. On Fighting .

I'm not a very good fighter. I never have been. For me, words are almost too much. So when it comes to a battle of quick wits and throwing down and tempers and anger and volleying insults back and forth across a living room? 

Well.

I'm not very good at it. 

Words get sticky in my mouth. I stutter. Grind my teeth together. Bite down hard on my lip. They're paralyzed in my throat and I become some kind of caged animal. Trapped. And the argument often continues without my interruption - and it gets worse. And then, typically, I get even more mad. Because you know what? I'd rather just talk. I would rather - a MILLION TIMES RATHER - just sit on the couch and talk. 

Look at the other person and say, "That hurt." Or, "Can you please, please, please not ever do that?"  Or, "How do we keep that from happening again?" 

I showered the other night and The Boyfriend headed to bed. As I washed my hair, I genuinely tried to remember the last time that I was truly mad at him. I can't remember a time. I'll be the first person to tell you that our relationship isn't perfect - sometimes he calls me by his ex-wife's name while he's sitting with my mom on the couch (which is also my step-momma's name, so I didn't really get it at first), and sometimes I use my teacher voice on him. (That is, of course, followed by my own widened eyes in surprise because you know what? It just slips out, you guys.). ANYWAY, I can't remember a time that he and I stood at opposite ends of the living room and yelled at each other. 

I came upstairs that night, climbed into bed next to him, and stared at his profile. I tapped his face. I told him I couldn't remember. And bless his heart. He never, ever questions where my thoughts come from and he never, ever shies away from them. There is such grace in his lack of hesitation. He just put down his phone. And he turned to me and he gave me his full attention.

Because he does that, you know? He gives me his undivided attention. 

And you know what? I wanted to tell him in just that single second - that turning to me, that shifting of his focus, that stare through the darkness -- that's probably one of the biggest reasons why we haven't fought. He pays attention.

Anyway. (Again.) There are a lot of reasons why we don't argue, but what I've said to him more than once -- it's exhausting. Don't you think? To yell at someone else? The physicality - sure. The tense shoulders. The pacing. The finger point and the yelling. But also the mental drain. The up and the down and (for me) the word choosing. The resentment. Man. The weight of that resentment that you carry around with you for the rest of the night, the following day, the rest of the week? It's just ... exhausting.

Not very long ago, he casually asked me if I was ever going to tell my real story. Like not just skirt around with pretty quotes or code talk or straight up avoidance. He casually asked me if I was going to own it. 

Put it to bed. 

Lay it out there and ... 

Let it go.

And. 

Maybe. 

I don't think I'm to that place yet where I'm prepared to let everyone see and read and speculate, but. 

Maybe. 

The thing about telling that story is that it's heavy and it's a fight and it's exhausting. And sometimes a girl just wants to rest. And rest, right now, looks like a man who gritted his teeth last night when I freaked out about something so minuscule in the great big grand scheme of things, and he just ... said ... I'm sorry. 

And I had mentally prepared myself. 
I had carefully chosen words in my back pocket. 
I had taken in great big breaths of courage. 
I was ready to hunker down in that cagey, willful, ugly resentment. 

But the only thing that came was a man that gave me his attention. 

And his sincerity. 

And so I let it go.

Today is about a girl that loves a boy who recognizes so much more in her than just what used to be. Maybe I'll tell my old story. Maybe I never will. Maybe it doesn't even matter. 

Because - 

Today is about a girl that loves a boy who recognizes in her what could be.  

And for me? Well. 

That's just so much ... more. 

xoxo, B.