A Book I’d Like to Write
If you didn’t already know, I started writing a book this past summer. I very quickly realized that I lost my passion for writing when I tried to force it into a specific flow. Don’t get me wrong, in some ways I love structure and specific topics to write on, but when it comes to something as personal as my feelings and my own book, structure sounded a whole lot like ruining my sense of expression.
I still think at some point I’ll write a book, but for now, I have found this blog to work a lot better with the constant stream of new ideas that pop up in my brain. Because I’m putting that aspect of my life on pause for now, I thought why not share some of my personal favorite excerpts of my writing from the past few years, whether it be essay-style, journal entries, short stories, poetry, or a few pages from the book I started but didn’t finish. Realistically as of now, you won’t see much from my journal because that would take a whole lot of searching on my end, but eventually, I hope to share pieces from it more and more.
Let me preface. Yes this is all going to be emotional and messy because I am an emotional human being and have not yet really edited any of it #sorrynotsorry.
Poetry:
God
Religion has infected
Everyone I’ve ever loved
In the name of some God
They find a way to
Isolate
Judge
Hate
People who believe what they believe
And people who don’t
God is not a man
Neither is it a woman
Or a spirit
The supreme being
The embodiment of all good
Is love
It is peeling fruit for my mom
And hugging my friends when they cry
It is brown eyes
Brown eyes that look like yours
I have never felt called to pray for myself
I don’t know if I think I am worthy of any help
Or if anyone would ever answer my calls
But when my mom was suffering
I prayed every night for a year
And when you were stressed out about your life path
I asked something greater than myself to help you
There is no God on my side
But when it comes to helping the people I love
I will beg on my knees
I will scream into the nothingness
At the chance
That there is a God
And that he would come to their rescue
Why Can’t You Just Understand?
My mother asks me why I still love you
I tell her that I don’t know
I know she wouldn’t understand if I told her
She never looked at my father the way I looked at you
My mother tells me I need to get over it
That moving on is the only way to move on
But she wasn’t there all those nights that I cried
All those nights that I only had you
My mother tells me to stop talking about you
She says that if I stop talking about it I’ll be fine
My mother stopped talking about my father a long time ago
But I have never wanted to be like her
My mother does not know what to do when I am sad
She will make me tea and send me on my way
She will tell a joke and act like everything is okay
My mother doesn’t want to hear that I am heartbroken
And so talking about it meant
Shame
It meant
Weakness
It meant
Temporary solutions
And temporary people
My mother tells me that no matter what my dad did to us
He loved me
But she can’t believe me when I say
That you did too
The Constant Human Itch
Temptation
Since I was young, I prepared myself against it
How to avoid it
How to avoid the people and places that brought it on
Everyone said that the avoidance of it was the most important part of a relationship
That people were wired with desires
That we had to constantly work against them
In the name of love
Then I fell in love
And in the name of love
Any temptation I ever had
Faded away
There was no avoidance
There was simply no desire
Commitment did not mean
Restraining myself
It meant
Everyone that was not you
Fading away
Temptation
They etched the word into my brain
As something I had to carry with me
As something I could not avoid
As something that was normal
The underlying nature of humanity
I don’t believe that they were right
When I am not with you
I am tempted to call
When I am not near you
I am tempted to write
The only temptation I have ever had to avoid
In the name of love
Has been you
I am a Hopeless Romantic
I can’t seem to write
Without it coming back to you
Do I talk about the pain you caused
Or should I mention the love
Should I explain the nights spent talking
Or the days spent crying
There is no cure for heartbreak
I know that now
They say time heals all
But although I have learned to survive without you
To find the good in my days
To be someone I never thought id be
To make new friends and meet new people
I am constantly aware of the part of me that resides with you
In the teary eyed looks we shared
In the lingering hugs
In the moments that were simply our own
I have always been a romantic
But I didn’t know what hopeless meant until I lost you
Love humanizes people
It has made me vulnerable
It has made me weak
But what better than to be seen for all that you are
By someone who wants to know
In the Dark
Poetry is weird
I never know if I’m doing it right
If it sounds good
If people will feel what I feel as I write
Like any form of true expression
There are no guarantees
I like to pour my heart out in the things I do
I don’t like the judgement that comes with it
The lack of control
Working with another person’s perception
A perception that could be far from my own
