post 21 : bad dreams and dinner dates

I woke up screaming and dripping with sweat; the word NO resonating in my head over and over and over. The dream was about Lucy. Owen and I had been strolling around a picturesque lagoon in a country far from home. Barefooted and holding hands, we were whispering words meant for only us when we spotted a girl on the other side frantic and in desperate need of something, perhaps someone. She was alone and she was sad. On approaching I quickly realised she was Lucy, something Owen no doubt knew all along. He let my hand go and took hers instead. He wiped the tears from her cheeks and held her face in his hands. She sank into his touch and clutched him as though she should never have let go in the first place. He looked back at me as they walked away holding her as if the knife he just drove into my heart had I had been warned about; as if it were going to be this way all along.

My throat was dry from a combination of screaming and crying so I boiled the kettle and put lemon juice and honey into the bottom of my cup; a vain attempt at soothing both body and my heart. I returned to my room and let my back slide down wall to the floor. I landed with a thump and the boiling water splashed on my hand, burning my skin. I didn’t bother to wipe it off. I sipped my drink and attempted to return to reality but instead replayed the dream in my head until I was convinced Owen was about to jump on a plane and go get her back.

What must have been over an hour later, I dragged my body up and turned on the shower. Waiting for the water to get hot I stripped off and examined my body in the mirror. I was perfectly average. Perhaps a little taller than most girls, my body was soft and pale, my stomach flat but not toned. My dark brown hair tumbled messily over my shoulders; the longest I’d ever let it grow. My eyes were swollen and my face was red. The tears had made my eyes look greener.

When the water was sufficiently scorching and the bathroom full of steam I stepped into the place I felt most comfortable. I sat on the floor and let the water burn my skin until the very last moment I could endure it, and then turned the cold on slightly.

*******

I sat down at the computer and turned it on, sipping coffee as I waited. When the page opened I very nearly spat out the coffee in an attempt to call out “Ebony! EBONY!” Certain something was wrong she appeared at my side in 10 seconds flat having sprinted down the hall. “It’s from Owen. I got an email from Owen.” I started, knowing she would want the full details so I continued without letting her speak. “He wants to take me to dinner.”

“Are you serious?” She squealed. We sounded ridiculous; like school children and I couldn’t help but be disgusted in myself a little bit, but not enough to calm down.

“Here, read it” I told her, and made the screen bigger so she could see properly. “It’s really cute.” I read out loud in a quite proper English animated voice, well aware that it was the wrong accent, while Ebony giggled beside me, looking over my shoulder and following along at the same time.

“So I would perhaps like to take you on a dinner date. If said desire is reciprocated, and now that I am actually in a position to pay for an entire meal.” I paused for emphasis, noting that if this were an old English invitation for courting they most definitely wouldn’t have made mention of their financial state.

“However” I continued “Due to our major proximity and schedule differences, this may prove difficult. So I cordially invite you for dinner at a time of your choosing to be wined and dined at your pleasure and my expense.”

I looked at Ebony and back at the email, back at Ebony again and burst out laughing. “He wants to take me to dinner.” 

post 20 : prince charming

My phone vibrates under my fingers and I sigh. Everyone I like is already here and I can’t be bothered with anybody else. I read the message before checking who it is from.

“Out tonight?” It asks. My eyes flicker upwards and I gasp involuntarily. I read his name over and over to make sure I have it right.

“Yes.” I type, consider elaborating, and decide better of it.

“I’m watching the rugby in Brisbane. I might be heading out later.” He tells me, as though I’ve asked; because he knows I care.

“Well, let me know if you want to catch up for a drink.” I hesitate, knowing I will come to regret this. I press the ‘send’ button. Fuck it.

*******

“I like your hair.” He tells me, an hour later. “It looks lovely long.” I grew it for you, Owen.

“What are you doing here?” Seriously, what is he doing here?

“I come here.” He says, missing the point. “I come to Brisbane, for rugby, and I have friends here. Blake lives here.” He points at his friend and I roll my eyes, grab his cheeks, softly squeeze and turn his face to mine.

“Why are you here now, with me?” I let go.

“Well” he smiles “I messaged you to say I was in town, and you replied saying to let you know if I wanted…” he starts and I cut him off.

“I knew I would regret that!” I giggle and he joins me, completely aware of how much of a sucker I am for him.

I am introduced to Blake and quickly calculate that, based on the fact that they met while Owen lived in England, he is probably Owen’s oldest and longest friend. He doesn’t have many of those, having moved country so many times and Blake was probably very important to him. I wonder why he brought him here.

