"I remember surfing through 2020 in grave survival mode. That's why when I see my reflection in your crescent, undemanding eyes, with your hand around my neck, all I can think about was: how that everything that happens between us and akin, was never where I thought I'll be."
1. The start.
The mantra was, to have control. That the amount you give should not be equated with the amount you receive, and everything was collateral. You should not give, at all. Giving is being taken away, and by that point, you've had so much taken away from you.
I began to realize how my stuck-up, avoidant way of communicating was just another form of twisted self-defense. The way of locking in, I daresay. How can I not? When I'm still desperately finding ways to heal the bare wound I was left with. And that was all that I was left with, bare wounds and a little bit of a condescending tone in the way I behave.
The one thing that's funny as well is that many people thought you were okay. They congratulate you for faking. They thought you started doing all this work on yourself and call it "a character development". The work you do sleepless and tirelessly was an improvement. You are more mature, less clumsy, speak more eloquently as you recite quoting by books, and now wear dark red on your lips. You cared less, or you don't seem to care at all.
On many lenses, it is an elevation, I know it's growth. But what many don't see is that it is an escape more than a drive. What many don't see is that it comes from a place of desperation, and raw fear. I can't sort out my emotion and reaction, so I just blocked it all. Run like it doesn't eat you up inside. Run and smile like you're not chased by the constant trauma tailing behind your back.
It felt safe and empowering being in my own little bubble of thick defense. The hour I spent busy-ing away keeps my head from going insane. When I work, my head was silenced. The more I work, the more I don't think. Then the more I am hollow. Thicker outside, emptier inside.
Is it an elevation? I don't even know. If it was, I'm not supposed to feel miserable, right? I was supposed to be independent, proud, passionate, happy, and bright, and quote en quote: alpha. The kind of women that are content. The kind of women that know what's right.
Yet, when all your mother taught you was being a martyr, every line is a blurred line.
2. The crack.
I don't really remember the first day I fell for you, or what is it that I fell for, or how, or why. What I know is one day, I'm dreaming about a pretty day, and it looked like if I lie down in a vast green grass just outside the city, with you.
You're quite different than what I'm used to. A little less romantic, less dramatic, or problematic--just you: stable, serene, and a little broken. On a constant warzone, you feel a little like a sanctuary. Calm, practical, and just now I realized that you are much of what I needed. Everything crept up and your existence was far intertwined with mine.
I know I'm good at everything surface. But I didn't know intimacy would've demanded so much from my being, from everything that I had run away from. In a way, you felt like a liberation. I'd fallen hard until I remembered I can't afford to fall.
Then it began to feel a little comical with the way I really take pride in how I survived, and it resulted in feeling like a crime when your skin brushes against mine. I felt unpacked, and the walls I've built are becoming undone. It was fearful. After all, how could I do it again? Falling reminds me too much of heights and pieces--and being broken was not an experience one would be willing to relive. It's hard loving someone when all you know about loving was messy and defensive.
When I said I am scared to be in love, I'd mean it. At that point, I know very well that, the cherry-flavored conversation also has the color red.
3. The dawn.
It was suddenly July, a year later, and I didn't know I could open up to someone again, never this much. I didn't know getting kissed and being told pretty could still give me butterflies. Or that how you could make something so mundane: a phone call, a dinner, a word, means so much more.
Only in July, I look forward to feeling the safety in pleasure. How I long to feel your hugs and only felt the warmth of your skin against mine, not the fear, not the what if's. For once, I did not want to run.
For once, I don't want to be busy or not feel anything. I wanted to feel, and I want to tell you how much I love you. I wanted to cry or show that I am jealous because I cared. I wanted to fight and change. I wanted to feel peace waking up, and sleeping being in love.
At one point I noticed that all the places I am now are also all the places I thought I'll never be the year before: falling in love again, getting so weary again, starting again, opening up again. Life on the one hand will feel like a bad joke of cycles, I think it also taught me, no matter how much of a failure you convince yourself to be,
you can always begin again.