Tag Archives: love

turning the leaf

Posted on by

1

m was recently arrested.

a friend called me to tell me the news, and i cried, and screamed, and swore. maybe this is the beginning of the end. while my sleeping patterns are off, and my mood shifts constantly, maybe this finally means putting some of my demons to rest. it means tattooing a tombstone to my elbow, and sleeping with the lights off, and opening the pieces of my heart that i’ve cut off for so many years.

i have officially been living in my apartment for one year. no overnight moves, no roommates, no sketchy activity, no drugs, no arguments, no yelling, no fear. i haven’t packed up my belongings, and i haven’t rented moving trucks, or storage locations. i haven’t fallen off the wagon, or gone to work shitfaced, or let someone hurt me beyond repair. i’ve had the same job since february 2012, that’s almost fifteen months. i’ve gotten significant raises, and benefits, and a new office. i’ve lost weight, and i’ve changed my eating habits. i cook to relax and unwind. i plan meals, and i buy organic, and i don’t eat meat or dairy. i spend weekends with my family, i go dancing with my friends, i watch documentaries, i bake pies, i do weekly crafts, i sew my clothing, and i buy new furniture. i treat myself, and i do it often. i get tattooed, and i go to the salon, and i buy clothes in smaller sizes. i have clothing swaps, and i cook for two, and i mop my floors, and change my bed sheets, and paint.

and i’ve told a man i am in love with him.

and i meant it.

i meant every consonant and every vowel and every beat of my heart as it pounded against my chest as i whispered, “i love you, too”

…because he said it first.

i mean it, when my lips touch his skin, and my hands hold his face, and my fingers are laced with his as we walk down the street and giggle into the chilly afternoon air. because yeah, he makes me fucking giggle. he makes me laugh. i wake up in the morning and my face hurts because i am still smiling when i open my eyes and he is laying next to me, his hands on my butt, and his nose in my neck.

the seasons are changing.

i am paying off some debt, and i am working hard, and i am living honestly. i’ve been smiling, and i have felt weightless and light. i can’t remember the last time i felt so hopeful. i can’t remember the last time someone made me feel this good, and so effortlessly too. and most importantly, i can’t remember the last time i felt this good about me. about my progress. about my ability to move forward. people constantly told me that i am independent to a fault- that it is ultimately the downfall of my relationships. but i am finally realizing that maybe the men i have been dating were too insecure to see the bravery in that. the strength and the will. they were too insecure to understand the damage of abuse and the hope in survival. they were too insecure to ask me what happened, and more importantly- to accept what happen without seeing me as damaged goods. and fuck that. fuck all of that, because my independence is not a flaw, and i am not broken, and i will be stronger and better than this, and them. i will talk openly about the hell m put me through, and about my ups and my downs, and shamelessly so.

because that is healing, and that is healthy, and THIS is progress.

leaving is not enough

Posted on by

0

leaving is not enough.

there are pieces of an old me, of an old life, lingering still in the present- in my presence. he helped build a piece of me i don’t know how to outgrow. people still refer to him as mine, and i as his, and i hate it. there wasn’t anyone before him, and there hasn’t been anyone since.

i mean… there has.

but not like that.

he was hands, and mornings, and breakfast and sunshine. he was the only way i knew how to start my day if i wanted to finish it at all. he was daytime phone calls, and afternoon naps, and evening bubble baths. he ran the water, and lathered the soap, and washed my hair. when i sink to the bottom of my tub, sometimes i can feel his perfectly manicured nails grazing my scalp, as i slip into a daze, this half-slumber, numbed by the heat of the bath water i always run too hot.

he was farmer’s markets and healthy meals and drinking enough water.

—

i worry that i am incapable of loving anyone the way i loved him, once. before the anger, and before the abuse, and before he ruined the only good pieces of me i had left. i worry he broke the working parts of my emotional brain- the parts that allow me to feel, and to fall, and to be weightless in love, and in life. the parts of the brain that aren’t clouded by agony. and yet they are. and i can’t fix that.

i worry that strangers can see the tiny black cloud above my head, or the void in the ventricles of my heart. it shrank, that void. it went from gaping vortex to pinhole, and yet i can still feel the breeze. i can still feel the leak. and i worry that nothing could bandage that kind of loss.

people tell me they see independence. they see strength, and courage, and they see the battles i have fought, the struggles i am trying to overcome. they see a warrior. a fighter. a five-foot tall feminist… with eyes sharp like daggers, and words harsh like the first frost. and i feel that. i feel it in my bones. i feel tough, and i walk with conviction, and fuck with confidence.

but when i collapse into the comfort of my own home between my walls full of secrets- and i peel the layers of a me i’ve perfected, all that’s left is this damaged, sad, broken little girl, with eyes black like night, and words soft like clouds. my frail little limbs peeking out from t-shirts that have become too big. my knees bruised like peaches, and my lips cracked like january ice.

