Some losses aren’t made for words. They are made for stories. Stories of how trusting people got you hurt even when you were so cautious. We all have moments, weak ones. Where we are desperate to believe in something good despite all the wrong in this world. And by wrongs, I mean everything that you wish could be turned around so you can have a moment of peace. A lazy afternoon without everything falling apart. When the rain feels like a drizzle to balance out the hot weather, and not a storm of winds busting through your lungs trying to tell you you’re losing this battle. This battle. The one I fight with myself every day. To be, or not to be. When not being isn’t a choice anymore, you’re left with nothing but, just, to be. To exist, no matter what. To hope that maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe tomorrow won’t be as hard as today. Maybe tomorrow I can control my emotional chaos. Maybe tomorrow it will feel lighter. Just maybe.

I dialled the wrong number today. I don’t know why, what, or how. Just, at that moment. I did. Maybe I missed my friend. Maybe I needed a moment of reality to slap me across the face with another, don’t knock on the doors they closed on you. It’s strange how one could promise you love, togetherness and hope, and it turns into an ugly breach of love. Disappointments are no longer just disappointments. They go so much deeper every time. Defeat multiplied.

Some losses aren’t made for words. They are made for stories. Of how you once loved and lost. And now the loss is all you face. How one stagnant end keeps ushering back and forth with one last heartbeat, sighing its final breath.

I’ve been in love, so many times. And all of them were different once-in-a whatever kind of love.

At first, it was when I was 14. He taught me how deceiving men were, the lies, cheating, bullying, it was painful. It was the end of the world to a 14-year-old. Now I can laugh it off thankfully.

And then it happened when I was 17. I was a little older, a little wiser, but still very young. This man stole my heart so effortlessly, he charmed his way into my life. And when he left he also broke my heart. And this time, I never completely recovered.

And then there it was again, Love. I was 19 this time. I was ready, I’d been waiting for that sweep-me-off-my-feet kinda love. The real love, the great one. And he did, he swept me off my feet, turned my whole world around. I gave him my world. He gave me numerous lessons. Lessons of love, heartbreak, trust, devotion, commitment & responsibility. This love knocked me off my feet. When it was over, I was no more. I was only the ghost of the girl I once was.

And then love came knocking once more, I was 23 this time. A little older, a little desperate, and so so lost. He held my hand through chaos, he walked the storm with me, promised to love me till the end. But maybe by then, I was incapable of love. I couldn’t love him, I tried. But my heart never completely gave in. It played safe, it walked around the lanes of his heart but never went in. It was afraid that if it did go in it would never have the luxury of coming out of it. And finally, it ate us up. Our love was like the food I left out for too long. It went bad, slow. There were moments that my heart knew it would only survive with this man, but then the moment would pass and I’d wake up feeling differently. I couldn’t love him like he loved me. I was holding back. I was afraid of losing myself to him.

And then came another love, I was 26 this time. Let me call it friendship, because I found a friend in him first. A friend I could always count on, a friend who was always there for me. A friend who understood me beyond the words that came out of me. He was what saved me. He allowed me to find myself again, he taught me to love myself, he loved me in a way that I fell in love with myself, and I love him for that. I always will. But, he was never mine. The unattainable love felt ideal. I wasn’t losing myself.

And then, the 27-year-old, very cynical, very broken me, found love again, for a brief moment. A best friend, a lover, a person I envisioned my future with, for the first time in a long time. I made an effort and opened my heart to him. Truth was, I couldn’t help but. He had a way with me. I wanted it to be my final love story. When it ended, it hurt me so much, it felt like the pain of every breakup I’d gone through, all at once. I accepted defeat. I handed over my badge. I was done with love.

I’m 28 now. And there’s no one I think of when love songs come on, no one I’m sad about when sad songs play. I feel nothing where I should feel everything. I’m out of love. I’m not exaggerating. I am out love. Whatever I have felt in the past, feels so foreign now. The certainty, the crazy I-need-to-be-with-you feels like a dream from a long time back. I don’t know if my subconscious swore it would never feel the way it felt again, but whatever it is, there’s certainly something missing in my soul. It feels empty. But safe. No empty promises crusading the empty hallways of my heart.

Because everything that once was isn’t anymore. When sad love songs come on, I don’t think of anyone. When happy love songs come on, no one comes to mind either. All the loves came and went, and I remain alone in my chambers. Yet I’m constantly with someone, caught up in some cheap romance. Whatever for, I don’t know. Distractions. I know people think that I’m scared, but, I’m out here, dating people, doing shit. Would I do that if I were scared?. But maybe all the half-ass romances are because of it. I don’t know. There’s nothing real out there.

What if I’m only capable of halfway romances.
What if my heart will never want anyone enough, again?

Maybe I just have to be patient. And trust the process. Hopefully, this one thought can put me to sleep tonight, and every night after.

Learning how to live with my OCD – This is one long, tough and draining journey. Having no one who can even remotely relate or understand your compulsions which you have no control over, is lonesome and isolating. My day could be perfect but a part of my brain would be fixated on something that is beyond my control, and the obsession won’t stop until something new replaces the thought. A part of my brain is designated to OCD obsessions because it hardly stops. And this is never visible, and I don’t even talk about it. Because half of it will sound ridiculous. If I tell someone the furniture in my room is suffocating me, I don’t know how people would react. If I tell people, the stains in my clothes won’t go away and it’s making it harder for me to sleep, I don’t know anyone who will truly understand. And the truly heartbreaking part of all this is, I have very little authority over half of my life. I am in no place to make the changes I need, I can’t even afford it. And that’s why it’s just heartbreaking and exhausting to live this way. It’s not just the furniture. It’s dust, it’s anything that visible to my eye that isn’t aesthetic. And that’s a lot. And no one gives a fuck about this but that takes up my life. These thoughts are intrusive and persistent and hardly rational. They only make sense to me. So to live in a world, with other people, isn’t easy.

Life doesn’t promise to go easy on us. The only thing it promises is that it will keep going on, no matter what happens. No matter how painful, life promises to not drag you down into moments of hardship and leave you behind, instead it flows in waves carrying you from shore to shore, in hopes that you find contentment along the way.