She's not fragile; She's my joy.

I am currently spending seven weeks in Belgium with the man I love.  He and I are in what the kids are calling a "long distance relationship" (oh, those crazy kids).  

For those of you who do not understand this confusing, cryptic phrase, it describes (from my understanding and from the help of urbandictionary.com): "Two people who love each other enough to touch tongues on a daily basis but live far enough away from each other to cause intense sexual, emotional, logistical, conversational, political, existential, denominational, geological and even sometimes (there have been reports) nutritional longing." 
 
"Why on earth would two people do this?" you might ask.  And I might respond, "Yeah, seriously... love is for FOOLS", but then I might recover and answer more maturely, "I am doing it because my man is French, I have no choice!"  And then you might say, "Oh là là! How romantic!"  And I might respond, "Yeah, but he lives in FRANCE."  And you might respond again, "Oh là là! How romantic!"
And then I might walk away and order a beer, and wonder why I have portrayed you yet again as a complete idiot in my imaginary conversation.  

I am so in love with my sweet man, and having a man who does not live in this massive "here" that is the United States (AMERICA, FUCK yeah) is indescribably hard.  Yet these two realities continue to co-exist, though I have done my damndest to snuff out the flame.  

I think my heart must be douced continuously in lighter fluid (the lighter fluid of love -- what? Oh that's right, I said it) -- there is a definite leak somewhere -- because I continue to want to touch tongues with this man enough to wait.  
And I hate waiting.   


____________________________


A friend and I were talking the other day about how joy is like a vagina. That is the end of my story.  

No just joking, there is more.  But that would be funny, right? If I just left it like that?  Maybe strange colloquial expressions and gestures might develop... "Oh JOY" someone might yell, as they slapped or grabbed their vaginal region, similar to guys grabbing their junk in moments of intimidation or aggression, women would grab their "lady junk" ("lady junks?") in moments of joy and happiness.  I'm telling you, it could work.  

Anyways.   

Boys and girls are taught in a variety of ways and in a multitude of sins that men are strong and women are weak.  Yes I know, these ideas are more complicated than that and are being fought daily and much progress has been made (yay), but there is the basic "vibe" of these ideas that feels accepted as true in our world (boo).  

We are taught (both men and women) that the vagina is fragile, that it is a budding flower, beautiful and delicate.  Yes, yes, hooray for gentleness and dirty orchid drawings - all good. But what about the reality that the vagina RIPS OPEN in order to birth a baby, and then heals itself completely??  What about the reality that the vagina is by her very nature designed to undergo enormous stress? 
...And not just in childbirth. 

Most children who walk in on their parents having (good) sex believe that their mother's are being killed.  Imagine the honest talk afterwards, "No little Billy, sometimes Mommy screams like she is in pain when she feels pleasure -- no, Daddy was not trying to kill me through my stomach, he was making sweet, sweet love to Mommy with his super-sword love muscle."  

The line between strength and pathology is near and dear, I know -- and I am walking it -- but perhaps we are so afraid of the pathology side that we are forgetting the complexity (badassness) of our budding flower ninja's.  

My friend and I were talking about how we often feel like our joy is hanging on by a thread - like one strange wind or awkward step could knock it from its strategic placement and shatter it to the ground.  "Sorry, I meant vanilla instead of toffee nut.. Oh DAMN it, my joy is busted... I KNEW it wouldn't last."  
Lists of potential "ruiners" line up:
We could have a fight we cannot resolve;
We could get depressed;
We could gain or lose weight;
We could become boring; 
We could lose our sex drive; 
We could get fired; 
We could sleep with someone else;
We could panic; 
We could start to be obsessed with saving dogs from shelters;
We could drink too much;
We could get sick or insecure or jealous or afraid or shy or passive or angry;

...each item on the list bares its teeth and threatens to destroy not just a piece of our joy, but every bit of it.  Why? 

Why do we believe our joy is so fragile?  

Why am I afraid that one gust, one mistake, one difference, one misunderstanding will, as the kids are saying, fuck everything up?  

I have always been a big believer in my pain - it is real and it is hard, and for some reason it is a much easier way for me to deal.  

But I am just now becoming a believer in my joy - it is deep and it is strong, much, much stronger than my pain -- and although the screams sound similar, my joy is not trying to kill me.  

My joy is not going anywhere.  

Comments

[Kensey]

Oh Charis. This is beautiful.

[Jen]

Needed this today. Needed your words today. love you.