I like to write
In the quiet of my room
In the shadows of the night
I like to write where no one can find me
Where no one will have to hear
What I need to say
I Have a Disease
I have known more about mental illness in my lifetime
Then I have known of my parents love for me
Depression
Schizophrenia
Bipolar
Borderline personality
Anxiety
A genetic goldmine to say the least
How could I ever be normal
If everything running through my veins
Seems to already have been broken
Before I had a chance to take my first breath
People talk about mental illness a lot now
But they don’t talk about the people who seem to be normal
The ones expected to give and give and give
Always
For nothing in return
The ones that avoid making their problems
Anyone else’s burden
Nothing I feel can exist
Without the mention
Of how it could be worse
Of how it’s worse for others
Of how I have to take what I have and make it great
For everyone around me
But no one has ever been expected to make things better for me
Sixteen
When I was sixteen
I asked my dad
Drugs or me
He told me not to ask stupid questions
But I have been stubborn all of my life
So I asked again
Drugs or me
He laughed when I said it
As if he couldn’t see the tears streaming down my face
Drugs or me
“Come on Sarah you know the answer to that”
I did
But I had to hear it
It was too easy to pretend without a confession
“Drugs”
Short Stories:
Last Spring
You would think that seeing you wouldn’t mean anything after all this time. Somehow though, it always does. I have gotten better at not thinking of you, not crying over you, not hoping, and dreaming that one day in the future we will be together. But on nights like this, when all I can focus on are your eyes looking at mine, all that progress goes away.
“I got us sushi.” Three months of no speaking, no texting, no nothing, and one random night a simple call throws it all out the window. I didn’t care about the sushi, and he didn’t care about the fact that my style had changed drastically from when he last saw me. His eyes were locked in mine and the only other thing we could do was hug.
We walked into the apartment complex, making jokes, talking about nothing really. How could I walk in here again without full awareness that this time my hand was not in his. He opened the door for me, he could be so gentle when he wanted to. My favorite bright white pillow was placed atop of his own. It had been months since I had slept on it, it had been months since a lot of things.
I sat down on the couch directly across from the tv, I asked him to turn on our show. The sushi and the cake I had brought sat on the small table in front of me. I was hungry but I had no appetite for what was there.
“Why did you try calling me twelve times last week?” I asked. Most people would think that it was a simple question with a simple answer, but we both knew that neither of us were simple people. He would not tell me it was because he messed up and wanted me back, he would not tell me it was because he loved me, missed me, and could not bear another day without me. He would go into a long-winded story about how he ended up calling, and once again I would have no idea what to do with anything it was that he said. In the past I would read between the lines of his words, I would string them together in ways that would assure me that we were on the same page, I thought I could because I thought I knew him better than he knew himself. It turns out that I was wrong and every time without fail I would pay for it in months of heartache.
It was early Christmas morning when we last spoke, March was almost over now. He explained to me that he had spoken with his parents about pursuing what had been his dream for his whole life and they had shut him down. He explained that with months of school stress, all he had wanted was for me to be there hugging him and telling him that things would be okay. That he texted me on an unknown number on Valentine’s Day simply because he had to say it. In the past this would all have been endearing, it would have meant that I was not alone in my love and that he wanted to give things another try, a better one. Now in all honesty, it was just strange. How many times could someone tell you that you mean everything to them but be so quick to up and leave at the slightest inconvenience without their words starting to mean nothing?
“I feel like I’ve been talking for a very long time.” He had been, but how long he went on for never had been something I minded. It was just nice to be in his presence.
“Because you have.” We both smiled at each other. The love was there. I could feel it, we both could. It was now my turn to talk. My turn to try and go through what left me here finally contacting him back, my turn to tell him the highlights and lowlights of being apart without saying anything that could break his heart. I told him about my friends, my old ones and new ones and the ones that came out of retirement. I told him about my family and what I now planned to do after graduation. Finally, I told him that no matter how many people I have met and how content I am, I am constantly aware of the fact that he is no longer in my life. He agreed. I knew he would.
