The Loss of Intimacy Has Sucked

I don’t know if can finish writing this one, I’ve started it three times already and then deleted it.  Part of me isn’t sure I want to admit any of this out loud.  The other part is exhausted from just carrying it around.  Over the last few days, I have listened to a song more times than I can count, and one line keeps settling in my chest, they say real healing starts when the truth gets told.  So, this is me trying to tell my truth.  I hope I make it to the end.  I hope I have the courage to post it if I do.

One of the strange things about grief is that folks tend to assume they know what hurts.  They know I miss her.  They know I miss the conversations, and they know I miss the future I thought we would have together.  And they’re right, I miss all of those things. What folks don’t always see are the things that quietly disappear underneath all of that.  The things that are harder to talk about.  The things that are even harder to admit.  The things we carry in silence because once they are spoken out loud, they are impossible to ignore.   The hell of it is silence has a hunger.  It feeds on what we hide, and somehow the things we refuse to talk about just seem to get bigger and heavier.   

One of the truths I’ve been avoiding, the loss of intimacy has fucking sucked.  Even typing that sentence makes me very uncomfortable.  Not because it isn’t true, but because it is.  Over the 115 days since I lost her, I have built a rehearsed reply for whenever someone asks how I’m doing.  Most of the time it isn’t even dishonest.  I’m working, I’m writing, I’m rebuilding the Galaxie, and I’m moving forward.  If I am being honest with myself, some days I do those things in an attempt to outrun my thoughts.  But there are still parts of this loss that have settled in my chest and are slowly weighing me down.  This is one of them.

Intimacy for me was never just one thing.  It was closeness, familiarity, trust, vulnerability, and being known.  I mean truly known by another person.  In many ways, I think she knew me better than I knew myself.  It was shared thoughts, shared history, shared understanding.  It was emotional, physical, and woven into the fabric of our daily lives.  I rarely stopped to think about it because it felt so natural.  It was the most stabilizing part of our relationship for me.  And when Sandy died, I lost every version of it all at once.

When most folks hear the word intimacy, they immediately think about sex.  That’s a part of it but it is not really what I have been struggling with.  What I miss are the things that happened a hundred times a week and never seemed important because they were just part of who we were.  Holding hands when we walked, a good hug when one of us had a shitty day.  A kiss every time one of us left the house, and another when we got home.  Sitting together, sometimes talking, sometimes reading, and sometimes just dicking around on the interwebs. 

Then reaching over, touching her hand without even really thinking about it. The casual physical connection that said, I’m here and you’re not alone.  She did that for me as much as I did for her.  Just a gentle reminder that I was not alone.  Those moments were so normal, so automatic that I never once stopped to appreciate how much they grounded me in love.  Those little moments were never the headline, but they were masterfully woven into the fabric of our lives.  Looking back, all those little touches were a constant reminder we belonged to each other.  And there were two people in the world who kept choosing each other.   I didn’t realize how much security, comfort and connection were hidden inside of something as simple as holding her hand or hugging each other.

We were deliberate about holding at least one hug every day for at least 30 seconds.  It was so long ago, I don’t remember which one of us read an article about the health and relationship benefit of doing that.  It is enough time for your breathing to align.  I used to believe our heartbeats did too.  Those hugs were moments when everything in the world faded and we both felt safe, secure and loved in ways that are hard to describe.  If you have never done that, do it today, and again tomorrow and the day after that, it is the most amazing feeling.      

And that daily dose of love is no more.   I think what surprised me the most is how lonely the loss of physical connection can feel.  I wasn’t prepared for just how lonely that would be.  The loneliness created by that loss is unlike anything I have ever experienced.  I mean, I have family, chosen and real, coworkers, and people who love me.  But there is a difference between being surrounded by those who love me and having my person.  There is a difference between being cared about and having someone reach over and reflexively squeeze my hand as a silent reminder that I am not carrying the weight of the world alone.  That kind of loneliness is really hard to describe and even harder to live with in the day to day of things. 

Maybe that is why this post has been so hard to write.  For 115 days I’ve carried this heavy ass thing by myself.  The truth is, some of the words I never say have started to feel like a prison wall of my own making.  It is easier to tell folks I miss Sandy than it is to admit how much I miss the intimacy of our life together.  It’s easier to talk about grief in general terms than it is to talk about specific things that sometimes leave me feeling completely lost.  Maybe that’s why I have those rehearsed answers at the ready.  Maybe that’s why I started this post three times already and deleted it each time.  Because saying this out loud makes it real, really real, and that really hurts.  And maybe admitting how much I miss all of it feels like admitting that part of me is still carrying a shattered heart, and there is a finality that I am not sure I am ready for.

Ya know, as I type this I am realizing maybe what I’ve been avoiding isn’t talking about intimacy at all.  Maybe what I’ve been avoiding is admitting what it means.  Maybe I’ve been avoiding admitting that in some ways I am still a little lost.  Because once I say these things out loud, I have to acknowledge something I have been trying very hard not to face.   Those hugs aren’t coming back.  That hand will never reach for mine again.  There won’t be another kiss when I leave the house, or when I get home.  The finality of that just fucking sucks.  It aches all the way down to my soul.  I guess that is probably why I deleted this post three times already.  Because some truths hurt more when they are spoken.  I have learned though, that they hurt just as much when carried in silence.  The only difference is one moves me forward and one keeps me stuck.  I have carried this heavy fucker long enough and I’m putting it down.

Truth be told, I don’t know if writing this helps.  I don’t know if posting it helps.  I don’t know if tomorrow will feel any different than today.  What I do know is that after 115 days, this truth is finally out in the open.  Maybe that is all this post was supposed to do, not solve anything, not heal anything, just telling the truth about where I am.

And today, that feels like enough.