I am working, full with the knowledge that, though things are stressful, I can make the Andres Montoya deadline.
Plenty happened during the Xmas holidays that was blog-worthy but the biggest presence I carried from the time Cliffy and I left the apartment and headed to San Anto to hang with her family was that there was something she wasn't telling me.
It's strange how, even four months after she said she wanted to be with me, I still carry this fear that she won't stay.
Worse, she hasn't been demonstrative lately, even giving me these lame "Me too" replies to my "I love you"s. I have never felt so depressed or alone as in her mother's home. No conversation, horrible, pensive hours of silent television watching. It's obvious her mother and that house has such a depression. I tried not to compare it to my own parent's home but, while my parents hold a lot of anger, those outward expressions also mean a lot of positive expressions.
I wanted to stay out of her mother's way. It was evident there was a jealousy or some passive expression of anger because her time with Cliffy would be compromised since I was there. I stayed clear, believe me. But Cliffy, always feeling like the dutiful daughter, stays there despite her own suppressed anger.
Maybe it's because I get more electric, more emotional when I'm writing but there was a tremendous dinosaur of an issue in that house that everyone pretended wasn't there.
The loneliness was unbearable - made worse by Cliffy's inability to show any signs of affection both because she didn't want to for her own reasons and because her family still doesn't approve. I can say left and right that I am super out about being queer and I can say I will only be around those who understand that expressive need but I can't force that on my partner's family so I mentally sewed my mouth shut.
I love Cliffy. I don't think I say it enough to her. I love her and I understand the stresses she's in both because of her past, her family and because of our situation. I just wish she'd talk.