& Other (a library of thoughts)

Logical Men Always Break Your Heart & Other Women’s Wise Words

Why do you always date selfish men?

There is no shame in asking someone to love you. Pride is how you pick yourself up afterwards.

You were not wrong to trust what you had. He was wrong to break that trust.

How Are You Still Single & Other Idiotic Things Guys Have Said While Breaking Up with Me

You were an experiment.

I’m not good enough for you.

This is awkward but…I forgot my wallet.

I thought I could marry you. I still think that’s true.

I think about you too much and it’s distracting me from the rest of my life.

You are by the far the easiest person I could have fallen in love with. But I couldn’t let that happen.

Our Capacity to Love May Be Infinite, but Our Capacity for Heartbreak is Not & Other Life Lessons I Learnt at 30

Love is something that happens to other people.

My heart is so full of hurt that there is no space for more. I can no longer be hurt.

It only gets harder to believe that the world is not actively trying to make me bitter.

Boys are always falling in love with me. And leaving before they have to love me.

All the ugly endings have beaten up all the butterflies of beginnings and so I have zero desire to date.

I have doubted every man that’s ever loved me. Even the ones that did. Even the first.

It seems I forget rather than forgive, by letting layers of life muffle the pain (but every time I remember, I hurt).

The More I Live, the Less I Feel & Other Bitter Truths

I live in a near-perpetual state of grief.

I grieve for innocence, for hope.

If feelings were muscles, mine would be raw with abuse.

I am almost always alone. That does something to a person.

It is easier to believe that I’ll never be loved than to believe that one day I’ll meet a man who isn’t horrifyingly disappointing.

Life gets smaller as I get older. That is a good thing.

Life has extinguished a light in me and I do not know how to turn it back on.

I have already lived so many lives and none of it seems real except for the chapter I am living, and as soon as it is in the past, it is as foreign and distinct to me as fiction.

Life does not get less painful, but you do get better at dealing with it.

You can be terribly sad and okay at the same time.

 

 

 

point a to point b

wake up so softly that you can’t tell when sleeping ceased and consciousness seeped in. don’t be surprised that you are okay. do be surprised to find a message from him on your phone asking where he can buy kale. realise maybe he needed you more than you needed him. he needed to realise he wanted kale in his life. write back. then let it go. don’t tell him you’re letting him go. don’t tell him it’s not because he’s not worth holding onto. that confessional urge has dissolved. you know that this is part of being a woman. you do not need to prove that you are okay.  tell him without telling him that you’re sorry you’re okay. it’s not him. he is good and beautiful and you could have loved him deeply, but you’ve explored every back alley of the alphabet and you know your way from point a to point z off by heart. you get where you’re going much faster if you know where you’re going and you’ve got no space in your life for someone who doesn’t want you.

you are the sofia. accept it. this is an excruciating role but it is crucial. excruciation is crucial (look at the letters). you are the one that makes them need kale. you are the teacher. you are the one that dies. and this is a gift. you wouldn’t be this person if you couldn’t take it.

GENDER: Feminine
OTHER SCRIPTS: Σοφια (Greek)
PRONOUNCED: so-FEE-ə (English), so-FIE-ə (British English), zo-FEE-ah (German)  
Sofia is a female name derived from σοφία, the Greek word for “Wisdom”. The name was used to represent the personification of wisdom.

this is what happened.

he came and the two of you stayed in bed for twenty-four hours. somewhere near the beginning you started talking and somehow you broke up. but still, you both stayed in bed for the whole twenty-four hours, fused, even when you cried, and when your bodies unravelled in sleep, he grabbed you. you watched a movie that rattled both of you in different ways. you kept saying, i’m the sofia. i’m the one that dies. in the morning he said, i don’t want to stop holding you. and you were confused again because this isn’t the first time a man has held you with one arm and pushed with the other.

you called a friend (those lifelines are unconditional and infinite) because you were wild with hurt and you were worried you’d start weeping on the tram. you said i’m not even tired of this happening. that’s how many times it’s happened. you saidbut i am so tired of falling in love, always soclose but never really in it. always allowed to dip my feet into lakes of love, just enough to remind me what it’s like to be drenched with intimacy, and then i’m back on dry land, alone, with all these holes where people used to be. 

you wanted to have a tantrum. you wanted to say, but you told me i had a reason to stand still! don’t. instead you said, how was your flight? oh you made a new friend? how lovely. you didn’t say, i took a shower but i still smell like you. i brushed my teeth but i can still taste you. i’ve stripped the bed, but making it overwhelms me and the notion of a naked mattress doesn’t horrify me right now (there is almost a perverted pleasure in sinking to such despair).

but maybe he is too young to know about the frenzied kind of grief that has you crying until you throw up. i know you, he said. you will try to find a way to blame yourself for this, the way you’ve done with everything else. but i won’t let you this time. this isn’t happening because of you. you hated him for saying the right thing when you were trying so hard to hate him. you said, i hate you so softly that it sounded like love. you didn’t ask him if he knew what it’s like not to want to exist. you didn’t admit you know why people want to kill themselves and it’s not because they want to die but because they don’t want to exist and you know that dying and not existing are not the same thing. he knows this about you.