“I’m going to ask a selfish question.” His eyes were wide, and my heart began to race. There were many questions he could ask, too many for me to have answers for. “Do you believe I can actually do it?” By do it, he meant the lifelong dream he had of becoming a doctor, the one he felt virtually no support for. There was no hesitation in my mind.
“Of course.”
“How can you be so certain?” When you really believe something, when you know something in your heart it becomes both easier and much more difficult to explain the basis for. Easier being that you can talk about it forever. More difficult in the sense that your belief is so strong it cannot be explained. Anytime you had asked me why I loved you I could list off hundreds of things that drew me into you, but the truth was that the love was simply just there.
“Because you’re you.” I didn’t end there, I knew what he needed and that was drawn out, thoroughly explained reassurance. He needed to feel loved and supported. Luckily it had never been an issue for me to give that to him. Nothing had ever been an issue for me if it was in the name of love, I knew it to be my greatest strength and most excruciatingly painful weakness.
“I have one more question, it’s another selfish one.” Selfish. The word rang through my ears the second time he said it, reminding me that for the millionth time I was here giving all of my love to someone who had shattered my heart and hope so many times over. “Are you proud of me?” When he asked the questions, it felt as if a child was asking their mother, eyes wide, pleading. What else could I do but be honest.
“Always.” Love is a strange thing. When I was young, I read in the bible that love was important because it covered a multitude of sins and there is nothing I have heard since that has been more true. Here I was, sitting across from the person who hurt me most in my life and all I could do was look at him in awe. Tears welled in my eyes, filled with love and admiration. How could I ever hate someone whom I loved this much?
He asked for elaborations and explanations, when I said he was smart, he asked me why I thought that. I don’t think he really cared to know why, he just needed proof that I had seen it. I told him everything he wanted to know; I told him everything I knew he wanted to know. Never once did I stretch the truth. Eventually midnight had become four thirty A.M., and I was sleeping soundly on the couch, covered in the only blanket he had, with my head resting on my favorite white pillow.
In the morning, at eight A.M. when I woke up, I had wanted to leave quietly while he was asleep in the other room. I had almost made it, I had been standing at the door with my bag and my shoes on, but then I saw him lying in his bed nestled under one tiny sheet. What type of person would I be to use someone’s only blanket and let it be wasted while they were clearly cold. So, in typical me fashion, I walked directly into the lion’s den in the name of care.
When I put the blanket on him, I made sure to do it slowly, to cover every stuck-out arm and foot. When I finally thought I was done, he woke up. It was abrupt, he was confused, and I told him that I was just leaving him the blanket because I was going home. We stared at each other for a while. He told me that he appreciated me coming and was thankful that I listened to him and said the things I said. Somehow, I couldn’t get myself to say anything. I waved and he waved back, and I left.
My drive home was quiet, my brain did not start racing yet and I hadn’t been in any music type of mood. I looked at the blue sky and the green trees and for one hour I was simply at peace and full of love.
Journal Excerpts:
May 31, 2024 10:55pm
If I am fully honest I have not known what to do with myself all day. Everything that I did do was some sort of going through the motions. I feel numb and I feel very far from myself. My body is here but I am far far away. My brain and body do not feel connected. My thoughts are negative, filled with emptiness, yet I cannot feel the pain of it in my body. This means I cannot get it out. I need it out. And I know that feeling is the way to that, but I think deep down the truth is that I am very very scared. And with the numbness and the divide I am covering up a lot of pain, deeply rooted pain. I am scared to feel it all again, to let it in, to break, to do nothing but cry for days on end. I am scared for every moment to become some sort of suffering again. The numbness is safe, but it makes me feel very far from being human.
I am very sad that my birthday is tomorrow. I know all of my pent-up pain is rearing its head for the occasion. 22 and what? 22 and sad. How many birthdays will I spend so deeply sad? My birthday, no matter how celebrated or how ignored, makes the you sized hole inside of me crystal clear. I’m honestly not sure if the pain goes deeper than that. I’m sure there is some tie to not having the family I so desired and feeling disappointment in that way. But the truth is my birthday meant a day for me and you, a for sure day, a set day for us, and without you here it is a day to miss you.
