“I am Preston Burke, a widely renowned cardiothoracic surgeon. I am a professional and more than that, I am a good and kind person. I am a person who cleans up behind myself. I am a person who cooks well. And you, you are an unbelievable slob. A slovenly, angry intern. I am Preston Burke. And you, you are the most competitive, most guarded, most challenging person I have ever met. And I love you. What the hell is wrong with you that you won’t just let me?”
Sometimes, I think he pushes me away just so he remains in practice. So he remembers how to be separate. Otherwise, our togetherness might just suck him in and make him believe in our love. But when he pushes, it hurts. To see those big shoulders turned away, to see blankness in his eyes, turned the gray of an Ohio sky in January, feels like being exiled. Utterly and completely alone. My heart doesn’t remember that this is a drill, that this is just a safety check for his heart- instead, my heart reacts like the abandoned four-year old I am.
When you’re four, you have three different reactions available to you- you can throw a tantrum, you can run away from home, or you can sit around and wait to be noticed. I ran away from home. Funny, but I still don’t think he’s noticed I left. But to sit and wait just allowed the acid to eat further away at my psyche, and to throw a tantrum, well, that’s just bad form. And really, I am more hurt than angry.
When you’re four, you also wonder what you did wrong. It has to be something you did, because otherwise, why would you get this reaction? This dismissal? It is the conceit of the very young, the very insecure, or the normally protected. To wake up to the reality of human vagary and the very vulnerable position we all accept in a love relationship is frightening, and humbling. I know I won’t always enjoy his favor, but the occasion is so rare that I get lax and…this is the result. Reeling from the punch of his bad mood, and internalizing it within the pocket of hurt that was formed below the surface some quarter-century before I ever laid eyes on him. He’s not the cause of it’s formation, but he does add to the pool.
Perhaps this is a sign of how safe he feels with me- his ability to punish me for the sins of the rest of his day. So often he swallows his feelings, lets things sink into his self. They have to go somewhere. Maybe it’s trust that tells him I’m a safe spot to wail on. He knows I won’t leave- he knows I won’t love him less? So I become a safety valve, protecting others from his foul mood and his need to strike out…
…whatever it is, I don’t feel better or more noble for having borne the brunt of it.
Why doesn’t he let me love him?
Maybe he does, just not the way I want to, not the way that keeps me safe.