—

there are a few constants in my life.

in november i became an aunt, and everything i have ever known evades me. she (she’s a she!) has brought light to a life shattered by darkness, and i feel whole when she is in my arms- my brother looking at me lovingly, knowing that this little bean has saved me.

i almost left.

it was the summer, and i was in lust with a man in love with someone else. he was five hours from home, and i left a part of me in my city every time i went to be with him. when i finally left, and picked up my pieces back at home, she was born and i was saved. and that was that. my brother sent a message me, thanking me for being here. thanking me for coming home. thanking me for being a part of his daughter’s life.

it all sounds so cliché.

yes my family is incredible, and yes i am luckier than most, and how could a baby (that isn’t mine) change me? but she has, and she did, and that’s that. there isn’t an answer, only a reason, and for that i am grateful. this is progress.

—

this too shall pass.

 

i’ve lost so much… and what if no one can make up for that?

Posted on by

0

i don’t know when it’s going to happen for me.

life, i mean.

a few months ago, i was standing in my parents’ kitchen, trying desperately to catch my breath, trying to find the words to explain something i’d been trying to hide from them my entire life. and despite my love for language, and words, and how i know i can twist something ugly into prose that could make someone’s heart stop… it doesn’t change the fact that sometimes, there is beauty in simplicity. there is understanding in blatancy.

“i’m not happy”

i don’t know how many times i can repeat this until it fucking sticks.

i don’t know how to explain to people that a pretty house with nice things, and an incredible job to pay for those things, and a kitten, and friends, and love interests… none of it fills the void. there are holes in my life, there are secrets i’ve locked up, there is discrepancy in everything. i’m a fucking train wreck of a human being. and i ignore it so perfectly.

i don’t know how to reverse the things i was forced to believe. i don’t know how to fucking turn off his voice inside my head, or the fear inside my heart. how is it that i could leave the house, and move on with my life the day after he choked me out? how could i act so normal with his hand prints on my neck and the wobble in my knees from having him shake me so hard? and now, years after i’d left him forever… i sometimes get scared to leave the house, or look in the mirror, or be in certain parts of the city. i won’t pick up phone calls from unknown numbers. i can’t hear a fucking song that reminds me of him without crying. just when i think i’ve started to forget, i remember the black of his eyes in the sunlight, or the pink of his lips when he’d tell me he loved me, or where his pants would sit on his hip line- carelessly.

and it makes me fucking sick.

a few weeks ago, i had dinner with my mother. we sat silently across from one another, and she started crying.

“you loved him, didn’t you? you loved him more than you’d ever loved anyone…”

i lowered my head and nodded.

“he was so handsome”, she said. “how could he be so handsome, and so evil?”, she wanted to know.

i’d like to know that too.

i’d like to know how i was able to look into his eyes and simultaneously see the man i wanted to spend the rest of my life with, and the man i knew i was going to spend the rest of my life running from. how i could look at him and be living both ends of the spectrum so fiercely. how i wanted to hold him and love him, and feel the rightness of his body against my body, and how i wanted to push him away, and hate him, and rid myself of the repugnant feeling of his skin on mine.

how do you make sense of that? how could i feel such a magnetic pull to someone who lived to harm me?

a few years ago, i ran into him at a bar. he was walking out, and i was walking in, and we literally bumped into each other. i froze in terror, as i saw his lip curl upwards. he looked down at me, smirked, and said, “that’s right… RUN.”

and i did.
i fucking ran.
because he told me to.

that same night, i found myself sitting face to face with him at some shitty 50′s diner. it was pouring rain, and we were holding hands, and he told me i was pretty. he told me i’d always been so pretty. and he just sat there, looking at me, hands shaking, and crying. he told me he loved me… that it had always been me. and i knew he was right. it had always been me, and it will always be him. i don’t think i could ever love another man the way i loved him- not after having it ripped from me the way he did. i don’t think i could ever let myself love someone like that ever again… whole-heartedly, and without even trying. honestly and without regret or condition.