Owen leaves to get drinks and I turn to Blake, feeling comfortable with him already and repeat the question I’d posed to Owen. “What is he doing here, Blake, what does he want?” I struggle to hide the hint of concern in my voice. All self-preservation went out the window the minute I saw him and I feel vulnerable.

He smiles at me. “He wants you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous please” I joke. “You and I both know perfectly well that Owen Edwards doesn’t have the faintest idea what he wants.”

He laughs knowingly. “Well, he told me he wants you.”

“You know, I want to believe you, I really do.” I tell him, leading him to a seat outside that is more like a bed, and we sit with our feel our in front of us and lean against the wall. “But I know Owen.”

“He’s different now.” He is genuine, sincere. He looks at me intently and focused.

“I wish I could believe that was true.”

Owen returns and sits down next to me, a little too close and not close enough; he reaches out to touch my hair. That one instant is all it takes and again after frustrating again I am his. Still, it is probably necessary to protect myself like I have not done before so I attempt a fierce and mildly comical approach.

“What are you doing?” I yell at him, laughing at the same time and pushing him away. “Don’t touch me.” He laughs with me and moves his hand from my hair, immediately placing it over mine in my lap and squeezing softly. “Don’t touch me!” I repeat, taking his hand again and chucking it back at him. He giggles. He isn’t used to this, especially from me and I have a feeling that he is now going to enjoy the challenge of winning back my affections; a challenge he has already succeeded in, as if he doesn’t know.

“What do you want Owen Edwards?!” I demand. “Why are you touching me? You’re not supposed to touch me!” Beside him I can see Blake laughing. I am still yelling but it’s at me really, because I know that he doesn’t deserve another chance, but that he will get one.

He looks at me, reading my thoughts exactly and leans his forehead against mine, gently stroking the side of my face and tells me “I want you” in a whisper so quiet against my lips that I just catch it on his breath.

“You’re going to go away again, I know you are.” My voice is desperate, either begging him not to do this again, or begging him to stay this time, I am not sure which.

He lifts my chin up to look at me properly. “I know I treated you badly. I was a jerk, I really was. I was still in love with her, and you were someone I could see myself in a relationship with and it scared the shit out of me.” I wasn’t expecting such honesty or even an explanation at all, let alone what was almost an apology.

“I know this, Owen. I don’t know what’s changed now though.”

“I’m not in love with her anymore.” He tells me; a statement with meaning that does change everything.

“I was done here. I was done with you.” I say, realising it is a lie as soon as the words escape my mouth and hoping that I have convinced him it was true. Hell, I had convinced myself. He says nothing, only looks at me with a hope that asks if he’s not too late. We are silent for a while, our heads leaning against each other’s for support and for strength.

“And I don’t think you’re a jerk.” I add, because even though he’d said that he ‘was’ I knew he still thought it possible that I think he ‘is’.”

“Yes you do.” My point exactly.

“No, Owen. You made some jerk moves, sure. You didn’t treat me well necessarily. But I understood why, and you were honest with me, I appreciated that. I don’t think that a person’s worst actions have to define them.”

He seems surprised at this. “Well” he says slowly. “Thank you.” He looks at me for a long time until his eyes are blurred over, lost in thought. “I’m sorry” he says, snapping out of his daze. “I got lost. I’m finding it really hard not to kiss you.” He tells me, shaking his head.

“Don’t…” I start to tell him as his lips meet mine. I can’t help it; I kiss him back. I close my eyes and melt into him, allowing the butterflies in my stomach to flourish.

“You’re going to be the death of me Owen Edwards.”

*******

While Blake is getting drinks a girl named Stephanie comes over to us. “Excuse me” she says, polite. “Where did your friend go?” They had been undressing each other from across the room while Blake was trying to focus on our earlier conversation.

“He’ll be back.” I tell her. “He’s just gone to get drinks. Do you want us to send him over to you?”

“Yes please, thank you.” She smiles and turns around before realising she’s forgotten something. “You two look really good together.” She adds.

“Don’t encourage him, Stephanie!” I order, laughing. I look at Owen who has a huge smile on his face.

“We do look good together, don’t we?” He adds cheekily. She laughs and walks away and I backhand him playfully across the chest and kiss his face.

“I hate you.” I tell him, pushing him away.

“I know.”

Blake comes back bearing beverages, which he hands around and we tell him about Stephanie. He leaves straight away and brings back with him not only Stephanie, but her friend, too. The three of them are engrossed in conversation before even sitting. Owen and I watch him work his magic for a while and then he turns his focus to me.