you stood in front of the mirror and burst into tears, your eyes bulging slits, your cheeks pink and hard, your mouth bending ugly, saying again and again, i don’t deserve this. later, you wailed under the naked duvet, grateful that tears aren’t countable because the number would scare you.

you didn’t turn off anything, the laptop, the light, because you were afraid of being engulfed by grief in the dark. you tried not to try not to think about it because the trying gets you thinking about it. remember telling him, there is not a single consistent man in my life; only the women stay.

then you reminded yourself to trust the universe. you didn’t hate yourself when that trust didn’t make it hurt any less. you didn’t hate yourself at all. remember him saying, it’s difficult to like someone who doesn’t like themselves, and you were confused (maybe you’re not quite there yet).

the thing is, you do trust that you can handle everything life gives you. trust life. acceptance eases much suffering. yesterday the shock bred pain. but if you trust life, if you trust that every disappointment is a necessary pebble in the mosaic of you life, then you don’t need to suffer. everything that happens to you is for the better. pain is inevitable. accept. let go. flow.

hold on tightly, let go lightly.

obstacles are just pebbles for your mosaic. every x is  pebble. wisdom is seeing someone as a pebble instead of the whole mosaic. you are the mosaic. you are the sofia.

>sistahtac<

sitting next to me on the tram there was a man that smelt like clean laundry and i almost leant my head on his shoulder, just to close my eyes for a moment, just to feel a shoulder. life is sensation but

that was an accident, but life is sensation, and sensational too

you learn not to need people and i don’t. he taught me that. he did too. there is strength in not needing people but there is comfort in knowing people are there if you need them.

this afternoon i panicked. maybe it was the dream i had about an invader in my childhood home. i think he killed someone. i don’t think it was me. maybe it was seeing my ex and realising i have no idea who i fell in love with, that he treated me terribly and i never fucking realised because he’s a good person. maybe it was because i haven’t eaten properly in two days. but it happened, i panicked. and i kept going. even though i didn’t want to. i had a long hot shower. i wore something sensual and violet. i went out and saw people that were happy to see me. i only had one glass of wine. the ride home was an inward spiral.

i am here and i am making spaghetti. i am here and i am going to eat spaghetti in bed and be okay. i am okay.

i like my shoulders.

The Unexpected Heartbreak

My hair is full of Balinese salt. The ocean. His sweat. His tears. I can’t bring myself to wash it all out; I’d rather be dirty. I didn’t cry for the first twenty-four hours. Then I wept until I slept. I was happy before I left and now I’m stamping my feet. Pouting. Yelling, I don’t want to be here! The knots in my shoulders are back. I’ve lost my appetite. My tan has already started fading.

Yes, I miss the heat. I miss the white sand and cerulean water. I miss the plethora of coconuts and papaya and avocado. I miss the rice-fields. But most of all, I miss him. The way he sings all time. The constant constellation of kisses on my forehead, my shoulder, my thigh. His hand like a gentle anchor in my hand, on my back, on my leg. His bitchy moods and the way he does a 180 when I call him out on them. His headful of wild black curls. His casual gracefulness. The way he appreciates my details. The way he isn’t afraid to argue with me. The way we bicker. The way we tease each other. His disgust for pretenses. His patience with my anxious indecision. His raw desire for my body and my mind. The way he talks about his father.

On the day I left, we fought. It wasn’t our first fight, but this one was different: it was born out of frustration, I think; it was an outlet. The last hours were punctuated with a constant, alternating chorus: I don’t want you to leave and I don’t want to go. But, other than that and gripping each other slightly harder, we ignored the imminent hole of my departure. We didn’t promise each other anything. And that speaks of the gravity of our emotions; shallow trysts make weak vows.

Back home, people are skeptical. I was too. But combusting into tears speaks buckets. When you are with someone 24/7 for eleven days, you get a quality idea of who they are. And this man is so unapologetically open with his ‘flaws’: his ridiculous patchwork way of expressing himself; the way he pretends to accept his shortcomings (but then loops back and tries to make amends); his stormy temperament. I miss the whole chunk of him, the parts that made me laugh, the parts that made me feel beautiful, and the parts that made me bite my fist out of frustration. Under the umbrella of a temporary romance, we let ourselves be vulnerable, we let ourselves be seen. We let ourselves be intimate in a way that terrifies us back in our respective homes.

The first time we met, we planted a seed. This time, we are a sapling. I don’t know for certain that we could become a tree. But, even when I’ve washed the salt from my hair and the Melbourne sky bleaches my skin white, I know that I’m willing to walk around with a watering can in my pocket, waiting to see what grows when we meet again.

Stage 5: Acceptance

“Grief is the best way to keep a lost someone close to you.”