Quite sad that is, but I know that it is the way it is, I have tried and I know that there is nothing I can do about it. My birthday means a day to celebrate me in the most meaningful way possible, and the truth is that there is no celebration I would prefer than us sitting together. I used to think the heavy emotional tie between you and my birthday was that you really went out of your way to celebrate me, to be thoughtful and excited and all about me, that you did so much to make it a grand time. But that is simply not the case.
I have spent birthdays with friends in which I am showed in great measure how much I am cared for, had activites planned for that were tailored to me, had cards and posters and everything sentimental I could ask for made all for me. Regardless it would always seem that by the end of the evening, I would need to be alone and cry. I did not cry during the birthday I spent with you. I didn’t even think of it.
It wasn’t because of the gifts, or the cards, or the adventures- all of which made me feel seen, appreciated and loved. But because I was with you and we were happy. I would trade all the gifts in the world to lie quietly beside you. Since I have known you, you have been the epitome of love to me. Fortunately or unfortunately, nothing and no one can compare to that.
I love you because you are you and I am me and nothing feels more right than us together. Love like this does not go away. I knew it then, and I know it now. Some relations cannot be undone. You are a part of me, as I am a part of you, and today I feel the hole in me, today with everything in me I feel the part that is missing. You are not here. You are not here and all I can do is cry.
August 1, 2024
Now
For years the closest thing I have felt to joy has been momentary happiness found in some meaningless attempt to be like everyone else. The bottom of a bottle provides me as little solace as lying next to someone new. I don’t like many people and many people sure as hell don’t seem to like me. I was never sure why, it had never been my intention to come off as mean. But maybe I was mean, or more likely a little bit messed up. I did what I could to control it, but my personality had never failed to seep through. I was messed up, rightfully so. No one who grows up believing they are a burden grows into adulthood unscathed.
If you can’t already tell, I am quite miserable and I have been for a long time. If I am honest, I think I spent most of my life miserable I just didn’t place the feeling until now. Sometimes it looked like blinding rage, sometimes like years of loneliness. The truth is that the only joy that I can place when it comes to my life was between the ages of 18 and 19.5. When I was in love. When I believed that I was loved back. Sure, the misery creeped in, but with joy and support like that, I was invincible. I could survive anything.
Now there is no joy and there is no support, and all I feel is broken. It is a weird thing to feel what I feel, the most ironic part of it all is that the misery isn’t even the worst part. The worst part are all the bleak days in which I realize how meaningless it all is, how meaningless I am. Day after day after day, I am here doing things to fill the time, to be normal, to try to get better, day after day I am met with the stark realization that it never actually gets better. No matter where I travel, no matter who I meet, no matter the degrees I achieve or the jobs that I get, I am still me and I am still sad beyond repair. It is a horrible thing to have a mind like mine. I am trapped within it. all I can do is watch, watch how normal everyone else seems to be while inside I am hollow.
Being a human seems so easy for everyone else. Never once has it come easily to me. My days are filled with holding back all the things I’d actually like to say. What good will saying it do? People just tell you to go get help, if they even tell you anything at all. I’ve been doing the right things for years, getting more help than anyone I’ve ever heard of. And guess what? Guess what it has amounted to? Nothing. There is no cure for not being loved. There is no cure for my brain.
People say that to turn off your brain you should practise mindfulness. They obviously do not understand a brain like mine. The issue is that deep down I do not want to turn off my brain, my thoughts. Although it may be a more peaceful life, there is no fulfillment to me in ignorance, in stupidity, in not knowing. My brain is on because it must be on, it is on because if it turns off there is nobody that will keep me safe. I am the only person who has ever really worked to keep me safe. Everyone and everything to me has always been a threat. I hear that this is a sign of trauma, a sign of negative relations with primary caregivers. Of course that would be no surprise, there are only so many times your parents can beat you before you realize that they do not work to keep you safe in the way that everyone else’s parents seem to. There are only so many times you can hear your father threaten your mother before you realize that you will come to her rescue every time, but she will never really come to yours.
