Tag Archives: ramblings

loving them past morning

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my father recently told me i can’t save everyone.

he said i’m fragile and sensitive, and i crack and break easy, and it just isn’t my job to fix people who can’t be fixed. and i get it. i want to give all my money to homeless people, and adopt every kitten on the planet, and mother and nurture and mend. i want to sew patches and kiss boo-boos and wrap up leftovers and remove stains. i want to tuck in, and iron out wrinkles, and tell someone everything is going to be okay, and then do everything in my power to make sure everything will be okay.

a friend of mine recently stayed overnight. he was in town for the weekend, and he showed up on my doorstep at one in the morning, and we took off our pants, and got into bed, and wrapped our legs around one another. we kissed slowly, and he ran his fingers up and down my spine, and as we were drifting to sleep, he told me he was afraid of moving home… of coming back to this city, and starting over, and what if this was taking steps back, when all he wanted was to move forward?

i don’t know.

i rolled over, and sighed deeply, and he kissed me three times, softly, on the back of my neck, and that was it. we fell asleep, and woke up still holding on as tightly as we had been, hours before. i usually hate that, but there is just something about his fingertips, and the scent of his chest as i watched the time pass slowly as the sun poured into my bedroom.

i hadn’t kissed him since halloween night, and there is something incredibly unsexy about kissing a man in costume… and yet, this morning, as he buttoned the black plaid to his neck, and laced up his boots, i couldn’t remember the last time i’d been so physically attracted to someone i hadn’t shared more than a kiss with. his hair was a mess, and his eyes were tired, and holy shit, he could not have looked sexier if he even tried. he said he’d see me soon, although i know i won’t see him for months, and that’s fine. i have started being fine with wanting people i don’t have.

because that’s what i do. there is something incredibly romantic about kissing a man and sharing moments few and far between. of speaking to each other every few weeks, and every moment spent talking to one another, or holding one another is so insanely passionate. and i have to stop falling for these moments, and finding importance in these fragments of my life. because they are just that : fragments of a whole.

because that’s just it.

i have to stop trying to save everyone. i have to stop romanticizing these bits and pieces of my life.

and i have been. maybe it’s cynicism, maybe i’m jaded, or perhaps i’ve just run out of patience. whatever it is, there has been this apparent void in my chest, and this dull ache in my heart, and i haven’t quite put my finger on it just yet but i can tell you i’ve been crying. i’ve been doing that a lot, even… and i suppose it’s time to deal with some things. i was recently given the number to a crisis centre, but is it really a crisis if the situations in question happened five years ago, and spanned three years, and is it really even a crisis if half the time i actually feel okay about it?

maybe it’s time i start getting answers.

 

leaving is not enough

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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.

 

another one about cats, sort of.

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i am at a point in my life where a relationship with someone means a lot more than drinks at a lounge, or excellent conversation over dinner. it’s more than a few adult sleepovers, and someone to pass the time with.

i’m young. i have a life ahead of me… one full of possibilities and opportunities and escapades. i’m not naive in that respect. i know i have so much to learn, and incredible people i have yet to meet.

but i also know what i want.

and i know i’m not about to start dating someone i can’t picture a future with- and i know that a lot of that can only be determined when you start a relationship with someone and get to know each other. really know each other…

so let’s go ahead and get this shit out of the way :

i’m obsessive, i’m compulsive, and i wear my heart on my sleeve. i like routine, romanticism, and relaxing nights in. i could watch movies for six hours and not get bored. i’ll clean up after you while you’re still in the kitchen. i’ll get really irritated over little thing- not changing the toilet paper roll, or leaving dirty dishes in the living room. i hate clutter, i like clean lines, and i think it matters whether or not someone will put a poster in a frame. i fold blankets after i use them, i wash my towels regularly, and i don’t make my bed. i hate negativity, it hurts my feelings when someone won’t take as much interest in my hobbies, as i do theirs. i gag every time i brush my teeth, i need to shower every single morning, and i’m almost 100% sure i snore when i’m drunk. i smoke weed in bed, i’m horrible at mornings, and i need coffee a few times a day to function. i like holding hands, i think kissing is important, and i need to have a lot of sex. i think having similar diets and a love for food are important. i’m extremely close to my family, i talk to my parents every day, and i constantly feel like i’m making up for lost time with them. i want to get married, i want to have kids, and i want to be the best at both of those. i am hyper-sensitive, i cry easily, and i think it’s as important to say how you feel as it is to show it. i hate holding back, i can’t stand second-guessing myself, and i don’t like feeling weak. i have baggage – a fuckload of it. i need to be with someone who isn’t so fucking terrified of the feelings inside of my heart. i need to stop being afraid to say what i mean. i need to  stop settling on relationships that hold me back- emotionally and physically. i’m trying desperately to heal (on my own terms, without using bandaids), and every time i feel like i’m almost there, the person i am dating knocks me back down five steps because they get scared of something real. they worry too goddamn much.

