Every part of you will always be easy pickings for someone else’s forked tongue, so you tell yourself that there is no point in cutting down the loudness of your laugh to make yourself less of a target. It works, sometimes. Continue reading “Loneliness Feels The Same In A Childhood Bed As It Does On A Faraway Island”
I’ve been thinking a lot about breakups lately. More specifically, the numerous ones I’ve had over the last five years.
A lot of people (including, perhaps especially, friends) have been judgey about it, and I can’t say I blame them. I jump head-first into relationships with the kind of recklessness that some might call very brave and many others just plain stupid. I simultaneously want to commit to things but am also afraid that I cannot live up to these commitments, afraid to let people down. I work out in my head reasons to stay or to leave, or to feel a different way but of course I end up doing something completely different in real life, so even with the best of intentions the plan never quite works out.
What’s interesting though, is that people/friends like to usually pin the blame on whichever partner I was with at that point in time. “Of course it wouldn’t have worked out with him you were settling”, “He’s so weird why were you even dating in the first place”, and “If only he had a spine – there FTFY”. It’s nice and heartening that friends have such a high opinion of me and also get righteously angry on my behalf but I find that I end up sliding into the role of victim far too easily. (It is so difficult to balance who is at fault though, and then thinking it is all my fault, which is another problem altogether.)
There is no such thing as a perfect victim. Or at least, I know I am not one. Continue reading “Not Always The Victim”
After the funeral I crawled into his side of the bed, unearthed his clothes from the cupboards, buried my nose in mountains of fabric, but his scent, like him, was gone. I had unplugged the phone, hidden my laptop under a mountain of trash. People kept finding new ways to tell me that they were sorry – in hushed whispers, condolences messages, assurances that he was a good man, the best man. I never knew what to say in response.
See the thing about finding The One is that there’s always a chance you will have to spend part of your life without them. I just didn’t expect to do it so soon.
The only thing I ate was soup, sullenly heating up a can on the stove and then spooning it tastelessly down my throat afterward when even the hunger pangs could cut through the numbness. Occasionally there was a loud knocking on the door, and I might hear my mother or my sister calling my name. Sometimes I would let them in, but would regret it almost immediately afterward as they bustled around tidying the apartment, making clucking sounds at me and trying to force me to eat, all while trying to make forced cheery conversation. Their love was deafening, and all I wanted to do was sink down into deep, black, bubbling grief.
The first letter was slipped under my front door. I found it after I stirred awake late one afternoon and stumbled into the living room. I had had a dream about him, and waking up felt like losing him all over again. It was in an unmarked white envelope which I opened without even noticing my hands’ moving. When I unfolded the letter, and finally looked down to read it, I almost dropped it.
Love, it started. I’m so sorry.
It was his handwriting.