My bestie Q asked me the other day why I haven’t written on this website for so many months. My reason for the first month was a flare up of tendinitis, then my generally busy life … but the real reason is because I have a widget on my website that tells me that 50+ people subscribe to my blog updates, and knowing I have a readership has made me VERY self-conscious about what I post here. I’ve drafted two posts in the past 5 months, but couldn’t bring myself to click the “Publish” button.

So that’s ridiculous.

Of course I want people to read what I write. Why else would I have this website? It’s bizarre how easy it is to write about very personal experiences and thoughts anonymously, and yet as soon as my name is attached and I know people are reading these, I clam up.

Explaining this to Q (and then binge-watching season 1 of Queer Eye on Netflix, in which five fabulous gay men help people “find themselves”) has led to me to wonder if I have a fear of intimacy.

Tell us, Wikipedia, what that means:

Fear of intimacy is generally a social phobia and anxiety disorder resulting in difficulty forming close relationships with another person.

Sure, I had social anxiety issues in my twenties (Prozac made that better), but I thought I was done with mental illness. “Phobia” is a pretty strong word.

Still, it’s true that I don’t have a “close relationship” with anyone, even my Non-Sexual Life Partner Q, even with the many amazing women friends in my life or my superhero-supportive family. When I’m struggling with something, I write about it privately or on here. It’s only when I get overwhelmed that I freak out and then retreat into sleep.

One of the best ways to work through grief (as I learned from my bereavement support group) is to tell the stories of the death and loss over and over again. I’ve told Brock and my story a mere four times in the nine months since Brock died:

1. here, on my website
2. to my support group for spouses
3. to my bereavement support group
4. to my Hospice grief counselor

Interesting how all four of those times were to strangers, rather than face to face with my friends and family.

It’s not their fault.  I have amazing people in my life who want to support me, and I’m sure they’d be happy to listen to whatever I needed to say. But for some reason, I just can’t make myself initiate conversations that are personal. I’ve always thought that’s because I’m an introvert, and would rather listen than talk in social situations.

Or maybe I’m just adjusting to life without Brock. We told each other everything, and I never felt the need for another confidante because I had him. So now I don’t have my B-Rock to talk to, and I need to find an emotionally-intimate relationship elsewhere.

Things to Discuss

Here are the things I need to talk about, at some point, with someone:

Brock’s Death

The grief experts say it’s important to tell the stories and share memories over and over and over again, to help my brain understand that he’s gone and reconcile what happened. (More on that in a future blog post.)

Isaac’s Birth

I was completely unprepared to have Isaac, both emotionally and practically. He was delivered at 34.5 weeks because I got pre-eclampsia, and so we weren’t even able to attend the prenatal classes I’d signed us up for. Neither Brock or I had ever been responsible for keeping a baby alive, or even changed a diaper.

There is this specific moment I remember in the hospital, after Isaac had been born and I was recovering from the C-section. All I wanted was to go home, back to our life and the dishes waiting in our sink. I was exhausted from being awake all night and in shock from the numerous injections I’d endured despite my HUGE needle phobia.

Then I realized that we couldn’t just go home, because we had a baby now, and the baby had to stay in the hospital until he was bigger, and to be a Responsible Mom I had to stay with him. Here’s a metaphor but it felt literal: I closed the door on my own shock and feelings. I heard it close. And then there was this lovely numbness, which got me through the next four weeks in the hospital, and then the next two years as I struggled to prioritize my baby over my own needs. And then the two years after that, as I became a caregiver both to our son and my sick husband.

So maybe it was that moment when I locked everything up inside, or maybe it was when Brock died and I lost the person who had always listened to me.

So now what?

I like to think that recognizing this “fear of intimacy” is the first step in building better relationships with my old and new friends, but keeping thoughts and feelings inside is a hard habit to break. The door that closed in 2013 was solid: one of those thick steel ones they use for bank vaults and evildoers’ fortresses.

There’s this part in a Queer Eye episode where a socially awkward 18-year-old tries to make small talk with some peers for the first time, and it’s painfully obvious how out of practice he is (“I like your shoes. I like your hair.”). I’m 38 but feel just as self-conscious: how do you initiate personal conversations? When’s the right time to tell the story of your husband dying? This website is a safe place for that: I can dive right in to whatever topic or idea I want to work through. But how does that happen in real life?

Writing on this website is a good first step to breaking down that door. It shakes me up whenever someone mentions something I’ve written here, or leaves a comment. (My immediate first reaction is always panic: “Ak! They know my insides!”). But I write to be read and it makes my heart happy when you comment and interact that way. I love seeing that subscriber count rise, despite the performance anxiety it causes.

We aren’t going to fix me today, but for now: thank you for reading. Thank you for helping me open that door, even just a crack.

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