For weeks I've been promising inquiring readers, my accountability steward, my boss, aunt, shoe repair guy, spin instructor and so on that this would be the week that I would emerge from my artistic repression and break my blog silence. I've tried to write this post seven times, weighting the posts with heavy titles like "Creative Containment" and "Breaking the Silence" and fluffing them with sexy pictures and airhead sarcasm. The words felt inauthentic. The strange style betrayed my voice. Until finally, I settled for a more mild version of me. Without further ado, here goes:

My love is artistically repressive - in part because I spend all of my free time engulfed in said love and in part because the object of my affection is a repressor of sorts. Or that's the story I've created. He didn't particularly warm to the idea that at any moment I might blab his love affair with luon or addiction to Blistex Medicated to heaps of creepy strangers. The possibility of feeling exposed reportedly increases his vulnerability and hinders his ability to act freely. Imagine trying to build a relationship with someone who is consistently concerned that you might, at any moment, air out his dirty unmentionables. Consequently, my desire to mollify his hesitation (see also: make him happy) and build an open and trusting foundation slowly undermined my formerly devoted artistic expression.

Or that's the story I've created.

In fairness to me, he has specifically expressed reservation regarding my creative outlet citing its unpredictable and uncensored nature to which I argue that I would certainly never write anything uncouth about him. I love him. But then what would I write? People in love don't really want to write about snarky dilemmas and certainly none that revolve around dating. There isn't much unpleasant about a world characterized by ardent admiration, enamored captivation and blissful adoration. Plus with all of the passionate sex, who has time to detail a dilemma on a silly little blog? 

Um, I do.

I might be experiencing some sort of nauseating love euphoria, but I'm not living on another planet. Blaming my failure to write on his reservation or our love-drunk happiness conveniently removes personal responsibility and accountability. My artistic repression is a constitution all my own. I failed to organize and prioritize myself in a way that maximizes my time and puts my goal first. Rather, I’ve spent the few hours I can pry myself from his bed in either downward facing dog or shopping. Yes, shopping. I’ve organized and reorganized my jewelry. I’ve written thank you cards and “To Do” list after nasty “To Do” list. I’ve sat on my bed and attempted to meditate, practiced my handstand, cleaned my bathroom. The longer I put it off, the harder it was to write. But if writing is my creative-outlet and I'm not writing, then I'm not expressing myself, living in the moment, achieving harmony and so on.... If I love myself, I will write.

And I for sure love myself.

If my patient and increasingly open boyfriend accepts me in full (god help him), then he will trust that what I create for the e-universe will embody tact and graciousness. What I can do is continue to assure him that while crazy, I'm also thoughtful and sickeningly aware. Feelings need not be sacrificed for the sake of creation...at least not his. As far as everything else, I'm letting that go so I can allow myself to create freely and frequently. And I apologize in advance for all the sappy Bruno Mars-style shit I may write. I heard that happens to artists in love.

Emma Dinzebach