“So” He starts, as though he’d been thinking about what could possibly convince me to trust him again. 

“What you need is a big gesture, to show you that I’m serious.”

“I don’t need anything from you.”

“And that’s what I love about you.” He says; excited as though he has just found a girl he is developing a crush on for the first time. “But that’s what it’ll take to convince you.”

“It’ll take something. I don’t really see you as the big gesture kind of guy, though.” Another lie.

“I can do big gestures. I can whisk you away to anywhere in the world; wherever you want to go.”

“I know you can, Owen” I hesitate. “But you won’t.” I don’t need him to take me half way across the world. I don’t even want that, all I want is a little time, a little consistency.

“Did you know,” he tells me “That when Lucy and I broke up and she went home, I bought a ticket and flew to the other side of the world, knocked on her door and asked her to come back?”

I am silent for a moment. “No. No I did not know that.” Who is this person sitting beside me? I feel I don’t know him at all.

“I loved her.” He shrugs.

“You perhaps deserve a little more credit than I am giving you.”

“Big gestures I can do. Following up is my downfall.”

“It’s not enough. Following up is the most important part.”

“I know.”

“You can try to win my affections” I tell him, brightening up. “But you’re going to have to do a really good job at it” I warn, hoping that the challenge tempts. “You have competition now.”

“Can I start with asking you to dinner?”

“Maybe.” I shrug dismissively and grin at him through a sideways glance.

Suddenly he jumps up, is almost immediately at the foot of the bed-like lounge kneeling in front of me, his arms out dramatically to the sides and asks again loudly, in a tone that is a mix of desperation and confidence “Please, will you let me take you to dinner?” I feel a redness creep up my neck and onto my cheeks. I look at him, shocked, and then down, then back up and I giggle, putting my hands over my face. I am aware that everyone in the room is watching, waiting eagerly for my response, and that his arms are still outstretched.

“Come out to dinner with me!” He yells again, this time full of confidence, almost breaking into a laugh but somehow managing to hold it together.

I take my hands away from my face and look up. “Maybe!” I shout back at him. “Maybe I’ll go to dinner with you!”

He tries one more time; his head tilting to the side unintentionally. “Let me take you to dinner?” It was a softly spoken question this time and sweet, hard to resist.

I grab his hands and pull him towards me, push him to the side when he almost lands on top and Shh him. I tell him again in a whisper “Maybe. Maybe I’ll go to dinner with you.”

“He leans over and kisses my nose.”

*******

“Okay.” I say. “I’m going back to my friends now.”

“Stay for a little bit longer.” He asks, looking at me with the eyes I’d too often given into.

“I have to go.” My third and final lie for the evening. I stand before I let him stop me.

“I’m going to follow you.” He warns.

“No, you’re not. You’re going to let me go and be fiercely independent like I need to be. You’re going to stay here. With Blake, right Blake?”

“Right.” Blake agrees without consideration.

“But how am I supposed to let you go?” He asks, baffled. “Look at you.” He glances up and down my body obviously; appreciatively, making me blush.

“You just watch me leave.” I say, pointing to the door. You’ve done it many, many times before Owen.

It is at this point that I see Blake, Stephanie and Stephanie’s friend looking up at me, obviously curious as to why I would possibly leave. “It’s okay guys.” I tell them, clearly over exaggerating for emphasis. “He does have my number; he can contact me if he really wants to.” They smile; relief.

“You know” Owen starts. “I would much rather take you for a walk through Brunswick Street, holding your hand and generally wooing you.”

“Soon.”

“Soon like now?”

“Goodbye Owen.” I talk away fast, before I change my mind.

                

post 19 : life is a vicious cycle

The religious are addicted to God and to faith. The fat are to food as are the drunk to alcohol and the unsatisfied to sex.

It starts with a fear. Perhaps a fear of the unknown or of failure or change. Of that teacher that bullies you in math class. A fear of rejection. Of the abusive boyfriend your mum now brings home or the dog that you pass on the way to the bus. Of abandonment, or being alone.

The fear leads to worry; a reaction to the fear, which in turn creates more fear and, accordingly; more worry. You start to create little habits like flicking a light switch seven times or counting the stripes on the zebra crossing each time you’re walking over it. You avoid the cracks in the pavement and certain numbers because they don’t feel right anymore. As though out of no where, you’ve created a dysfunctional defence in an attempt to disassociate from the pain and escape the uncomfortable.

Next comes the too-late realisation that these compulsions, this counting meticulously and straightening and cleaning and picking and colour coding and pressing of buttons are actually addictions and you feed on them. What was once an act sought for relief is now what you rely on for normality. It is a fierce dependence and it rages. It is a certainty. 