at his best, at his worst.
in sickness and in health.
in richness and in poorness.
until death almost did us part.

because  i knew no other way.

because i still haven’t a fucking clue.

pro-choice, pro-feminism, pro-cats

Posted on by

14

i recently bought this incredible patch from this etsy shop.

i take pride in dressing like an angsty teenager, okay?

when i showed this to my mother, the first thing out of her mouth was, “i just don’t want anyone to hurt you for what you believe in”.

which is totally fair- especially coming from my mama. but after giving it some thought… it really made me angry. not at her, of course, but that wearing a pretty little floral back patch with a cat on it could potentially put me in danger, simply because the words pro-choice and feminism were on it.

my first thought is this:

i’ve been chastised and judged based on my appearance for as long as i can remember- whether it be for controversial band patches sewed onto my clothing, or the tattoos inked into my skin: someone has always had an opinion. even as a young girl, instead of being congratulated or praised for having such a strong opinion, and standing so firmly for what i believe in, i was constantly in trouble. in the seventh grade i had to print out Rancid lyrics for my principal, just so he could decide whether or not i could wear their t-shirt in the school hallways- while the rest of the student body were allowed to wear 50 cent t-shirts, and baggy jeans below their butts. because apparently thirteen year olds promoting sex and drugs is much more appropriate.

and what about the religious fanatics on public transportation grabbing at my skin, throwing their rosaries in my face, and praying at my tattoos- begging god to save me from a life of sin.

or the ignorant teenagers that called me a freak for having purple hair and wearing a leftover crack patch on my denim jacket.

or the judgemental assholes who called me a nazi for wearing doc martens. here’s a little tip: educate yourself on the skinhead movement before you call someone a racist… because that’s a pretty strong accusation if i’ve ever heard one.

i digress…

i’d just like to know what in the hell makes it okay for pro-lifers to march the city streets with signs displaying pictures of an aborted fetus, and yet i can’t sport a back patch stating my personal opinion. i completely agree that abortion should not be used as a form of birth control, and if you’re taking risks, then you should be ready to accept the concequences… but accidents DO happen. and for some women, going through the process of aborting their child is their worst nightmare.

i know because i’m one of those women.

my pregnancy was an accident. i was using birth control, i was safe… and yet at seventeen, freshly dumped by my abusive, junky of a boyfriend, i found myself pregnant with his child.

i had a choice.

a choice! oh, what a world!

did i make the right decision? could i have made it work? am i selfish?

as a woman, this was the hardest decision i ever made. but i look at my life now, and i know at the bottom of my heart that i could not have given my sweet baby the life she deserved. a life with healthy, loving parents. a life void of fear and abuse. because how do you explain bruises to a child? how do you explain the binges and the anger and the terror and the drugs? i could barely save myself from the horror of loving m, how in the world could i have protected her from it?

do you know how hard it is to see a picture of a dead infant, when you’re still mourning the loss of your own? i’m very aware of what i did, and i will punish myself forever because of my decision, in some way. i certainly don’t need a constant reminder that i wasn’t fit to be a parent at seventeen. i don’t need to be reminded that i made the decision i made because the monster of a man i was selfishly, and stupidly in love with could have potentially been an even worse father than he was a boyfriend.

i’m not afraid to defend how i feel.

after the years of abuse i survived at his hands, i made the choice to save my baby from that same kind of pain. and fuck you if you can’t appreciate that.

the world is scary, and it can be ugly, and people are mean.

i spent so much time being angry, when i could have spent it opening my heart, and learning to love again. high shcool was a bust, and adulthood was and continues to be an endless road of self-discovery. and if there is anything i’ve learned at all, it’s how important it is to band together, as human beings.

and as for feminism?

i once read somewhere that feminism isn’t about man hate… it’s about woman love.

amen, sister.

it could have been very easy for me to hate all males because woe is me, and a man ruined me forever, etc… but i’m not that kind of woman. i have strength, and pride, and courage. and he just happened to be one bad seed in the crop of incredible men i’ve had the pleasure of meeting in my life. and women- WOMEN! need to stop hating each other!

there’s an incredible amount of jealousy, and insane amounts of pressure to be the ideal woman.

