Longing

The story of us is the only one like it. Of this, I’m certain.

There’s been no relationship like the one we share in history, and I don’t think any two people could ever replicate it.

Of course, there are stories of relationships moving fast, the distance between two people, queer intimacy, sexual chemistry, beautiful weddings, addiction, the struggle to communicate, disappointment, hardship, sacrifice, transcendence, and even convergence. But only our story has all of these elements, and infinitely more.

But at the core of our story; at the very beginning; in bold type in the preface – is longing.

Well before we collided, we spent our entire lives longing for a setting that suited us. We longed for the assurance of good work. We longed for community and found family. We even longed for someone to love us, even if we both thought we’d probably never find it. And four years later, in our everyday interactions, we long for the other to deliver all of these comforts, even after we stuck wedding bands on our fingers.

I see in you what I see in me: the longing to be understood, accepted, loved, and most importantly, valued. And sometimes that longing takes different shapes. Holding each other under the sheets for another 15 minutes while the alarm blares [over and over]. Reaching for your hand while we walk from the car into the restaurant. Asking if now is a good time to have sex. Desperately pleading for attention. Manic, distressing expressions of fear. Shouting matches across the living room. Closing our eyes and embracing; signaling a deeply needed reconciliation.

And sometimes, longing can happen in reverse. Wanting to connect so badly that we turn our bodies away and stretch in the other direction. For me, my longing for a sense of belonging extends beyond our bond. It’s something that lives in my body; the smallest Russian doll of myself tucked below my sternum. This tiny keyhole space longs for something so paradoxical it disrupts the rest of the system. This little empty void cries out for the vaguest sense of “more.”

This is an absence of self. And my entire life, I’ve tried to fill this space with beer, vodka, food, vomit, men, women, hookup apps, cocaine, weed, vape smoke, cigarettes, art, TV, podcasts, commitments, promises, infidelities, fantasies, and anything that could potentially, finally make me entirely whole. This is the truth – traced back to infancy where a baby with respiratory issues sensed his body could turn against him in a snap. It’s an in-utero entanglement of my body’s deficiencies and my mind’s chemicals. My longing was born when I was born.

And that’s a historical problem for those to whom I grant proximity. Who wants to be one of many wires fighting for a single plug in the switchboard?

This is where you reenter the story. Our story.

The pinprick echo chamber inside of me brought me to you. But over time (as your boyfriend, fiancé, and husband), sometimes you fit and sometimes you didn’t. Which must’ve hurt you in unsettling ways – maybe feeling like you could easily be jettisoned in favor of something intoxicating, delicious, or numbing. I don’t know how you feel in those moments, but I imagine it feels something like human collateral. Human debris. And that can’t feel good.

But I want you to know something: with focused intent (not just flighty compulsion), this little voice that cries out can be hushed to a whisper. Though I’m not sure it’ll ever go away. It’s an inherent part of me. It’s my very own language of longing. But it can be repurposed. Reshaped from a void into a furnace – fed by purpose, not substance. This reshaping will be its own journey, reversing a lifetime of picking up & checking out. It’ll probably be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, but I believe in the power of clarity, and the desperate need for support. Your support. You, Drew Prestridge.

The first few chapters of our story are littered with the wreckage of misunderstandings and misdirections. The flotsam and jetsam left behind by two people struggling to describe their nature, shortcomings, and trauma. But that doesn’t have to be our story anymore. No more longing to be understood, accepted, loved, [and most importantly, valued] anymore.

We can’t start over. But we can literally and figuratively write a new chapter, right now. One that’s entirely based on truth, and not the wild tales that brought us to winding side-streets and dead ends. So let this letter be the opening passage of this new chapter.

Let it begin with these words.

At this very moment, my longing reaches out from the tiny keyhole underneath my sternum; a taut suspension cord of negative space. It’s tethered to you, my love.

Wherever you are right now.

Wherever you go.