd been overheard. That someone had been outside, listening, the whole time. Mortified."

"Self-concious"

"Yes! That, exactly."

We talk some more. He told me he loved the way I wrote, and he was scared that I would stop writing. I said, as long as he didn't keep reading, I wouldn't be changing the way I wrote. I do trust him, and nothing's really a secret from him, so it's not actually huge harm if he reads. (Though, there really could have been some secrets, about other people, on here. Thankfully not.)

Hearing he liked my blog helped ease my panic a little. I wondered if it would help to feed myself more positive comments. My mood was weighed down by so many specific bits of the blog I was shy about. The names I'd picked for people. My optimism, my devastation, my hopes, my whimsy. I wanted to move on, but felt stuck.

So I asked him to indulge me in an experiment. Can we apply the democratic process to our emotions? If there is x amount you are feeling shit about, can you counter that with y amount of counterbalance? "Tell me more," I said, "more about what you liked about what you read." Eep! So shy! I cuddled into him hard.

He told me he could hear my voice, it was like listening to me talk. He could tell I had a lot of love for all the people involved, and that shone through. That particular phrases struck him for their poetry. That my joy was a joy to experience.

Yes, this is working. I do feel better.

"It's like hearing someone sing in the shower and telling them afterwards they have a beautiful voice. I know you still feel mortified about it, but you do have a beautiful voice."

I love you, Grotto. If you're still reading - fuck you, seriously But. I love you.
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