Wednesday 10th March 2010

Gestation: 23 weeks, 5 days

One year ago.

Today, I have a session with my coach.

I detail the argument, keen to let him know how hardly done by I have been.  How hard this is for me.  He listens, taking it all on board.  He pauses at the end.

“Yep,” he says.  “Yep.  I hear you.  I hear where you’re coming from.  And, I could sit here, and collude with you about how hardly done by you’ve been, and how tough this must be.”  He pauses.  “But, what we really need to know is what’s going on for you.  Going on for both of you.”

He pauses, to see that I’m listening.  I give him a deafening silence of approval.

“To do you both justice, let’s get a plan of attack to get this relationship back where you want it to go.”

“Okay,” I say reluctantly.

Through the next hour, I come to realise that this is not all Suse’s fault.  That she is not fucked.  That, as well as having an effective, functional communication style, at other times I can be completely dysfunctional in how I communicate.  From her end, I can appear insensitive.  Like I don’t care whether we get pregnant.  Like it’s not important for me.  And that I don’t need her.

The truth is, that I don’t want Suse to know that I am vulnerable too.  I really don’t.  I really don’t want her to know that I’m just as scared as she is.  That I’m scared shitless of what could go wrong next.

I feel my anger dissipate, as I am pulled apart, and then reconstructed.  To be understood, and evaluated in a way that I can’t see myself.

I feel the weight slowly lift.

* * * * *

The minute Suse walks through the door, I sit her down.  I read through my notes from my session, from beginning to end.  I feel a tightness in my voice as I start to list my faults, and I notice that it heightens when I take responsibility for being wrong.

How messed up we are, as humans, that when we’ve dug in, we’d gladly forsake happiness for being right.

As I speak, I feel the lifting of that weight again.

“I’m not good at this,” I say.  “I need to let you know that I’m struggling in telling you where I’m at.  I may look cool on the surface, but underneath, I’m fucking scared.  I’m scared shitless that we won’t get pregnant.  I’m just as afraid as you are, but I’m like a caveman when it comes to expressing my fears.”  I take a gulp of air.  “Because I can’t let you see me as weak.  I can’t let anyone know that I’m vulnerable.”  I swallow again.  “But I am.  I’m scared, and vulnerable.  And I need you, Suse.”

As I finish, I look up through misty eyes.  She has a warm glow, and a soft smile.  The first I’ve seen in days.

“Do you know how relieved I am to hear you say that you’re afraid?”  I shrug dumbly.  She leans forward, and touches my cheeks, pulling me closer, to a kiss.

“I love that you let yourself be vulnerable for me.  I love you even more.”

She kisses me softly on the forehead

How fucked are we, that we think have to be Superman?

Men.

How fucked are we?

* * * * *