Feeling me out

I don't show emotion well- I never have. It doesn't mean I don't feel- I feel deeply. But most of it is hidden away, beneath peeling layers of me. This still allows me to be a compassionate nurse, but gives me the detachment I need to focus. For as long as I can remember I've masked my true feelings and emotions behind whatever facade fit the moment. Looking back I know this has contributed to much of my self-destructive behaviors and has hindered me almost as much as I feel it has freed me. With Him, I feel as if I am going through a slow chemical stripping of years of coated paint. It burns and is a nuisance- but I allow it for the betterment of my vehicle. I hate when he reads me too well. Calls me on something I thought insignificant until the words fall from his lips. He gives me just enough space that I don't feel suffocated- but is slowly taking this away from me. This discovery leaves me with scattered emotions that range from one spectrum to the next in a matter of days or even hours. Either I am overwhelmed in the moment to give him everything I am, or every pore of my body wants to fight for freedom of self. Freedom from his watchful eyes and knowing words. I can almost figure these moments into an equation. Taking into consideration how long it has been since I've seen him+ how much longer it will be until I do-the intensity of what else is going on with my life. But the curve is changing- and the more time I find myself spending with him, the less time I am content without him. This leads me down one of two paths: a mild depression that masks itself with me pushing and lashing out, or an almost manic need to make him know exactly how much I love him and am invested in him. I'm sure he prefers option 2. All this thinking to come to obvious conclusions when the only thing that matters is I'll be in his arms again in 3 days. When he is hurting me, all this seems a lifetime away. There is only my need to please him and my silent need to release all those pent up emotions that have laid beneath the surface since I last was in his arms. Every touch from him is a gift, a release. And if he makes me cry- I know those tears are the only way to really portray the impact he has had on my life. With memories of his fist in my hair- tears don't seem all that terrible. Perhaps there is hope for me after all. I'll ponder a bit more on that as I head for bed.