But difficult is subjective, both to people and to situations.
Difficult is looking at the next three months and seeing a deadline when you go, again, to live on a boat that probably has no internet and definitely has limited free time. Difficult is applying to grad schools that under the best circumstances are only two hours away and under the worst are an ocean away (though wouldn’t that be an awesome adventure, my brain or gut or dreams said). Difficult is living at home and having your parents know your every going out and coming in — after having lived for three years on the other side of the country, having driven across the entire country with only a friend, and having flown back out there to live on a boat.
Difficult is living at home and having to fight to not assimilate all the little feelings that he’s not good enough. All the subconscious nudges that come in the form of “I thought you would have chosen someone more mature” after he told a silly joke at Thanksgiving, following on the heels of jokes from another guest and my dad. Or the “I’m afraid you’re just settling for someone because you can’t find anyone else.” …anyone the same religion.
I’m afraid I’m failing. I’m afraid the looming long-distance and emotions swirling around at home will break me down eventually and make me throw up my hands. You’re right. It won’t work. I’m sorry I even tried. I just hurt my heart in the bargain.
I’m terrified that it won’t work because I didn’t try to stand my ground, because I was too scared to try.
We went to Ikea together and I had to stop myself from saying “we” could decorate a room like this. We’re not living together, there’s no “we” in decorating rooms. But something in me obviously wants there to be.
Because this is what they miss, the ones who say it won’t work. They miss the times when we can look at each other and grin, and know exactly what the other person is thinking.
They miss the times we support each other with the little things. Hugs, comments, funny texts — just what the other person needs.
The other day I mentioned my worries about the whole interfaith thing. I said I didn’t want to talk about it right then, just wanted to let him know that it was a big presence in my mind, something we needed to talk about at some point. He didn’t respond directly, just said something funny but on-point that let me know he had heard me. The conversation moved on. I stopped worrying about the relationship, and the relationship stopped worrying me. For the most part.
But every so often, difficult continued to show up. The type of difficult where your gut decides to have a war with your brain and your heart and you can’t figure out which side any of them are on.