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Do I consider myself a difficult person to get along with?
My father certainly was. He and my mother used to yell at each other until late in the evening. I learned at a young age to pick sides quickly. If not for my own sake, for the sake of putting an end to the argument.
Not in front of Tom, my mother would say, cupping my ears with her hands as if the flesh and bone of her palms could shield me from the fallout of their deteriorating marriage.
I look like him, my father. We share the same hair, the same face. The same name. (Much to my relief, the similarities end there.)
My temperament I inherited from my mother. She is charming when she wishes to be, cruel when she does not. This capacity for cruelty exists in me as surely as the sun rises over the horizon every morning.
So am I difficult? I make an effort not to be. Life is not made for difficult people, after all. It is easier to be friendly, to flash a smile and parade an open, tolerant mind. The pandering may cause me to grit my teeth hard enough to cause a migraine, but it is preferable to the alternative.
People like Tom Marvolo Riddle because he is handsome, amicable, helpful, and intelligent—all of those traits in that precise order. They look to my face first, they judge my dark eyes and the shape of my nose and the cutting edge of my jaw. Then they wait to see— is this a man who will welcome me, or is this a man built from arrogance? If I am friendly, then they will tell themselves how they have discovered a rare gem, rarer still when I offer my compassionate aid. The aid that I offer will showcase my wit, my ingenuity, my devotion to perfection, and then they finally see me. They see that they should like me.
They assign a pedestal to me, they freely offer the worship and adoration that ought to be laid at the feet of a man such as I. But with godhood comes cost. The cost I pay, of course, is this continued charade of give and take, this bastardized version of myself that I display to the world so it will accept me.
I have a boyfriend who accepts me. His name is Harry and I like him very much. We have been together for nearly a year and have yet to engage in any sexual activity, but what I like about Harry extends past any willingness of his to spread his legs for me. Harry, like me, is a difficult person.
As I go through my day, Harry sits in the back of my mind. He is a phantom spirit curled in the quietest corner, eyeglasses glinting like the moon when they catch the light. When Harry is not with me, I wonder who he is with. When he does not respond to my texts, I wonder who he talks to in my stead. When I say something too sharp, too cruel—always about others, never about Harry—I wonder if I have gone too far and put him off for good.
I am neither a warmhearted man nor a generous one. If I devote my time, I expect it to be paid in kind. A favour for a favour, my assistance in exchange for reverence and admiration. My reputation is built on the bricks of hard work and clever planning. My nature is immutable.
Harry does not ask for my time or my effort. Instead, I give both of those to him freely. I sit through all the movies he likes and comfort him through every miserable, heart-breaking scene. I tell him how everything reminds me of him, an offhand comment made by a cabbie or the headline of an article I read on my lunch break. I order for him when we go out for dinner because he likes the choices I make. You know what I like, he says. It is the truth.
When I think about Harry—dream of him, crave him—there is no room for any other thought. I want to hear him laugh, I want to make him smile. I touch his hand, his chest, his face. All of this is mine, all of this belongs to me. Harry leans into my touch or leans away. If he leans away, if he flinches and turns his head to the side, I know.
I know.
Harry is a difficult person, but it is not his fault. (I know it is not his fault.)
I tap my fingers on my desk, I watch the screen of my phone for messages. I distract myself for a time with this thing or that, then return to thoughts of Harry. Is he thinking of me as I think of him? Do I haunt the darkest corner of his mind like a childhood monster? I would let Harry devour me; all that I am, all that I will be. I would let him know every hideous, vile thought that ever crossed my mind if he were to ask after them.
Harry is a private person; his secrets are his to keep. I do not mind it—or maybe I do, but it is fine so long as Harry keeps his secrets to himself only. I couldn’t bear to know if he confided in someone else before he shared himself with me. So here I will correct myself: Harry’s secrets are his to keep until he gives them to me.
If I were to picture my heart, it would take the shape of a stronghold. Fortified by years of wretchedness, this stronghold was built to protect me from the villains of my life. My mother, who taught me that the absence of love leaves wounds that will never close. My father, who left me to suffer those wounds alone. Endless others whose names I carved into my granite walls as their betrayals left me a desensitized vessel for hatred. I never forgive. I will never forget.
But there is room for Harry in my stronghold. I protect what is mine, I welcome it with open arms. When Harry is with me, he is safest. There is nothing I would not do for him. His enemies are mine to slaughter, his failures affect me as deeply as my own would. While Harry is with me—always, forever—he is home.
With Harry, I am less difficult. I am kind and loving. I am gentler than a lamb in his presence. He humbles me with his happiness, with the joy he brings to my life. I adore his eyes, so expressive, so bright and full of passion. I adore his bravery and his intelligence. Harry holds me in his arms and tells me I am the greatest man he knows, but more than that, he tells me I am the one he loves the most.
I like Harry very much. I do not know if I love him—loving is for other people, for those who have learned how to do so in the right way. What I know of love, I learned from my parents, and my parents never loved me. What I know of love has never taught me how to love myself.
All my life, I have been a skeptic, a disbeliever; yet when Harry says he loves me, I wish for it to be the truth.
Harry spends his nights in my bed, in my arms. Harry nudges my chin with his head of unruly hair and curls his cold feet against my calves. I want him to love me. I want his days and nights, every second of every minute. I want so badly it becomes a need, a ghastly third-degree burn that maims the flesh that covers my heart.
Does he know that I burn for him? Should I tell him?
Obsession is not merciful. It erodes my sanity, it absconds with my common sense. I have the impulse to harm, to peel back the layers until the answers of the universe reveal themselves. I want Harry to love me, but his forthright words are not convincing enough. Only when he is by my side do I feel reassured that he will never leave me. I would like to crush him to my chest, to bury him between my bones and know that he will live with me and die with me.
It is not sustainable, this desire. I know I cannot be all that Harry wants and needs, even if he is all that keeps me tethered to this baffling, alien world. I know this, but still I try. If anyone could match me, could fulfill my mad desire to be swallowed up by love, it would be Harry.
Harry wakes in the night with his lips pressed shut over a scream and his hands shaking like willow trees in the wind. I hold him, as I do. I touch his forehead with my lips and murmur lullabies of comfort into his ear. You are not a burden. (If he is a burden, then what am I?) You are worthy of love. (If he is not, then how could I ever be?)
Our relationship is a balance of giving. There is no taking to be had here. I give to Harry and he gives to me. He gives me his love, the warmth of his presence, the solace of his embrace. I give him everything I can think to offer him, anything at all to keep him. I think of how I cannot bear to lose him and I know there is no price I am unwilling to pay.
I kiss Harry good night. I kiss him good morning. I hide myself in the act of kissing; I fear these feelings within myself because of the damage they may do to me. I fear the love I do not have because I have no way of knowing if it is the right kind. Mostly, I fear the day I may be forced to kiss Harry goodbye.
Am I a difficult person, to have such a tangle of fears and desires? Do we equate ‘complex’ to ‘difficult’? I am ornery and obsessive. I tend to squeeze down until the fear is gone, until my hands are clutching a dead, lifeless thing. Harry will be no such thing.
Tentatively, I ask Harry: Am I difficult?
Harry laughs at me. (I love it.) He smiles at me. (I love it more.) His hand comes to rest on my chest; I lean into the touch. (I love him.)
You are difficult, he says to me. Accepting me. But that’s not a bad thing.
END.