and what the fuck is that?

who decides what our roles should be? whether you want to be a busy business woman, or a raise a family and be a wife- or gasp! both! … just do it. do what makes you happy, and live the life you want to live. personally, i don’t want an enormous house, or a minivan in the garage… but i know i want to marry a good man, and make babies with him, and raise those little hipster babies with off-beat names not to be ignorant shitheads in society. that’s my goal… i want to raise a family, and love them with with every fibre of my being. i want to support who they want to be, and what they want to be, and everything they need to do to get there. they can be who they want to be, so long as they don’t hurt anyone in the process.

because that’s all this is about…

learning to believe in what we want to believe in without inflicting pain on other people.

and who decides that a size 0 waist is better than a woman with curves, or that long hair is better than short hair? every single thing about every single person can be beautiful, if you look at it the right way. nobody on this planet is built the same. some women have to work out seven times a week, and cut carbs from their diets just to fit into a size ten. other women get to eat cheeseburgers for breakfast, and they look incredible in bikinis.

who fucking cares.

my parents raised me to be tolerant, and to love myself first.

THE HORROR!

don’t get me wrong… i struggle sometimes. i look in the mirror, and i hate my stretch marks, or my thighs are too thick for cut-off shorts. but i was blessed with healthy hair, and great nailbeds, and tits til tuesday. while i have to work very hard to keep my waist small, other things come so easy for me. i’ve never shaved my armpits, for example. i just don’t grow hair there! it’s soft, like a baby’s butt, and i am ready for strapless dresses and bikini tops all summer. and yet, i can’t cut myself a break because of my big butt.

christ.

first world problems, AMIRITE?!

listen… all i’m trying to say is that everyone has a right to an opinion. maybe the delivery is what needs a little work- but whatever. express how you feel, and say what you mean! don’t hide, don’t hold back… don’t be afraid to be who you are- so long as you aren’t hurting anyone… because who you are is all you’ve got, in the end.

learn it! live it! love it!

appreciate the women (AND MEN!) around you. remember: everything is relative, and we’ve all had to overcome pain, or stress, or loss- in some way or another. love your friends, praise the strong women (AND MEN!) you meet in your life, and don’t get so hungup over the fact that they look better in skinny jeans than you do, or they have more money in their bank account, or they’ve reached a point in their lives that you haven’t reached quite yet.

because what do you know about my pain? the struggle to make it through every day? and what do i know about yours? instead of hating each other, get to know the women (AND MEN!) around you, and learn to love everything about them that makes them who they are. it isn’t always easy- but fuck, at least stop hating. that’s a first step, isn’t it?

because i may have a fat ass… but i have a good head on my shoulders, strong skin on my bones, and love in my heart to give.

so spread the love, (wo)man.

… it has a nice ring to it

Posted on by

2

oh, world… i’m going to be an auntie!

my brother and his wife are going to be first-time parents to a sweet little thing sometime in november, and my heart has swollen to the size of the universe. i’m overwhelmed with pride and joy, and an indescribable amount of love for this sweet little bean i haven’t even met yet.

they’ve painted the nursery tiffany blue, and they’re getting all white furniture. they’ve also opted not to find out the sex of the baby- i’d never have that kind of strength! – but i am thrilled with the surprise, and anticipation of not knowing. will this baby have jo’s red locks and dark eyes, or cory’s white hair and blue peepers- i can’t wait to find out!

emerging from the darkness

Posted on by

0

distance is a funny thing.

miles and i miss you’s distinguish this relationship, and our lives are measured in countdowns.

that’s what he told me, once. we were holding each other, intertwined in his star wars bedsheets, kissing between action scenes from robocop. he pushed the hair from my face, kissed me softly on my lips, and said, “is this our destiny? is our life going to be measured in countdowns?”.

yes, absolutely, yes.

and while a part of me struggles with our hello’s (so perfectly executed), and our goodbye’s (so painfully hard), i force myself to embrace these moments, and remember these memories with a vividness striking enough to remember in my darkest times.

we’re standing in my kitchen, and he is intently watching me cook. taking pictures of me- hair dishelveled, t-shirt slipping off my shoulder, not wearing pants- and my heart is filled with so much emotion, i can barely catch my own breath. he’s pacing around, air-guitaring, and giggling… so happy he can barely contain himself. this is how i think of him, always. when i miss him the most, and when i am at my worst, i think of the softness of his hands, wrapped around my waist, with a kindness so new to me… and i’m paralyzed.

