i don’t need partners, lovers, friends, dates, sweeties, real-deep-true comrades, and so on to make me whole. i am whole. i come into this whole. As whole as a broken gimp survivor can be whole. As whole as my cut up dissolving body can be whole. As whole as whatever was left over and what i rebuilt after puking my alcoholic guts out for the first 30 years of my life can be whole.
i don’t come into this a half-person, waiting to be “completed” for example by a lover who is also presumably not-whole. i come into this fighting, surviving, breathing, resisting, and loving the fuck into all that i can, bringing humour and grief and wit and uncertainty, and every embarrassing shameful part of me, so that i might accept that that is simply part of the whole; not that someone else can fill in my gaps, but that they can love me and see me through the cracks, can help me and trust me as they’re able as i try to find my own way to do so; and that they will challenge me when i fuck up, when i break trust, when i’m not respecting myself or my word, even if it hurts to hear it or to say it, even if it means we can’t stay connected, that they would risk that for me, for us.
That’s love to me, that’s relationship, that’s community, that’s what i want with partners, lovers, friends, dates, sweeties, real-deep-true comrades, and so on. i think that’s asking a lot, but i can both take it and dish it out (with varying degrees of dignity and humility and kindness, to be sure), and have been learning over the years that that’s the kind of love and connection and community i want.