I don’t want to live like this. So I will try pushing forward just for a while more. Until I finish this book and leave at least something with the world. Sometimes I don’t even feel real. I am watching my hands type now, I am seeing the light of the screen share space on my thigh with the dark of the night, but I am not here. I am watching it all through blank eyes and an empty chest. I am not here. My thoughts are, but I am not, the real me, the one that feels.
Eventually, I will be forgotten. What is here to remember? The body that men want to have sex with, or the heart and soul that seem to be lost on the world around me. Either I am broken beyond repair, or the world around me is. I am not sure which is which. I have always been more scared of the world than anybody that I know. I don’t feel like I am here. I am sitting on my bed; it feels weird to even say my bed. I am sitting here in the middle of a king-sized bed with white sheets. The truth is that whether around people or not I am always alone. It is a weird thing to feel the emptiness that I do, to know that it will never go away. Have I been put on this earth to suffer then write a mediocre book then die? Is that all? I don’t feel like I am part of this earth in these moments. I feel much too far away. What if I am losing my mind? I better make this quick then.
Childhood
My childhood was not nearly as bad as it could have been don’t get me wrong. But was it the easiest childhood to have? No, no it was not. My parents were rich. That in itself I think was a very helpful part of keeping me sane throughout my life. Money brings opportunity and money brings experience. I realize this more and more as I grow up and see the lives of others. Growing up I participated in anything I had dreamed of, from sports to arts to horse-riding lessons and I lived in a good area with good people around me. But as it seems to be with many children who grow up wealthy, there comes a point at which you realize that your parents would rather sign you up for any lesson than to spend five real minutes with you.
It was always activities and friends and sleepovers and sports, my parents never called to check when I’d be coming home like everyone else’s parents did, it seemed like they preferred it when I was gone. Still about this, I cannot complain, freedom is quite literally the dream of most children, and I seemed to have all of the freedom in the world. However, there does come a point at which freedom in childhood becomes a synonym for neglect. And looking back this simple fact becomes more and more clear. My parents were there to provide but I am not sure they were ever really there to parent.
They instilled certain values in me and taught me about different ways of life, but there are only so many times an adult can beat you before you realize that it was never your fault. The way I view parenting is much more gentle, and honestly simply truly much more humane. I was never beat bloody or left with bruises that I know of, so there is no need to pity me. But I was as a young and defenseless child shown continuously that the people who were supposed to protect me very often seemed to be doing the opposite.
It is one thing to be spanked one time for really bad behaviour, it is another to be beat over and over with a skipping rope because you’re a seven-year-old who doesn’t feel like going to gymnastics class today. I do believe the easy way out of parenting for many seems to be violence, both physical and verbal. But leading with fear is no way to parent, and certainly no way to get your children to want anything to do with you in the long run.
Leading with fear is lazy, uncaring, and honestly just doesn’t work. The truth is once you realize you can be beat for almost anything you do, you just start taking the beatings and hating the people doing it. This is a very far away thing for me to talk about now, being that I am an adult and have not been beaten in a while, but although I may not remember every single instance, every single red handprint left on my back or every time I was thrown out of a chair onto the floor, I do remember how it felt to be small, scared and how it felt to both love and hate someone so much at the exact same time.
I don’t think I ever really believed that my mother liked me. I don’t think she really believed it either. She cared when she felt like she needed to and she read me books, but unless I sat quietly and did nothing it seemed that all I ever was to her was a burden. No accomplishment ever really felt like an accomplishment. When I finally started getting good grades all that she said was something along the lines of “thank God I thought you were stupid”. Many times the love she seemed to have for me only felt performative. Something that existed when other people were watching, something that barely even seemed to exist then. She did not tell me she was proud of me, she did not tell me she loved me, and she did not tell me anything that could be likable about me other than my appearance.
At least I was a pretty burden in her eyes, not simply just a burden.
