As my mother and I sit, end to end as far away as possible from each other, without even a word, I wondered how we got here. Every patient surrounded by their families, all engaging in conversation, everyone so normal. Yet here we both are. Comfortable in dead silence. We are not angry at each other, we just don’t have much to say. It is sad. But you shape your children, and this is how my mother shaped me. Months of prolonged silent treatment that lead to anxiety and insecurity from as young as I can remember – had ruined our relationship beyond repair. I’m certain she has no clue this is the elephant in the room, or if she even wonders, or realizes that we are the least functional in this room. Or maybe it’s only me, again with my overthinking, sparing too much on a thought I could just let be and ignore.
Parents are funny, they put themselves on their high pedestals vowing they can never do wrong. They come from a place of such privilege, for bringing life into this world. We owe them our life for doing the bare minimum. But then I also understand the cycle of violence. It wasn’t her fault, but it wasn’t mine either. Yet I desperately need to project my anger somewhere. I don’t know how I can forgive, or even forget, or ever be okay with the life I was presented. I’ll always be angry. Because as a young child I don’t think I deserved any of it, and as a problematic adult I’ve finally begun to understand the root causes of all my problems. And I just don’t know how else to be.
Even the great ones break your heart sometimes. And they never realize just how. But you feel it and you wish you’d never met them because yes, it stings.
It’s funny that I’ve never felt good enough for anyone and absolutely hilarious that I never will.
I don’t intend to glorify the sadness that is of my life. Only a few know of my daily struggles and the pain it causes me, or maybe no one knows at all. Some of it is embarrassing. I can’t even write about it. And that’s something coming from someone who has never for a moment hesitated to get real with the world. You can fight your whole life and still lose, because life wins. Not because it’s a good life, but it’s kept you alive, so far.
In this quest to overcome my tragedy, I have learnt that packing my bags, quitting my job and moving miles away might have been the easy part. The haunting loneliness that followed has been impenetrable.
I came looking for solitude and the answers to all the questions that kept me up at night. But instead, I am welcomed into a dark palpable reality that I am alone. It is true what they say, with no one to share your mind with, everything feels very meaningless. The concept of life falls around companionship and togetherness. A support system surrounding love and trust. And yet I’ve come miles, desperate for isolation. Away from the city lights and ex-lovers, to my personal rehab.
So here I am, in the middle of nowhere. Feeling deprived and looking for answers in the waves Melodia, hoping for it to whisper them to me if I promise to stay long enough.
I spent days wondering and analyzing the relationship I left to die, one that I starved out of my love because I couldn’t conform into a more desirable candidacy. I loved him, without question. But it was well doubted. My idea of love had changed over the years. It had become a convenience. And the only way I would know for sure was by leaving everything I’d built behind. Him, my job. I had to find myself, without him.
It was towards the end of our story, I realized the mess I was. I certainly wasn’t his mess to clean. My mess had been cumulating long before his entrance. And it would continue to stack with or without his exit. I had to breathe and take a big long step back, to hold myself together. With all the white noise in the background, life was getting too much. I had to get out. I had to leave. I loved him, I knew this in my gut, but why was I not letting him love me? I had to fix myself. It is unfair of us to let others take the hit for what had absolutely nothing to do with them. We can pray for their understanding and patience, but what do they owe you?
The isolation I’ve surrounded myself with has forced me to face the ghosts I’ve yielded in my closets forever. Maybe I was too broken to love. Without cleaning this mess, it was foolish to think I would let love in again.
Love doesn’t always come knocking. Sometimes you find them in corner offices, in the face of a complete stranger. It is not always love at first sight. Love appears and when you fail to notice, it goes away. And then reappears with antibiotics when you’re sick, random chocolates and saves you from strangers at dancefloors. Love doesn’t know, but love saves you from yourself. But you – a rebel, don’t want to be saved. Because no matter how hard love tries to conform you into what you’re not, you can’t rip off your skin and grow a new one without bleeding. You hope that love can love you, for you. But love can’t. And love leaves. Love lies.
If you ask me, I’ll tell you tonight was a mistake. I’ll tell you I didn’t mean to cry. I’ll tell you I wish it didn’t hurt but it does. I’ll tell you I don’t know how to make these tears stop. I’ll tell you how lost I am. But only if you ask me.
It’s not that I’m happier without you. I’m happier without all the walls you built for me, with you gone the walls shattered themselves and I can be myself again, and that’s an amazing feeling because you were only trying to save me from myself.
I swore to one-day grow as cold as my old lovers, to not care like they did, to stay unfazed in the presence of a worshipper. In the end, it all came true. I grew cold, emotions died and I was nothing but the remains of a girl who once loved.
But it only made me sadder, because I ended up losing the life I had in me just so I could hurt others more than they hurt me. This clearly wasn’t the way to go and I wish someone told me sooner.
You fucked me up so badly, I couldn’t love myself, or anyone else. God, I fucking hate you. It’s taken me five miserable years to even hate you.
She Was Sea 