When he said that, I found a puzzle piece. We were sitting on my matchbox balcony, sharing a starry space, looking at each other like we sparkled. For weeks I had been piling padding around my heart, gliding over the gap M has left by leaving. In a letter, M said, “Unlike you, I’m not trying to forget. At least, not yet. I keep the memory of you warm, worn, and beautiful.” And maybe he’s been soaking in his grief because that’s his way of not letting go of me completely just yet.

I have been running through the grief as if it were a bucket of water. Getting wet, but not soaked. Whenever I found it in my hands, I unclenched my fists to drop it, as if the drops of water were actually hot coal. I thought I was refusing to hold on because I was so intent on moving forward.

And to a certain extent, that’s true. I am fighting so hard to let go. I finally have myself back and I don’t want anything to drag me away from that. But also because, what else can you do?

But, drop by drop, the grief has cornered me. And while I don’t feel it constantly, there are times when it punches me so hard I literally cannot breathe. I’m still trying to evade it, but god, it takes up so much energy. It’s tiring. And it’s a faux way to let go. You cannot let go of something until you have a grip on it. 

I have been refusing to admit that I am heartbroken. Not because I worry I am not strong enough to deal with it–I don’t doubt my resilience anymore–but out of hope. Because once a heart is broken, it morphs. And I can feel it in my gut that my revised heart will not be able to love him again should he ever come back to me. I have avoiding the grief just in case I don’t have to feel it. 

It’s been almost two months and yes, I’m still in love with him. But I can imagine a future where I’m not, even though I know I’ll suffer first. And yes, we feel unfinished, but maybe that’s only because I was the one who wasn’t ready to let go. I don’t know if that matters.

Somehow, this experience still makes me feel good. Because, yes for the last four years, it’s been one thing after another; life hasn’t let me rest. But I’m not wondering why anymore. This is what life is given me and all I can do it accept it and keep walking. Life doesn’t owe us a damn thing. There is no quota for suffering. Or joy. It is what it is. And sometimes it’s challenging for longer than we’d prefer.

So, that’s that. I am heartbroken. But the rest of life is beautiful and so full of love. And, you know, I’m looking forward to the new heart. I think it suits me already.

hold on tightly

“you kiss just like I thought you would”

you kiss like europeans, this is what you whisper as you brush lips like snowflakes on a balcony on a friday summer night with a cool breeze kicking round your bodies, no space between your limbs, all tangled up and tight. you talk to him, to the sky, and he stands behind you, murmuring compliments into your ear. later, on the carpet, the thrusting tongues, skin gliding over skin, knees rubburnt, all the while, european, european, european, the sensuality, the intimacy, the romanticism, the familiarity. afterwards, you fall asleep and he asks if you mind if he goes home and you don’t, you’re drunk and you’re tired and you like him but not in a bow-tie way but then waiting for the taxi, suddenly, your hands rip into each other’s bodies, exploring, exploring, exploring, and it’s beautiful, this one night’s connection, how his lips sought out your scars in the dark. how, you chanted someone else’s name at first but then that him dissolved and it was just you and this boy who asks you if it’s okay to come. at the end you didn’t even want to message the other him to say I thought of you the whole time, and not just because it turns out that isn’t true. you pass out on the carpet, naked, dreaming in shades of tequila and contentment. bring on the boys. bring them on, bring them on. gratitude for the gentle, awkward boy that heals just because he’s him and he’s there. gratitude for the gentle boys that healed you before. life is magnificent.

I Choose

I’m surprised by my capacity to forgive, but I suppose it’s being human. Tell me about a time when you surprised yourself with forgiving someone for something you previously thought unforgiveable.

My previous post was enlightening. I WAS SO FUCKING BORED OF BEING UNHAPPY. So a few weeks ago, I woke up and snapped out of it.

This is my life and it has been been very painful at times but I can’t control that. What I can control is how I let it affect me. And so, I choose not to wallow. I choose not to let my pain rule me. I choose not to let rejection determine how I feel about myself. I choose not to hunt for flaws. I choose to lose anxiety regarding awkwardness. I choose doing things I talk about and not beat myself up if I don’t. 

True to form, something happened two days after this decision which I will not discuss for a long time. But that hasn’t deterred me: I still insist on trying to be happy. I choose not to be broken.

I listen to my affirmations daily. I work out whenever I can, even if it’s ten minutes here and there. I eat mainly vegan and I have almost completely cut out sugar. I try to drink less. When the voices start to bully, I shove them back and then I give myself a hug. I am not on medication and I don’t want to be.

I am not ill or disabled, my mind just works differently; I resent the idea that everyone with Bipolar/Depression/etc requires medication to function. Medication is a last resort. And so, I am standing firm with my doctors on the issue. I have started therapy again and he seems like a good man and he has a sense of humour which is important. 

Half-way through our first session, he said this: “I think that you’re covering up a lot of pain. You’re sitting here before me, bright and bubbly, but it sounds like you’ve been through a lot; I suspect that you’re able to smile because you’ve done such a great job of burying it.”

I laughed and thanked him. Why did I thank him?

This is more of blog post than a writing one, and I am very aware of the lack of lyricism, but maybe I should be okay with that.