I’ve reread a couple of entries from this forgotten journal. It wasn’t the most pleasurable read; my eyebrows arched in disbelief, my nose crinkled in slight disgust, and my brain a little tired from the constant disappointment and waiting.
Last Friday I got invited to an overnight stay at a hotel in the city not far from where I live by a friend I met on the Internet. She is an intelligent woman and a decent one, I guess. Although she had tried to invite me on several occasions (that I politely refused), this time I thought: fuck it. So I went. It turns out she did not invite me to murder or scam me; she just wanted company and that made me settle in a bit. At one point in our conversation she told me the secret to her relationship with her long-time boyfriend is that she knows what her priorities are and at the top of that list is herself.
I find it strange because in all the years I spent looking for love, the love that is not the inherited type, I learned that I don’t have much control. I give everything. My time. My pride. Myself. I do not leave anything for me, not even a tiny piece. It’s go big or go home.
And now I realize how idiotic this ideology is. The moment your family stops financially supporting you, you are on your own. You move out and find a tiny room the size of a bathtub and call it home. You have to get a job and pay your bills. You get to be your own anchor.
It’s no different with love. The moment you fall in love with someone, you must be independent still. There are boundaries and you have to go about it quickly or you get left behind. You cannot ask for guidance from your parents or your friends, you have to do it yourself or you’ll get in all sorts of trouble and you wouldn’t know how to cope.
The stains from almost lovers and boys who change their fancy minds every time I decide to let go are still here. And what do I do instead of getting rid of them? I wait. I’m a very impatient person, it runs in the family. I want answers now and I’ll try to shake it out of whoever no matter how much it will hurt me. Once I get my answers and they have given me the kind that I don’t want – or need – to hear, I remain in a rut. It’s like I have been paralyzed and I don’t have the money for therapy because I’ve given everything up.
I guess what I’m trying to say is: the wait time is over. I’m carefully removing the go big or go home sign from the facade of my fist-sized heart. I’m shaking the cobwebs and drawing the curtains up. I’m wiping the stains no matter how strong they are. I have paid my dues. It’s high time I collect what I deserve.
It only occurred to me today that love is an addiction. Speaking from experience, I can compare my kind of loving to my nicotine addiction.
The very thought of it did not scare me. How could it? It is so tiny. No, a stick that short is not my ticket to the afterlife, I thought.
A person so pale and warm and freckled and with the saddest brown eyes cannot hurt me. His short but skinny fingers fit snugly with mine so how can it be the cause of my demise?
So I jump. That is the most logical thing to do when you do not know what is better.
I put the thing that is continuously killing millions of people between my chapped lips and I breathe in the smoke. I let that smoke linger in my lungs for a couple of seconds and I exhale with a royal grace and that makes me smile.
I let the brown eyed man through the metaphorical walls I built throughout the years. He flinches ever so slightly when our pinkies touch for a second. That triggers something inside me. That makes me think he is the most fragile person in the planet and he needs me more than I need him.
The days pass and I get used to taking five minute breaks to be alone with my cigarette stick. When I am stressed at work. When I get to the grisly part of a new thriller novel. When there is nothing else to do. I smoke and smoke and smoke.
The brown eyed man became my confidante. My partner in crime. The missing puzzle piece. Every day I can see clearly – he is The One.
I need him more than he needs me.
You would not know what you got yourself into until you are slumped in a chemotherapy lazy boy along with five people you have no intention of getting to know. When the words are said and you are left with nothing but a memory. When you are on your death bed and you regret every single stick you put between your lips. When you are lost and the only thing that can rescue you is a pack of menthols and kiss from a brown eyed man with pale and freckled skin.
My favorite person of all is halfway across the world from me. He does not even know he is my favorite person. It sounds so complicated when put like that but to be brutally honest, I do not care anymore. Unlike my seventeen-year-old self, I overcame my fear of feeling. And that’s the thing I love most about my favorite person: he allows me to feel.
He is kind, dark humored and a spaz which I like. He encourages me to find the truths about myself and life in general I am so thirsty to know about. He does not judge me for the mistakes I have committed and the ones I am continuously making. His smile and his voice take me home. He is home.
What do you do when your favorite person’s favorite person is not you?
When I saw this I wanted to break things. I hurt a little. But I know that I am not in the position to hurt. I love and it is such a beautiful thing. I do not need to feel ashamed or guilty about it.
My favorite person and I share the same belief when it comes to loving and accepting oneself. We termed it self care because looking after yourself should not be limited to physical aspects alone. It should include the habit of accepting you for who you are and embracing the things about yourself that you call flaws.
And that does not mean I love myself always. No, I have bad days, too. Sometimes there are months I have more bad days than good and that is okay. Self care is a lifelong process. Start small or not. It might sink in in a month or in four months but do not give up. There’s plenty more days to come.
Written for The Daily Post.
Everything you need to learn about love, The Corrs can teach you.
Yeah, thunder only happens when it’s raining
Players only love you when they’re playing
Yeah, women they will come and they will go
When the rain washes you clean you’ll know, you’ll know…
I shouldn’t be moping and whining but here I am. I can hear Max Bemis singing in my head: Looking for love in all the wrong places… then again, which part of the world should I move to to stumble upon the one person who wouldn’t cringe at the thought of me?
I’m just upset because I go on the Internet everyday (my job involves pretty much the Internet) and see all these people finding their ways to each other. I mean, who do I call to have one of that? I’m not even looking for a long term relationship. I just want to feel something right now. Something apart from boredom, laziness and hunger. Is that too much to ask?
I guess I’m really unattractive and I have zero personality. Watching reruns of My Mad Fat Diary isn’t helping so maybe I’ll just head off to dreamless land and get by.