Because You Just Keep Waiting For the Moment It'll All Pan OutTo give you some scope to this story, I've just made my first trip up to LDR-boyfriend's home country, Canada, to spend three weeks meeting his friends, family, and getting acquainted with his home turf. Don't get me wrong - it's been amazing. He's been amazing, and has done nothing but reconfirm that this is the man I want to spend the rest of my life here. And I've been so lucky, in that his family loves me, so much so that his mother's begun talking to me about grandchildren after only two weeks of knowing me. I consider that the biggest sign of acceptance a girl could ever hope for.
The entire time I've been here, I've been telling him to wait, to wait to cry until the very last moment, because we both knew from the instant the trip was for sure this last week was going to be a road to the worst moment of our relationship. But you can't let that spoil things, you just can't; I mean, I'm sure I could, but I've been so goddamed determined not to that for once, emotion bended to might of will. But now, it's officially the last week (and, if he's right about the date, our six month anniversary), and so while I'm still telling him not to cry yet and cuddling up with him when he gets drunk and weepy (because, as his adorable punk of a little brother will be the first to tell you, he's the biggest-hearted person on this entire ******* continent), when he's got his face buried in my cleavage for a hug and I'm hanging onto him, it's all I can do to swallow the tears before he lets go and sees my face.
To add insult to injury, I've been retardedly homesick and not even for 'home,' but for familiarity, for a group of my own gal-pals to run off with when he and his friends get together for their testosterone-fest, for some sort of routine because I can feel this big heartbreak coming and I'm still not at all sure I've got the balls to move up here. Am I always gonna have to sacrifice one for the other? Because between this and the PMS (which is an entirely different story) I'm making myself so crazy that I'm finding stupid little faults and telling myself he's not holding my hand enough or putting his arm around me enough and I wish he'd pay more attention (namely, all of his attention) and stare at me the way he did the first night I got here. What the ****, I know better than to expect a relationship to work that way all the time, or ****, to even want it to. I don't want that, I want to fast-forward to a year from now when we're living together and I routinely wake up grumpy and shove at him for the extra space on the mattress and have to cajole him for ten minutes before he pulls his (incredibly sexy) groggy *** from bed (no really, that man has the best *** in this ******* country).
And he just came in the bedroom mildly inebriated and sprawled out beside me and put his head in my lap (or more accurately, in my cleavage) and nuzzled up with that cactus stubble he hasn't shaved in two or three days and said he was just checking on me, and gave me a kiss, and oh my god am I going to miss him.
One night after dinner, his mildly inebriated mother leaned over and told me that she could tell I was a worrier, that I was an anxious person, and without missing a beat she said that I'd grow out of it when I learned to relax a little and put more faith in God again. In God, who I haven't properly believed in or worshipped for some years now, but that's not to say I haven't been feeling the urges since my grandmother died in January...
Well Jesus Christ, I might just need something to pray to, because this trip has done nothing but confirm that we can't live apart...and that it's going to be one of the hardest things I've ever done, making it so that we can live together.