people obsess over the little things- the things we hate, the things that drive us completely bat-shit crazy. fuck, i could write a novel about all the irritating, selfish things michael would do that made my skin crawl : chewing with his mouth open, the way he would look at me when he didn’t find my jokes funny, every time he texted ‘mhmmm’, if he didn’t agree with something. christ man, funny is all i’ve got- cut me some slack.

i digress.

we meet people and fall head over heels stupid for each other until we find enough reasons to hate them and leave. it’s a fucking cop-out and we’re all guilty of it. two (of the many) reasons michael and i broke up, according to him : pressure (what if i moved five hours away from home to be with him, and it didn’t work out), and love (he honestly didn’t think anyone was capable of loving him).

yeah?

we’re back here? quantum mechanics again, really?

you guys. schrödinger’s cat. there is a cat, in a fucking box, and the cat can be thought of both alive and dead, but you will never know the answer until you lift that fucking lid, look inside of the box, and find out for your fucking self if the cat is breathing, or not.

and for the record, 95 percent of the time, the cat will be dead as shit. but everyone is so goddamn scared to open the lid and find out, so we all quit before we even give it a chance. we’d rather avoid the heartache, and the effort, and the potential misery all because we are scared.

OF A HYPOTHETICAL DEAD CAT.

(if i’ve lost you, the cat is a metaphor for a relationship).

so that’s my piece. i’ve said it. i’m angry, and i’m irritated that i keep putting so much love, effort and faith in people so quick to throw it all away when things become real.

that day will come…

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last year i hit bottom.

i think i cried more in january and february 2012 than i probably ever have in my life. there wasn’t any specific timing for it, or reasons in particular (other than everything). i’d cry when i put on my pants, and i’d cry when i’d brush my teeth. i’d sit in the shower and let the water burn my skin and stare at the blue tiles, choking back ugly sobs and big tears. i’d burst into tears at the super market, and i’d cry walking down the street. i’d call my best friend and cry on the phone, and i’d show up at his door with tears running down my face. i’d cry when i watched movies, and at text messages, and when i didn’t know what to make for dinner. i’d cry when my cat would yawn, or the washing machine would overflow, or if i couldn’t figure out what TV show i wanted to watch.

i fucking cried all the time.

i was seeing a very, very patient man at the time- someone i certainly didn’t see a future with. someone with a soft touch, and hard words. someone with whom i could pass the time; a distraction. but man, did he give a shit. and thank god for that, because there was a moment where we were sitting on my couch, and i must have blacked out, because the next thing i knew i was on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, telling him how much i hated my life.

and despite how new things were, and how un-serious it was, he gave a shit.

he picked me up off the floor, and told me i was scaring him, and asked me if i needed him to stay. and despite all the bullshit i have been through, and the horror i’ve survived, and the depression that has been swallowing me whole for years now… i don’t think i had ever EVER let anyone see me that vulnerable.

i’ve cried, and i’ve asked for help, and i’ve broken down in front of people…

but i have never, ever been so brutally honest with someone about how i really felt about myself, about my life… about this life i didn’t want anything to do with anymore. and i get scared to think of that now. that was barely a year ago. ten months is not long enough to fix a broken brain, or a healing heart. it isn’t long enough to rebuild, or to reshape, or to even be okay.

yes, i found a place to live, and yes i got an incredible job, and yes i have met the man of my dreams…

but those aren’t bandaids. they aren’t filler for the void or the cracks. i think that’s what i’m finally realizing now. i have money in the bank, and a beautiful home, and a man who cares for me… but those things don’t heal scars, or wounds. they don’t undo the damage that has been done, or the things that i have lost, or the incredible sadness that has been in my heart since i was a child.

and i don’t know what to fucking do about that.

i get jealous of people who can be happy. of women who meet men who want to marry them. of mother’s and their beautiful children with perfect names. of people who have confidence, and who can take a hit in life, or in love and not feel like their entire world is crumbling at their feet. i’m worried i’ll be angry forever. because the man who wanted to marry me put his hands on me, and fucked other women, and told me every day that i was worthless. and i’m angry because i believed him. i’m angry because i let the fear of being linked to him forever take away the confidence i had in myself to be a good mother. because truthfully : i didn’t need to bear his children to be linked to him forever. i’m bound by fear, and a control he never lost. everywhere i go, i look over my shoulder, and i worry. every new house i move into is one he could potentially find. and i’m fucking sick of it.

i’m big, you’re small
i’m right, you’re wrong
and there’s nothing you can do about it.

i was beaten into believing this since the age of seventeen.