.. and for the first time in years, i am not paralyzed by sadness, or fear. i am paralyzed by the love i have for this man- bursting in my chest, and pulsing through my veins, and jesus christ, how in the hell did i get this lucky?

écrire est une forme de mensonge.
c’est-à-dire de fiction, de hâblerie,
de mystification. simplement
parce qu’on ne peut pas tout dire. *
- Robert Lalonde

* writing is a form of lying.
that is to say fiction, bragging,
mystification. simply
because we cannot say everything.

i disagree.

because in writing, i can finally tell my truths, open my heart and say everything my mouth can’t.

i’m standing on the edge of my own life, and looking over the ledge to find nothing but black. a void so ugly, so terrifyingly imposing… and then suddenly: light. love. change.

and i want to thank him, and kiss him, and hold him against my body, and tell him i love him in a way i never thought i’d be capable of loving a human being ever again- with trust and honesty, and with a newness and spark i thought would have been lost forever.

but no, it isn’t.

because there he is, sleeping soundly between my sheets, holding onto my ribs, and steadily inhaling and exhaling on my neck, and… what’s the opposite of calculated? nothing has ever felt so the opposite of calculated than this. he is mine, and i am his, and here we are, just belonging to each other- just being. happily breathing between each other’s breaths, and waking up to the smell of skin, and snoring, and sex in the early stages of summer.

suddenly now I know where I belong
it’s many hundred miles and it won’t be long
- feist & ben gibbard

three days.

these aren’t things you get… they are things which get you

Posted on by

0

it is hard to be brave when you’re only a very small animal
- a.a milne

i just forget what that kind of blissful happiness feels like

sometimes i think it took me so long to finally leave m because a part of me wanted so badly to believe that some sort of goodness could be restored. somehow i believed if i loved him stronger, or better, or if i held on less tightly, or showed independence that he’d change. i wondered if i kept the house perfect, and his clothes washed and folded, and if i answered all of his phone calls and text messages immediately and with full attention, that he’d realize how much i cared. i thought that by building a relationship with his family, and supporting his habits, and giving into the pain he inflicted (the pain he constantly inflicted) on me… he’d want to be better.

i was wrong.

i was always so fucking wrong when it came to him.

i constantly looked for love in all the wrong places- giving into people i didn’t want to give into, acting like a disconnected, skeleton of a human being. feigning emotion, and faking legitimacy so i could finally feel something (anything) but broken. so i could make these poor suckers believe there was enough room in my heart to care about anyone- make these people believe there was room in my heart at all. i became independent to a fault. i was a fortress, a tower. an unattainable bitch.

and it kills me to think of that now.

because i am soft, and emotional, and friendly. i exude happiness and i think of myself as genuine. i won’t lie. i won’t purposely hurt, or damage, or destroy anything, or anyone. not intentionally, anyway. it makes me physically sick to know i’ve caused anyone harm.

what change a few years can bring…

i guess i finally woke up. i realized i was being unfair, and selfish and awful. i’ve tried to rebuild whatever has been lost- within me, in my life… moving forward has been a constant up-hill battle. sometimes, i’ve fallen down, and other times i persevered… but dammit, it’s been rough.

i am terrified of rejection.

and i think i’ve been settling for relationships that didn’t allow any room for growth, or change… because i am so fucking terrified of success- of getting better. of being healthy, and happy. because a part of me wonders if i’m just programmed to perpetually fail. i wonder if maybe my fate has it written that i am supposed to feel this kind of sadness and agony forever.

and that’s bullshit.

because i am blessed with a family who loves me to the moon, and with skin tough enough to get me through anything, and a heart big enough to finally, finally allow room for healing, and change, and love.

when i was eighteen years old, i remember bawling my eyes out in a friend’s arms. she calmly stroked my hair, as she said:

“all this pain is going to be worth something beautiful some day”

… and as i cried, and cried, and shook my head, she whispered:

“you’re so brave”.

i remember that like it was yesterday.

and when i spent all those years, peeling myself from between my sheets, to carry on this bullshit life i didn’t give two fucks about… when i constantly cursed my alarm clock from ripping me from sleep, i would sit up, swing my legs over the side of my bed, and whisper to myself, “all this pain is going to be worth something beautiful some day”. i would drag my feet to the washroom, awkwardly look myself in the mirror, and say, “you’re so brave”.

