just another four letter word

It cannot be refuted that as a species we are uncannily resilient and endlessly optimistic in love. It doesn’t seem to matter how often desire dies and our hearts are broken; even as we kiss goodbye one lover, our soul somehow allows itself to mend, enabling us to be wrapped in the arms of another with renewed vigour and a sense of boundless hope regarding how we’ll fare this time around.

It wouldn’t be fair to say I’ve been unlucky in love; harping on about one’s romantic misfortune seems fitfully reserved for those among us who’ve suffered heavily at the hands of the opposite (or same) sex. Thus, for me to complain would be altogether ungracious, as actually, I’ve been loved by some fantastic men over the years. Yet despite their many collectively admirable qualities, at one point or another, something’s gone awry, and here I am, journeying bumpily through the years and tears alone.

Recently I’ve spent a deal of time pondering the nature of love. It really is a deceptive beast; the way it colours each romance with the genuine shades of passion and devotion, making it feel like the real deal. For myself, I can’t help but wonder whether I might be an especially foolish breed of  romantic, as rather than learning to look where I’m going, I carelessly walk face first into the condition, repeatedly mistaking that concussed cluster of spinning stars for universal bliss.

I met my first heart breaker when I was in high school. I fell hard and hopelessly for this kid when we were fifteen, and as sure as day follows night, I was convinced we’d be together forever. Of course, with an attitude like that, I was in big trouble.

What I’ve found over the years is that although you can dive over and again into the very depths love, our hearts only truly break once. After that point, you’re already in pieces. Sure, lovers may come and go, shattering you shamelessly and taking the best bits with them. But although you may be left once again with the slow and arduous task of picking up the scattered pieces, wandering aimlessly in an effort to locate the things you lost so as to become whole again, that original smashing pain only ruins you once.

Needless to say, things didn’t end well with my high school sweetheart. He ripped me to shreds by dumping me over the phone one night, just days before what would have marked our fifth year together. It took weeks and an endless stream of bad television before I could finally crawl out of bed and begin to function again. At the time I resented the fact that I had to break while he could simply hang up the phone and get on with things. Now I realise that it’s only during that wretched process of putting ourselves back together that we’re gifted the rare opportunity of seeing our inner most components and the stuffs of our cores. As strange as it sounds, it wasn’t until that awful breakup that I grew to know myself.

That first time around I experienced the piercing glory of naive adoration. It was the tender type, founded on friendship and grieved like a loss. While the pain of it ending was sharp and deep, the wound was clean and healed well. Other varieties of love aren’t so harmless.

The kind of which you need to be particularly wary is that based principally on physical attraction, as this type comes partnered with the smack and reek of addiction. Knowing it was a bad idea, when met by the opportunity for this breed of love affair, I pushed against it with all my weight for many weeks, before waking one morning to find I’d fallen head first into the messy thrill of it. This guy was bad news; the sort who gave it away for free until the moment that I was hooked, at which point I began to pay the optimum price with my pride and humility. This is the kind of love that coats you in its sticky sweetness until you’re completely stuck. Worst of all, you don’t even mind that you’re slowly drowning in its saccharine syrup; it tastes so good! I guess that’s the nature of lust; accompanied by sleepless nights and melancholy, a complete abandonment of self respect is inevitable.

Perhaps the hardest love to bridge is the kind that seems as if it was never supposed to happen. When you’re hopelessly romantic, it’s these initial difficulties that concrete the idea of it in your mind. After all, anything that’s so hard to come by, but for which you’re willing to fight anyhow has to bare some kind of meaning. When I was faced with impossible love, I assumed I’d found my soul mate. Maybe I had. But while I’d concluded this meant spending eternity together, actually, a soul mate is simply a mirror; someone who shows you to yourself in all your flawed glory. This guy shook me up, giving me courage and introducing the notion that I could be a better version of myself. Unfortunately, once he’d done that, the love seemed to fizzle to no more than a soggy version of its former fireworks, and despite my sadness and regret, it was time to walk away.

Love is a curious thing. Every time you curl into that other person’s side, in your mind it’s for the first and the last time. I suppose therein lies its beauty; we’re able to bounce back and give each partner the real deal, regardless of how many lovers came before and how many may follow.

Perhaps the truth is that when it comes to the raw, untameable chaos that is love, our mind and our consciousness have nothing to do with it. It’s our souls who choose one another, and whether they bind for a year or a lifetime, it can never be discounted as a waste of time or energy or heart.

Maybe this is the reason behind our ability to revive like we do. Despite what our minds may think, our spirit is never defeated or cheated by a transpired love affair; some integral part of us knows that whatever the union was supposed to achieve, it fulfilled its purpose. But when our heart needs something other, we must permit it the freedom to seek it.