and there is nothing i can do about it.

what do regular seventeen year olds do? i don’t have a fucking clue- i’d honestly like to know. because i was trying to pay bills, and finish high school, and work every single day. i was getting drunk, and sleeping with my boots on, and waiting for my junkie boyfriend to come home. i had to patch and fill holes in the wall, and lie through my teeth. i had to starve for days because there was no food in the shitty apartment we called home. i had to cower and hide in corners with my hands over my ears, screaming for him to stop when he’d go on his rampages. i had to hold my breath, and count to ten, and pray to fucking god that when he’d come through that door, he’d be in a good mood. i had to eat a teacher’s leftover dinner for days because he didn’t want to share. i had to cover up bruises, and learn how to cry quietly. i had to avoid the parts of the city he’d be in, and i had to to apologize when i aborted his baby. i had to heal without him, and i had to deal with the sadness alone because he was too busy getting shitfaced. and worst of all (and somehow the easiest), i had to learn to smile when all i wanted to do was die.

and yeah, i still fucking resent him for that. for all of it. because i was never angry until i met him. i was never vindictive, or hateful, or mean. and now i have this rage inside of me, and it rears its ugly head in situations that wouldn’t normally affect me. and yet here i am, pissed over things that don’t matter, and sick to my stomach over petty bullshit i am bigger than, and hurt because i am too insecure to stand up for myself anymore.

every september the world celebrates another year of him being on this earth, and every september i celebrate another year i made it away from him. when i finally left, i counted the hours, and when i learned to get out of bed again, i started counting the days, and when that became easier i counted the months, and when i finally realized i made it out of this alive, i started celebrating the victory of the years since i was even in contact with him.

i guess that’s a start.

i’m finally starting to forget the sound of his voice, and the smell of his skin, or the liquor on his breath. i don’t remember how tall he is, or his favourite food, or what size shoes he wears. and the second i forget how rough his hands felt wrapped around my neck, or what my insides feel like when i see his face… i know i’ll finally have made it. and i can finally begin to celebrate the victory of becoming whole again.

because that day will come, and it when it does… there will be a fucking party.

pro-choice, pro-feminism, pro-cats

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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.

relationships / realizations

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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

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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.

this isn’t embarrassing in the least

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6

you know in season 1, episode 7 of buffy the vampire slayer, where angel meets buffy at the bronze, and angel is all, “i just wanted to make sure you’re okay”, and then says, “this can’t ever…”, and buffy finishes his sentence by saying, “…be anything? i know”, and then angel says, “i’ve just got to walk away from this”, and buffy’s response is, “i know”, and as they’re slowly inching in to kiss, she says, “this is where one of us has to go…”, and then they kiss…

i cried.

and not because it was so achingly beautiful, and devastatingly cliché (although it was), but because it really hit close to home. we had the same conversation before you left, and it felt almost exactly alike, only it was different in that angel leans in and kisses her instead of walking away.

and you walked away.

 

teenage drama series from the 90′s: 1
little elle: 0

this modern love

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8

i’ve been away from the internet for months, and one of the first blogs i looked up was a friend‘s, and this is the quote i read:

“How lucky I am, to have something
that makes saying goodbye so hard.”
– A. A. Milne

how fitting.

four hours ago my favourite person in the world boarded a plane to california, and my world stopped spinning on its axis. i spent every single night falling asleep next to him for months, and now i can’t even fathom how i could close my eyes knowing i won’t wake up to him. i woke up before him this morning, narrowed my eyes on my favourite parts of him- his jawline and how it connects to the softest part of his neck, the freckles on his back and how i could connect the dots from memory, his perfectly manicured fingertips and the way they clutched his naked chest in his sleep.

it’s weird you know… to invest yourself so much emotionally in someone you don’t even get to kiss goodnight, or hold hands with in the car. i can’t count the amount of times i wanted to wrap my hand around his, as he tapped the stick shift to the beat of his favourite songs. i’d casually glance over at him, cruising down the city streets, and i’d be completely caught off-guard by how handsome he was. he had these really intense moments of blue-eyed beauty and it felt like i was getting sucker-punched in the gut when he’d look back at me, and shoot me a quirky half-smile.

it knocked the wind right out of my lungs.

he winked at me once when i was eighteen years old, and i haven’t picked my heart up from off the ground since.
you told me you wanted to eat up my sadness
well jump on, enjoy, you can gorge away
you told me you wanted to eat up my sadness
baby, you’ve got to be more discerning
I’ve never known what’s good for me
baby, you’ve got to be more demanding

what are you holding out for?
what’s always in the way?
why so damn absent-minded?
why so scared of romance?

this modern love breaks me
this modern love wastes me
- bloc party

come home.

i miss you too much already.