#gray-pansexual

Sometimes I really struggle to understand why I've reacted so inconsistently to things in my life. When everything was broken with him, I felt like I didn't have a reason to be so broken. Even though he said those sweet things that sounded like promises and smiled at me like I created joy or something, we never really invested in each other. We were never vulnerable to each other, never close and honest. So when he left and I was broken and in love with him, I spent all of my time feeling invalid so I hung onto being in love with him as some sort of proof that we had been a real thing. When she shattered everything, it gave me a shitload of other problems, clearly, but I never considered the idea that it might have just been me in love. I knew, I believed, with every bit of me, that she had loved me. You don't hold someone through long, broken nights like that and not love them. So I don't ever sit and wonder if I'm crazy to think she could have loved me because she could. And oh, she did. It's not really that weird that I reacted to him like I would never love again. Like he was it and it felt real, even though the whole world could, and frequently did, argue that it wasn't. And when he walked away, all I had to hold onto were feelings and a few words that didn't run deeply enough. And it's not weird that I didn't feel the need to convince myself that she loved me. We had a relationship that was built off of broken dreams and promises and hugs and late night kisses and panic attacks and denial and hallmark movies and crazy families and everything that ran deeper than anything I had ever felt. My relationship with her was complicated. Denial is complicated and stressful. I feel sad for her, sometimes. She played the role of a girlfriend in a lot of ways, but she shoved that back a lot of times because we were "just friends" and my "just friend" held me through every time I cried over him and encouraged me when I was interested in anyone else. I know that must have been hell. It makes me sad that I put her through that. She knew, firsthand, what broken looked like on me because she spent so much time cleaning me up when someone shattered me. Also, in a very clear way, clinging to him was like clinging to my straightness. You see, she and I were very, very deep in the closet. Maybe she wasn't as much as I was. I don't know anymore. But we told each other, many tines, that we weren't gay. We were just special to each other and closer than two people had ever been before. And that even heart-deep in kisses and pussy, we were totally straight. It hurt us both a lot. I know it hurt me. I clung to him to prove I was interested in men. That I had really loved one. That I couldn't be gay because hello, male love interest. Just FYI, that's not really how it works. And shit, it makes me cringe to look back at it. God, she was incredible for enduring all of that. For spending all night with me and then hearing me say I missed him. It was pretty fucked up. I guess there are a thousand ways to say you're sorry about something, but I've never been humble enough to learn them. I wish I could fix all of the broken things sometimes. And I wish I could tell her that I've been figuring it out. Figuring me out. And I don't regret anything but I do want to apologize for everything that hurt because some of it I'm starting to understand. I wish I could apologize without it sounding like I want her back. They're not the same or tied together or anything like that. I don't want to fix our past to create our future, I just want to heal the wounds. Anyway, the way I muddle through life is complicated. And gay, for me, was very complicated.