“I’m having a very bad day and I don’t want to talk about it.”
That was my response when my boyfriend asked me how I’m doing.
It’s one of those days when you’re stuck in between feeling hopeless and useless, when everything goes wrong and you just can’t do anything about it. One problem followed by another. Burdens piling up and you feel like your head can explode anytime.
So I didn’t want to talk about it.
“You look sad,” he said.
“I am. But let’s not discuss it. How was last night?” I replied.
He told me what happened the night before, things he did after he arrived home, and things he will be doing before lunch. He ended it with a question.
“Still don’t wanna tell your boyfriend about what happened today?”
Then it occurred to me.
My problems were not his problems. Telling my problems to him would not solve them. Sharing my burdens with my boyfriend would not make them disappear. But he’s *my* partner. The one I look forward to talk with every day. The one with a magnificent ability to look deeply into my eyes through 13 inches laptop screen and know right away that I’m not okay. The one I want to share my life with.
Shit happened. Life happened. But we’re in it together. 11 thousands kilometers apart and still together.
That realization kinda healed.