Stains

So.

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.

Dear Dallas,

I don’t think I can ever survive this.

It has been exactly seven days, eight hours, and twenty-five minutes since you implicitly dumped me. Since then I can only ever think about you and how you whispered sweet nothings in my ear. How you called me your queen. Or how you patted the top of my head and kissed my forehead when we were freezing our asses off at my place.

You don’t understand how this little break of yours has affected me. Lately I have found myself at a loss for words. It does not make sense because I always have words for everything, even if I am under so much pressure. I cannot write about anything other than you.

I am terrified that you are not coming back but I am also frightened that I will spending a good amount of my time waiting for someone who has no intention of coming back.

I guess I am writing not to beg for you to come back. I want you to give me a concrete answer. I want you to be sure this is what you want because when I get back to my senses and realize that I have been watering a dead flower all this time, there is no turning back.

Is that what you’re waiting for? That I hit my head on the pavement and suddenly I come back as an empowered woman with the highest sense of self and will not take shit from confused guys like you? A lady who knows her place, who wouldn’t budge at the sight of a boy who wants to have a taste of all the candy in the store? A person who cares about rights and the oppressed and not about who says I love you first or the minutes it took for you to reply?

I’m exhausted, Dallas. Really exhausted and confused and hurt and it’s fucking impossible to move forward when a part of me is still with you. Either you give it back and tell me it’s over or you come back and stay for the long haul.

Make up your mind.

Z

Addiction

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.

 

Apologies and Explanations

Remember when I used to write everyday? I lol when that comes to mind, but no matter, my dears. Let’s just say I am sort of back sans the promise of posting daily.

Um so I am sorry for being that person: the kind who gets terrified and then leaves. I do not know how to explain this but I have noticed that whenever I blog about my love (pre-romantic disaster) life, something bad happens. I might just be superstitious or crazy, who knows? So since batshit crazy things start to happen I became frightened of sharing.

Why am I writing about it now? Well if you must know, the boy I have been seeing in the past few months and I are not okay. I need to write about my feelings, that’s all. I guess I do not care anymore if things start falling apart. Anyway, I’m straying from the topic: I did not write because I cowered; I thought we had something that actually lasts longer than three months.

So I guess it is time to face the ridiculous and continue writing whether it is the reason of my failed relationships. I cannot be scared anymore. I’m a grown woman, I have a pair of ovaries.