Book Excerpts:
You’ll Always Have My Heart
————
Dedication
It would be much too difficult to summarize what you have meant to me in a simple conversation with my friends or family. And your love has meant far too much to me than to ignore the topic overall. So instead, I will write this, and even if things never work out, you and everyone else will know how much I love you. I want to preface this book by saying I struggled immensely to write it. Although I enjoy structured writing like essays and love the emotional freedom found in journalling and poetry, combining the two styles has been an immense challenge. Nevertheless, I owe it to myself to at the very least put my best foot forward and try.
So, here’s to you and to the best meal I’ve ever made a few days ago that I so badly wanted you to taste (July 10, 2024).
————
Introduction
For as long as I can remember I have wanted to write a book. I started off writing extravagant stories of fiction and adventure when I was young. I stopped when I realized that I hated the feeling of making up plots because it felt too much like lying.
After that I gave the idea of a novel a rest, I focused instead on the enjoyment I found in scholarly essays throughout my years within the education system. Doing this, I realized that as much as I liked it, there was no way I would spend my free time researching to write about something with little association to my life, I simply didn’t care enough.
I found journaling in the later years of high school, using it as a much-needed outlet for my troubles, though as much as I would like it to be seen, people don’t read journals of average people for fun, and as of right now I am quite average in the eyes of the world. During my last two years in university, I started exploring poetry, another form of expression for my pains, one that I could read and relate to as well.
Today, May 11th, 2024, I had the strange idea of once again starting to write a book. Let me rephrase. Today I realized what I would be passionate and knowledgeable enough to write a book about.
As most artists, poets and writers have had, I had met my muse, and as most of the greats, I had lost them. If I were to compile everything, I have written about my muse over the four years I had known him I would be giving you a novel of messy journal entries, love letters and random excerpts of poetry.
Instead, I will try my best to recall every worthy moment, every small interaction, and all of the quiet inner workings of the love that I was blessed enough to share. Of course, to be true to myself, here and there I’ll scatter some poetry, journal entries and letters in. What fun would this be without the real, awkwardness and messiness that true love comes with.
Here is the complete story of us. My side of the story at least. The very true, very beautiful, and very painful story of two average people who were everything but average to each other. This story will go unfinished. I’m warning you now that it will be a cliff-hanger for both you and I as I too will wait on the edge of my seat to see what happens next.
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Chapter 1
The most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me is not something you would ever really expect. I have received flowers, extravagant gifts, and intentionally planned out dates, and while I appreciated every single one of these things, I have always found the truest meaning in the simplest and most human of moments. That being said, the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me has been to hold me while I cry.
Believe me, I know how that sounds. I am fully aware that friends can hold you while you cry and there is no romance found within it, maybe care, maybe love. There is still something entirely different about being held for hours in the arms of someone who loves you in that way.
————
It was late when I texted him, nearly 10 in the evening, but it had been dark out since 5. Classic Vancouver weather for a regular day in November. But it was not a regular day, not to me at least. He didn’t answer fast enough so I picked up my phone and called, I had never found myself feeling ashamed of being too much when it came to him.
“Hello?” When I reached out he always answered with a mix of confusion and excitement in his voice. I guess I never made things clear enough for him to anticipate my next move, the truth is I never actually knew my next move either.
“Will you be busy in 45 minutes, maybe an hour?” It took me 45 minutes to get to his place now that he chose to live on campus. He used to only be 5 minutes away when he stayed with his family.
“I’m just at the library right now working on a project but I can be home by then sure, what’s up?” I could hear the concern in his voice. Less than a week ago I had texted him to let him know that my dad was missing because I knew he was the only person that could grasp the depth of what that meant to me.
“I just need to talk and cry.” I never really sugar-coated much. Plus I was feeling much too horrible to take the time to plan out a less direct approach.
“Of course, I’ll start walking back just text me when you’re 15 minutes away.”
The past few months, years really, had been a series of immense highs and plunging lows. I could never seem to maintain balance with how I felt, too much always seemed to be going on. If his mom hadn’t sold his car the day he moved out I knew he would’ve been happy to come to me in his bright blue Toyota I had grown to know so well. Instead, I changed into the comfiest clothes I owned and started on my way with tears streaming down my face. My dad had been found, but I had been left with the stark realization that I was and seemed to have always been deeply, deeply broken.
