I will never forget…
… that my top Steve loves and cares about me.
If Steve were the sort of top who ordered lines to be written (and I were the sort of bottom who would actually do it), I’d be writing that line 100 times. But as it is, I was to announce it publicly to my readers, so they could help remind me when I forget.
Meanwhile, he helped remind me in other ways yesterday.
What can I say. It was a bad two weeks, stressful and depressing and lonely. Meanwhile, he was away with his son, climbing Mt. Whitney, up in the middle of nowhere with no cell phone reception. After 10 days of no contact, my head went south. Maybe something bad happened. Bad things can happen on strenuous hikes. He has a bum knee; maybe it gave out and he fell. He has high blood pressure — maybe he had a stroke.
Or maybe he’d just forgotten about me.
It turns out that four days into his trip, when he reached the top, he had a brief moment of reception and he sent me a selfie. But I never got it.
(sigh) Long story short, I disappeared into my own head, and he brought me back.
He apologized for not contacting me before he left to say goodbye. But he did try to reach me with the selfie. He didn’t forget.
“I get caught up in my own stuff and I let time go by sometimes,” he said. “But I always come back, don’t I?”
“Yes, I know you do,” I answered. “But I feel like in between, I’m out of sight, out of mind.”
“No. You’re not.”
He drove the point home, repeatedly, with his hand and several implements. “Who loves you?” “Who cares about you?” “Who’s not going anywhere?” And the questions weren’t rhetorical; I had to answer them. Reminders. Many, many reminders.
“Do you feel that, deep in your heart?”
“That’s not where my heart is!”
“It is today!”
No tears in this scene. I guess I had cried enough in the past two weeks. But I felt like he’d taken an anvil off my chest, and flipped a switch in my head, shutting off the negative nattering. Fuck you, depression. You visit, but I will not let you move in. Not any more.
Later, we were back to our playful mode. I was teasing him because, although his family roots go back to several generations in Mexico, he doesn’t know a word of Spanish. “You’re a disgrace to your heritage, not knowing the language!”
“I don’t need to speak Spanish,” he answered. “I speak your language — Spanklish.”
banging my head on the desk and groaning
We’re going on two years, next month. I guess he really isn’t going anywhere. Even John says, “Hey, he chose you over [the ultra-possessive ex]! How much more do you need?”
Yesterday was kind of a wash, since I was too out of it after he left to do much more than screw around on FetLife and play Scrabble on FB. Today, sore but at peace, I am back to work.
Te amo, my top.