02 My Light – Spot 4
Partnership: I let you get close to me
Nothing makes me as happy as love. And nothing hurts as deeply. The same man who makes me shine can take me apart with a single sentence. And I can do the same to him. Often we don’t even know why.
Because it isn’t two adults meeting there. It is two childhoods meeting.
I learned my first love as a child. With my parents, or whoever raised me. How closeness works. How arguing works. What love costs. That is my blueprint – and I drag it along to the kitchen table, into the bedroom, into every argument.
The whole of the next chapter, “03 My Love”, is about that. Here just a taste.
What do I have to be as a woman to be the perfect partner? The media shout it into my ear every day. And the basic message is always the same. Be perfect.
So: be beautiful, slim, flawless. Naturally, of course. Be the perfect mother, daughter, hostess, colleague. Hold the whole show together. Effortlessly.
And on top of that: be confident, but modest. Be sexy, but not too sexy. Be warm to everyone, but don’t make eyes at anyone. Still be in the mood in the evening – after the children, the housework and a full day’s work.
Too emotional? Hysterical. Too cool? Calculating. I can’t get it right.
And him? He has his own catalogue. Just as insane.
Be strong. Earn money, get to the top, assert yourself. Be fit, funny, successful. Have everything under control. Show no weakness.
And at the same time: show your feelings. Be sensitive, soft, vulnerable. Always be there for the family. Read every wish from her lips.
Be strong and be allowed to be weak. Have a career and always have time for the family. Be a rock and a man of feeling. A stallion in bed and a tender listener.
See the problem? It can’t be done. These things rule each other out. Whatever he does – he always fails. By a standard no human being can meet.
That changes everything. He is not my opponent. He is caught in the same trap. We are both pulling on a rope that is strangling us both.
This is exactly where love becomes dangerous. When I fail by that standard, the shame comes. I am not a good woman. Not a good partner. Not enough.
And shame does what it always does. I take cover. I shut down, withdraw, go on the attack. All the old armour. And every piece of it hurts him.
He does exactly the same. Two wounded people wounding each other. That is how love breaks. Not with a bang. With a thousand small cuts.
But I am not defenceless any more. I fetch my sentences back from chapter 01. I am right as I am. I don’t compare myself with anyone. I stay centred.
And I take my DoD. Last night I wanted one thing only: for him to put his arms around me. I didn’t say it. I sulked that he is never there for me – and stalked off into the living room.
I write it down. And suddenly I see it. I was afraid he would laugh or turn away. So I attacked first, before he could reject me. Just like back then as a child, when I wanted closeness and nobody came.
Next time I say the one honest sentence. Put your arms around me. And I don’t have to fight my way through this alone. There is somebody else here. Him. And he feels exactly the way I do.
There is nothing shame hates more than being said out loud. Say it aloud and it shrinks. Keep it quiet and it grows in the dark.
So I start small. One honest sentence. “Hold me.” Then the next. “Please just listen to me.” I test whether I can let myself fall. To the right person I can’t say the wrong thing.
If he takes my hand, if he looks into the dark corners with me – then we heal together. Then something grows there that carries us both.
But maybe he doesn’t take it. Maybe there is only coldness, contempt, not a spark of willingness. Then I have to do the hardest thing. Leave. Because some connections destroy us both.
But if he does take my hand, something grows. Intimacy. In the heart and in bed. Both need the same courage: to show myself.
We spread the whole insane catalogue out in front of us. And we tell each other: I can’t do that. I don’t even want that. You neither? Thank goodness. That is a relief.
And suddenly we are talking about the things nobody else touches. About money. About getting older. About illness, exhaustion, fear. About sex.
Yes, that is hard. I stand there completely naked, and not only physically. He could hurt me. But he feels exactly the same. And that is exactly what connects us.
And eroticism? It is a deep need, not a taboo. I say what I like and what I don’t. Without shame. Show me what you like.
And every time one of us dares, we celebrate it. No more blame. No more guessing. Just two people who dare something – and who see each other for it. And at the end stands the biggest question of all. What actually is love?
I can’t get it into words. Like freedom. Like an adventure. You can’t explain it. Only live it.
Love is not something I give or receive like a parcel. It is something I nourish. A plant between us. It only grows if it is already alive in each of us separately.
And it only becomes as strong as each of us is willing to live with our whole heart. Without fear. Without a mask. With everything I am – my most tender and my most powerful self.
Silence, guilt, broken trust, secrets – those poison the roots. Love only survives them if they stay rare. If we admit them. And if we are allowed to heal them.
That is the love I am getting ready for. This is where it starts. With me.