When I got to his apartment complex I parked right outside the Tim Hortons and texted him to come get me. I had only been to his place once since he had moved and I didn’t know how to get there. He walked out in clothes that looked brand new. He had always been one to enjoy designer brands and seemed to have been playing around with his style.
I thought he looked silly. Black bell bottom jeans and a black zip-up with some sort of sparkle. But then again, I had never really been one to understand what people called high fashion, and to be totally frank I didn’t care what he wore as long as it was him standing there in front of me. He hugged me and I joked about his outfit. Even in my saddest moments, I have always known myself to find something to find humor in. I thought it had simply been part of the way I was. Now as I get older I think it may be a way of coping to not seem as weak as I frequently feel. But that is neither here nor there.
We took the elevator up to his floor and I found myself feeling the slightest bit awkward. I didn’t really know how to start saying everything that had been on my mind. The hallway to his apartment seemed much shorter than it had been before, much too quickly we were sitting on opposite sides of the living room and he was looking at me, waiting for me to start. I told him that he needed to make me feel more comfortable so I could speak. Demanding I know, but I was much too good at being tough and crying on command was no easy thing. So he got up and sat beside me on the couch, putting his arms out for another hug.
There was little else I could do in that moment than sob directly into his shoulder. It is very hard to describe how he looks at me in these moments to anyone who has not seen it. When he pulls my face from his shoulder to wipe my tears and look at me, his eyes dart back and forth between mine and it feels as if his eyes plead for me to tell him how to help. In no moment have I ever felt more loved than in moments like this. It is like the care pours out of his brown eyes, like the love pulses out of him. I even hear it in his breathing. The genuine concern, the genuine desire to help. What could be more romantic than intentionality in one’s worst moments? I am not sure.
With every friend and family member I have ever had I have been conditioned to weigh the pros and cons of reaching out to them when I am not doing well, for fear of the fact that they will once again view me as a tiresome burden. With him, I have never felt this way. With him, I have never had to wonder if he would drop everything to make sure I was okay. He would every time without question. And every time no matter how much of an inconvenience to him, he would sit with me and make me feel seen, loved, and cared for beyond belief. I did not feel like a burden to him. I felt like the love of his life. And his care replicated the care I had for him in every possible way.
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Chapter 2
I have always seemed to long for love. Whether it be expressed through a never-ending list of childhood crushes or a continuous hope for something more, I seemed to have been engineered with a very deep desire.
I found myself falling in love every few months with a new person, with a new story I built up inside my head about how they would finally be the one. And for the most part, I found myself falling out of that love twice as fast. I have always been a particular person, and although I have found myself settling in some ways over the years momentarily, I have never been able to stay in that state. I never understood how people could stay with people they didn’t completely like or fully love.
I was also particular in the readiness of my disgust. Since I was a child, I have been repulsed by common necessities like sunscreen and hand sanitizer. I wish I could say the list ended there. But as I have grown older I have realized that I also get repulsed by people. I guess not in the way that I do with some silly common goods, where I avoid them at all costs, instead, I liked to disappear from people’s lives once I realized how entirely distant I felt from them.
Okay so what does that even mean? I’m not completely sure but I’ll try to give you my best explanation here. I have rarely, if ever, felt truly understood in life, and for the most part have only felt confusion about the actions, words, beliefs and choices that other people make.
I’ll sit around and ask questions trying to gain insight, I'll sit and ponder what leads people down the paths they take, but every time I seem to come up short of an answer. I don’t understand the appeal of God, or alcohol or drugs or gambling, I don’t understand the appeal of meaningless sex and dating multiple people, I don’t understand the appeal of cheating, of lying, of intentionally trying to hurt people. I don’t understand the appeal of absolute wealth, or status or fame.
I have always only ever wanted to be loved, and I guess as I am realizing now, to love. For years I was caught up in being loved, if I could be loved by another person all my problems would go away, and I would finally be worth something. And I guess maybe in some sense that is true. But if I am honest, being loved by anyone other than the right person has deep-down only ever seemed like a chore. Although I longed to be loved, I also did not like most people enough to actually want that depth of connection from them.