and i was.

and i know i don’t give myself enough credit for that.

but for the first time in years… something inside of me has changed. i don’t cry myself to sleep, and i don’t get angry when i wake up. i don’t resent my failed relationships, or point the finger. i don’t envy anyone’s life but my own. because things have started to change, and i have started to gain confidence, and strength- things that have been lost over the years, two things that had continued to evade me in the months after leaving dan, and attempting to date brad. the more i gave in, and the more i settled for a potential future that would have made me miserable… the harder it became to see clearly.

all i wanted was a little clarity.

and i feel like each decision i’ve made finally makes sense.

loving m, and leaving him too. taking him back, and hiding from him. surviving the abuse, and healing from it. quitting jobs, accepting new positions. moving into new apartments, leaving hastily. dating close friends i wanted so badly to love- to build a future with, leaving them- or accepting that they wanted to leave me. making friends, severing ties… all this incredible pressure i put on myself to finally get things right, and to stop fucking up.

and when i stopped searching for answers, and i stopped looking for love, and i quit forcing myself to figure out my life… things started happening.

life happened.

an important job working for a french canadien not for profit organization, liaising with the french public schoolboard.

a half decent one bedroom apartment, located in my favourite part of the city i put a whole lot love and elbow grease into making it home feel like home- the first (safe) home i’ve had since moving out of my parents’ house in the suburbs when i was still in high school.

an incredible circle of friends who has (and continues to) love, and support me.. and be the backbone to the life i’m trying desperately to rebuild.

…and while i anticipate the next year being a whirlwind of chaos- a complete mix of desparation, positivity and change… i can finally say i remember exactly what this kind of blissful happiness feels like.

and it feels better than i could have ever anticipated.

relationships / realizations

Posted on by

2

i’m a creature of habit.

i buy the same things at the grocery store on a weekly basis, i enjoy an evening completed with a bubble bath, a fresh coat of nail polish, and a joint pressed tightly between my fingers before i lean over to flick the switch off my anchor lamp on my bedside table. i always put avocados in my sandwiches, i call brad at 4:30 every single day when i’m leaving the office, and i’m comforted by the smell of my bedsheets when i wake up. i’m not good at mornings, i rarely rotate shampoo brands, i’ve been wearing the same perfume for over five years, and i’m damn near unbearable to be around when my routines are fucked with.

i’m also bad at new relationships.

horrible at them, even.

what if i’m holding on too tightly? what if i haven’t been holding on tightly enough? am i selfless, and when i smile- can he feel it in his gut; could my love move mountains? i fluctuate between feeling like the best girlfriend on the planet, and wondering if he may be missing out on something greater. it’s a horrible issue of self-confidence, and i’m aware of how debilitating it can be.

a few weeks ago, brad left for ten days on a road trip to the states, and my mornings were fucked because i hate waking up without him, and my afternoons were a write-off because i constantly checked my phone at the time i knew he’d be waking up if he were home- knowing i wouldn’t hear from him constantly because of long-distance charges… and that’s where it hit me.

at that point, he had been gone exactly five days, and i missed his frigging guts.

i missed his daily texts, and the sound of his voice at 4:30 in the afternoon, and the taste of his lips after dinner. i missed the smell of his laundry detergent, and the sound of him exhaling as he would fall asleep next to me, and again when i’d wake up before him. i missed cooking dinner together, and playing scrabble in the evenings, and drinking chai tea at the movie theatre. i missed the way he’d play with my hands, as we layed on his bed- soaking in a silence so comfortable i could barely even describe it.

FIVE DAYS, he was gone when i realized how much i cared about him.