What once was something you created to gain control now controls you and you’re in a permanent state of craving, a relentless pursuit. You’re addicted to being addicted and you don’t even remember why you started in the first place. 

Psychologists will try and make you remember; tell you that in order to move forward you must first heal the past but they don’t know the truth. The truth is that it doesn’t matter. It won’t stop. You are addicted. An addict.

Whatever you felt before is now replaced by an anxiety that eats at your insides, that makes you claw at your stomach and leaves you with a lingering desperation, a need for calm; for sweet, sweet relief. 

post 18 : all the places he wouldn't touch me

My skin burned in all the places he wouldn’t touch me. My skin burned everywhere. Each heart beat promptly followed the one before and raged inside my chest. I considered leaving; it would have been the smart thing to do. Shaking the ridiculous thought from my messy head I stayed; once again choosing self-destruction over self-preservation like there was any choice and not regretting it one little bit. I closed my eyes, considered sleeping and then opened them again quickly when I couldn't stand the thought of wasting any precious little time I had, and wondered how soon this would end. 

post 17 : motive

It was brought to my attention last night the motive of a kiss, a topic I had not often considered from the other side. Sure, I know my own reasons and they are not always, in fact are very rarely pure. “At least you know my motive” he told me, as if it was a privilege to do so, and it was. Albeit not a sound motive, an honest one and I stopped to think that he was a lot like me, actually.

Had I known the motive before, really? I’d always assumed I was the motive, arrogant as that is. A little ignorant, perhaps. It was a competition between him and his brother, between him and his friend, between him and his enemy all rolled into one. I’d had relations with said three people and he wanted a taste, as though he’d been left out. Hell, if I had that much motive I’d say it straight up too. What better way to achieve? He of course was going to report back to the brother, friend and enemy after the fact, as if it would have made him win in some way. What I was curious about though, was what defined the winning. If I was to kiss him would it be the feeling it created in him, or the feelings it created in brother, friend and enemy?

“You don’t get to kiss me if that is the motive.” I told him, pride burning, knowing I deserved something more when really; I should have encouraged his honesty. As I said it I wondered: should we reveal our motive, just how much difference would it make? Perhaps everyone would be so offended that it would diminish human contact significantly. Perhaps we would learn to accept it as normal and not be so gosh darn sensitive. Should we practice full disclosure and as such, escape all spontaneity, if only to avoid the aftermath of inevitably finding out the motive later?

Last night I learnt a truth: more people than me are in it for themselves; they are equally as skilled in the art of attraction and just because you were the focus of their attention a few times, just because they took the time to know you and “like” you does not mean they want to continue to do so. It means just as little with them as it does at times with me. It’s a harsh thing, that truth but a truth none the less, and the less comfortable side of which to be on. In this way, he is the boy version of me and I don’t know whether this makes me like him more or less.

Surely, when it comes to kissing and other such behaviours, with reasons such as lust, a point to prove, simply because you can, loneliness, because you’re not “supposed” to, because there is no one else, because the person you actually want is unavailable, or simply because it feels really fucking good, the reason “I genuinely like you” is bound to come up a little less than the average girl would expect and want. I rethought what I told him: I don’t like this guy. He doesn’t like me. He is deliciously attractive and wearing a dapper little bow tie, which is all kinds of winning. What does it matter, really? It is only a kiss.

What he was asking of me was not behaviour a “morally sound” person would engage in. There is, I have heard, an unwritten bro code, which states explicitly that a girl is not to come between friends. A girl is especially not to come between brothers. For the guy, well he is not supposed to encourage such behaviour much less partake in it. Many friendships have been lost over this code. So what do I do, when he is asking me to break rule number one on his behalf?  

Here’s a question or two: why are people so afraid of being hated? Should it be our intention to go around collecting friends like some sort of fan club, desperate for approval? This is how it works: neutral minded people attract neutral minded people. These are the agreeable type; those afraid of conflict or challenge and as a matter of opinion, there are too many of them. These people collect said fan club of friends and they will have a lot of them, sure. But here’s the thing, if you have too many friends, you’re doing something wrong, for what would the world be if no one stood up for anything, if world leaders didn’t care enough to make a stance, if all people were neutral on topics of importance? How people can be so void of opinion and passion is a foreign concept to me. But I’m afraid we’ve strayed off topic some. Moving on.