So I guess there’s no such thing as being unlucky in love; no matter its duration or motive, it’s a gift and a growth. And afterwards, there’s nothing to be done but gather our missing pieces so that in our entirety we can look forward to the next time our core connects, for as long as it will, with another.

 

come and see my well watered eyelids

I am not an attractive crier. Rather, I’m the swollen, snotty nosed variety, whose puffy eyes and blotchy cheeks continue to betray me for days afterward. For me, even the term is lacking, as the unobtrusive shedding of tears envisaged when we hear that someone’s been crying doesn’t come close to depicting the disturbing display I can muster. If I had to characterise it, I’d be inclined to compare it to the desperate outcry of carnal moans, bellowing from a distressed animal, rather than anything I’ve witnessed enacted by an actual person. When I cry my whole self gets involved. It’s a shoulder shuddering, chest heaving, exhausting episode, whose legacy lasts long after the moments it actively occupies. Suffice to say, the first time I saw The Notebook I wore it on my face (and my sleeve), for the remainder of the week. It’s a messy business.

While I’m happy to make this admission, what makes things slightly awkward is that I cry a lot. Naturally, over the years I’ve learnt to use restraint while in company, as what I’ve come to realise is that being in the presence of an inconsolable, slobbering wreck of a human makes people feel slightly uncomfortable. The more that I think about it, witnessing someone lay bare their ragged soul must be more than a little confronting.

For the purpose of full disclosure, I think it’s necessary to declare at this point that I rather enjoy crying. Truly, there are days when no prospect seems more refreshing than indulging in a glorious, gut wrenching weep; though in the past, openly disclosing this to people has been a source of genuine alarm. I suppose this is because crying is largely considered the result of weakness or helplessness or pain; traits which we typically view as undesirable. Therefore, if we see someone tearing up, we have an uncontainable urge to somehow, through comfort or otherwise, make them stop. But actually, crying can be a form of relief; a much needed release for pent up emotions and excess energy. Sometimes, crying can be therapy.

I’ve cried a lot this week. On Tuesday morning I opened the fridge to discover that I’d forgotten to refrigerate the Bonsoy. An inconvenience which could be considered mildly annoying at best, the absence of chilled soy on this occasion left me utterly ruined. I stared at my bowl of dry muesli sitting pathetically on the breakfast bar, smothered by a spill of sliced banana. A surge of sobs instantly broke forth, loud and uncontrollable. Lowering myself onto the tiles, I leant against the kitchen sink and wept inconsolably; an onslaught which refused to dissipate even as I scraped myself off the floor an hour later to fix myself some toast and vegemite.

Since then I’ve spent many hours sitting solely in my apartment; crumpled, like the mess of snot soaked tissues surrounding me. The barrage of emotions which commenced largely without warning has somehow avalanched into a gushing onslaught of grief for which I can’t easily account. My tendency for tears, a characteristic with which I’ve always felt comfortable, is for the first time leading me to question my mental stability. I can only imagine it has something to do with the solitude; a perplexing theory, as until now, I’d thought I was enjoying it.

I’ve never lived alone before; I’ve always been afraid of the silence and the things with which my mind fills it. But over the past two weeks I’ve found a certain peace with this lifestyle. I’ve lain on the floor beneath a ceiling of fairy lights, listening to the sounds of domesticity floating in through the open balcony. I’ve bathed with the bathroom door open. I’ve let my body clock govern my sleeping patterns. I’ve spoken frankly and openly to my plants and revelled in their silent responses. I’ve allowed myself to feel lost in loneliness. For the first time in my life, I’ve not been afraid when I switch off the lights. But curiously, perhaps nonsensically, I’ve done it all with well watered eyelids.

I’m no stranger to sadness. But what’s got me all worried is that in the past when I’m not feeling good, I’ve mainly had a handle on what it is that’s coloured me blue. Having to wander, bewildered, through the cluttered terrains of my mind, searching for the source of my upset has been altogether disturbing.

Then, in the midst of discomfort, I began to wonder if whether, similarly to the way one might procrastinate about vacuuming the lounge room or cleaning out the garage, I’ve previously used obligations and responsibilities as a way of putting off something far more daunting; organising my messy head space and sorting through my baggage. Now, with no commitments monopolising my days, it’s becoming apparent that it might be about time to pour it all out on the floor and have a good hard look, in order to attend to whatever it is that’s been clogging my mind.

I’m sensing it’s going to be quite the job; it’s got me rather anxious. I’ve never much liked cleaning. In the absence of knowing just what’s to be done, I’m finding myself shoving it all to the back, where it’s less of an obstruction. I just don’t feel ready to take it on. I think I’ll settle for a fresh box of tissues and wait out the spring.