FIVE DAYS, when i realized it wouldn’t work between us.

it isn’t about independence…

it’s just that things felt so goddamn good when he was around that i could forget about the bullshit inside of my head. i could soak in the habitual lifestyle we’d created over a year, and find comfort in things being just so.

i like normalcy.

i’m comfortable with mediocrity.

i’m not intimidated by routine.

i don’t need extravagance, or new adventures every single day. of course i’m curious about how the air smells in europe, or how many pina coladas i can shove into my face for free in the carribean. i’ll always crave new experiencesand incredible stories, and adding push-pins to the destinations i’ve been to, on the map in my heart.

who doesn’t ache for that?

but until those things can happen, i just need someone who’ll love me the way i love them- comfortably, and whole-heartedly, and honestly.

and while brad did love me in a certain way, and take care of me, and make me feel like the greatest part of his life… there were so many little important pieces to a relationship that had been lost between us along the way. maybe we waited so many years to finally be together, that a lot of that passion had dwindled. and while i whole-heartedly adore everything about him that makes him who he is… in loving him, i was loving less of myself. i was settling for a relationship that didn’t make my heart burst the way i know it needs to.

i don’t have any regrets. we needed to finally give us a shot to figure out if it was worth doing. and while i am still struggling to learn how to be his best friend again, struggling to learn to say our hellos and goodbyes that don’t end so awkwardly… i am reminding myself how lucky i am to have a friend like him in my life. a friend who will drop anything he is doing, if i need him by my side. someone who will hold me when i’m sad, or comfort me when i am having panic attacks. a friend who knows my moods, the tone of my voice, and that when i say “i’m fine”, i actually mean “you’re being a prick and i fucking hate you, right now”. because i need that- the comfort of a male figure like him who loves me with without trying, and who gets me without forcing it.

it won’t be easy.

we can both be incredibly jealous, and selfish when it comes to each other. but at least now we know our timing is off, and we’ll need to move forward without the title of boyfriend/girlfriend, to figure out what we want, and who we want to be, and what is best for each of us- together, or apart.

my backwards walk

Posted on by

3

i don’t want be a bad woman
and i can’t stand to see you be a bad man. 
i will miss your heart so tender
and I will love this love forever.
- cat power

when i left m for the last time, i had this song on repeat for hours, and days, and months.

…it was my anthem. my reason. the only explanation i could justify in finally separating myself from the only life i knew. everything he touched turned to shit. he made me a bad woman by proxy. by the end of the four (worst) years (of my life), i didn’t recognize myself anymore. my family could barely speak to me, and i had severed ties with so many friends only so i could keep my secrets to myself. so i wouldn’t have to explain the bruises, or the holes in the wall, or the destroyed belongings, or why i felt like drinking every single fucking day. it wasn’t only to numb the pain, or to forget. i drank because when i was drunk, i felt alive- something i hadn’t felt in years. it was superficial, of course… but i felt it none the less. i was social, and i laughed, and i would dance, and i made friends, and broke hearts, and i would exude confidence that had been shattered by m.

when i met him, i thought i had fallen in love with my future husband. the man who was going to father my children, and make me breakfast in bed on mother’s day, and spend time with my family, and take care of me when i was ill. i thought our story would stand out, not because of its horror, but because of its beauty. its simplicity. i thought it would stand out because it was special. and it was- at first. it was all of those things, and so much more than i could possibly explain.

i was barely sixteen years old when i saw his darkeyes, and cotton candy pink lips for the first time. he was waiting for a bus, and our eyes locked for a few seconds, and i felt the wind get knocked out of my lungs. this man (so young then) was so quiet- leaning against a wall, smoking cigarettes, his entire body covered in tattoos. my heart stopped, and my palms got sweaty, and i had made up my mind- right then and there- that i was going to have this man. it was a feeling so fierce, i could barely shake it.

our paths didn’t cross for another five months.

and it was the end of my life as i knew it.

had i known then, what i knew now- i’d have trusted my gut.

… but i’m a heart girl, through and through, and although it’s been wrong (time and time again), i followed this coffee-haired, black-eyed, beautiful (so goddamn beautiful) stranger. we followed each other at a party- watching each other from the corner of our eyes, touching hands when we spoke, whispering into each others ears over the music. he had a mohawk, and i could taste the vodka on his tongue when we kissed that night.

that’s how i like to remember him, unfortunately. pure, and young, and gentle. the way he would hold my hand, or touch my lower back when we spoke, or the way he would kiss me- all day, every day. the first time he’d see me, and between sentences, before leaving. he’d kiss my mouth, and my forehead, and my hands, and my eyes. he’d kiss me just to kiss me. his voice, so sweet and so low- almost a whisper. and we made love, believe it or not. he would light dozens of candles in the basement, and we’d kiss every inch of each others’ body. we’d touch and take our time, and really love each other. he’s the only person i’ve ever done that with, actually. he’d drive me home, late at night… holding hands, and kissing at stop lights. he would run my baths, and make me breakfast in bed all the time. he would wash my hair in the shower, and take pictures of me all the time. he’d leave love notes by the bed, and he’d draw me pictures, and write me letters. he’d buy me cards- just because. he would tell me he loved me every single day. we’d lay on the beach in silence, for hours. we’d take walks, and shower together every morning.

he loved me…

a lot. he loved me harder, and stronger, and better than any man has ever loved me in my life. without question, or condition, or doubt. he lived for me- he told me every day that he lived for me. it’s difficult to be loved like that, so young in your life. to be sixteen years old and feel like i knew what the next fifty years of my life would look like- that i’d be this lucky in love for the rest of my life… and then have it ripped from me.

he changed over night.

i look back now… i dig deep for signs, or red flags. and i just can’t find them anywhere. i look back on the first year of our relationship, and i am shattered by confusion. this man- this young, incredible man who loved me, and cared for me, and took care of me every single day… he woke up one morning hating me. hating our life. hating the simplicity of our love and companionship. he woke up fiending for drugs, and wanting to fuck strangers, and taking out his aggressions on me- the only woman who loved him the way i loved him. and that struck me harder than his fist ever did- the way his heart loved me still, but his actions didn’t. the things he would say to me… i can’t even wrap my head around it sometimes.

just the thought of our bed
makes me crumble like the plaster
where you punched the wall beside my head
- ani difranco

i stayed for three years longer than i should have.

out of fear, out of survival, out of naivety and guilt. and when i finally left, i never mourned the loss. i celebrated the victory. after a few weeks of drinking myself to sleep, forgetting to eat and shower, and not even stepping foot outside of my own bed… after weeks of anguish and fear, i finally celebrated. i celebrated for days, and then weeks, and months, and years. i spent so much time being angry, that i forgot to be sad. i spent so many years celebrating the funeral of a monster, of the demon that was our poisonous relationship… that i forgot to feel pain and sadness over the loss of the year i’d spent with the m who loved me. i forgot to mourn the loss of my first love. the loss of the baby we almost had together. the loss of the life we’d started to build. the loss of my dignity, and self-respect, and confidence- things i am still working on, years later… trying desperately to rebuild.

i don’t know why it’s surfacing now- why all this pain has boiled over, and why i feel disconnected again. i don’t know why i feel the need to mourn now that i am finally safe, and happy, and healthy- trying to put my pieces back together after being derailed. but it’s happening and i can’t control it anymore. i can’t help but feel angry that my first love was lost, and that i’ll never have anything good to say about him. i can’t help resenting him. i can’t help resenting myself and the decisions i made not to have our baby, or build my own life with that child- safe from her father and his demons. and don’t get me wrong- i’m happy with every choice i’ve ever made when it comes to m… i didn’t have the tools then to understand what abuse was, or how to escape it. all i knew was that i needed to save myself, and it’s only when i was finally ready to be without him that i gathered the courage to stand up to him, and walk away forever.

and it makes me sick, you know… to feel sad over this. to miss (the beginning of) that love.

but now that the shock has worn off, and the anger has subsided… i’m left with this incredible sadness, and self-pity. i’m overwhelmed by anxiety and confusion. and i never want this space to be censored. i hope writing about m won’t ever stop feeling cathartic… but there are some stories i’ve burried so deep inside of me- certains things i’ve never had the courage to share, or the words to even describe things that happened- and i need now (more than ever) to purge those stories from inside of me. to rid them from my bones, and shove them in a metaphorical bag, and then set that bag on fire. i need to share my truths with a professional, so i can get some closure, finally.

real closure- not the kind where i tell everyone i’m okay, and i belittle him as a human being, and share his indecensies… i mean real closure, and healing, and finally closing a book that has been open for seven goddamn years. and i realise that a lot of my behaviours in life (and love) stem from surviving abuse- but i can’t let those behaviours define my relationships any longer. i can’t let my secrets dictate my happiness, or my future.

i just forget what that kind of blissful happiness feels like. i feel like i got the private screening to the unatural, disturbing ways of the human race, and i’m rattled. i’ve seen too much, and i’ve felt too much, and i know too fucking much about what it feels like to be torn apart at the hands of a bad man. and that makes me incredibly, and unforgivingly sad…

and i want to fix that.