Here is another truth: if you have an impure motive you should prepare yourself for judgement, or else not act upon it. Well, let me rephrase. You don’t have to prepare yourself for judgement but ready or not, it will come. We are free to choose our actions, however what we are not free from is the consequence of these actions. If it is your intention as it is mine, to go against social or moral standards, then judgement will surely follow. The rest is up to you. Will you conform, aware of the consequences? Replace original thought, idea or action with the one most widely accepted and refuse originality because it is a little uncomfortable? Will you accept the loss of a friend because you refuse to apologise or regret? Will you not only accept, but embrace it, as those who judge you are not your friend. Or, heaven forbid, will you delight in being deleted off some form of social media? (That really hurt guys, honestly) *Rolls eyes*.

My advice is simple. Never crumble to resentment. Those who judge are entitled to their opinion. Remember this: you never, ever want to strive to be average. Not having an opinion, not having passion will make you such. If you wish to infuriate your haters, stay cool. There is nothing more frustrating to someone who wishes to impose guilt on you than to remain calm. If you let someone anger you, they have conquered you. Do not resent them, for they know no other way. Do not expect anything more from them. We already know my opinions on expectations and happiness. Sure, the life you will be living will be at times uncomfortable. But as opposed to complying, as opposed to merely existing, wasting away, extinguishing well, there is no choice. You will be free.

Even it makes me disagreeable; I shall do what I want. I will play, with people I am not “supposed” to play with, no doubt. And I will like it, for aren’t your younger years a time for selfishness and indulgence? Aren’t they a time to immerse in everything possible thing? Aren’t they a time to explore and to be a little naughty?

It has become an art; last night as with every other, I didn’t try to push the thoughts that disagreed with conventional standards from mind. I no longer repel my desires. To do so is bad for the soul. I leaned forward and kissed him, of course, for there was no good reason to repress such a natural instinct.

And while we’re on the topic, let’s be honest: all the best people are hated anyway.

post 16 : enemies

It’s happened again, of course. I’ve come to expect the average life span of a friendship is one year precisely. I’ve come to accept it.

It is my intention to break free of the social norms people place on themselves and each other in order to restrict, to keep in line and to suffocate. I refuse; there are no rules, except those which I make for myself. Evidently this makes me unashamedly ruthless, it makes me independent, fierce and strong, intolerant of sheep and of optimists. It makes me eternally realistic. It makes me disagreeable. And it’s acceptable to be this way, as long as you are this way silently. People don’t like to hear your opinion if it is not the same as theirs; they don’t like you doing things they’d consider to be morally incorrect, as if it will tip the perfectly mediocre balance of their mundane lives.

It’s too much effort for people to attempt to alter their views in order to see yours. It’s too much effort for me to passively smile and agree. Oh I could stop, halt my opinions and to consequently cease living and rather, merely exist. They’d certainly like it better that way; pacify the opposing, be rid of conflict and challenge. Be ordinary, as if that is some sort of a life. I love my friends don’t get me wrong but shit, at times it’s barely tolerable.
 

It’s up to me: Do I stay silent and “morally correct” in order to extend said friendship life expectancy? It’s easy for them to disregard me if I don’t. The answer: Fuck no.

So I go. I will be fine, it matters little to me. I will leave and they will think I’m hurt but I am not hurt, only disappointed. But disappointment fades too. Expectations and assumptions are the mother of all fuck ups. How could I have expected more from them; how dare I?

Of one thing I am certain: People love me intensely and then detest me as equally and passionately as the former. Sure, I’ve made some enemies, and good. At least I’ve stood up for something.

But oh no, what about my reputation? Oh that’s right. I don’t care.

post 15 : so this is what it's like to feel

I sit in the hallway on the floor, waiting Chris to arrive. He’d missed this morning’s class but had called to say he would be here this afternoon. I rock myself back and forwards, knees against my chest and arms around them tight; not talking, not diverting my eyes from a stain on the carpet. After a long time I feel a hand touch my face and see his shoes step onto the stain. Relief. He leans down in front of me, smiling; kind. “Do you want to go for a walk?” He offers. I nod.

We wander to the couches in front of the library and sit on the same one, turning in slightly to face each other and he takes my hand, squeezes a little. “What happened?” He is worried. “Lachlan called earlier to say you were sad, but he didn’t know what to do.” Sweet Lachie.

“It was awful, Chris. The whole thing was an uncomfortable mess. He avoided being left alone with me and when we did get a moment together Tom was close by so we couldn’t even act how we would if we were alone. Our conversation was distorted and edgy and eventually, I think he just tried to stay as far away from me as he could. And then, I cried one night. What an idiot. I cried. I didn’t mean to, and I especially didn’t mean for him to see, but Lola saw and she told him and he seemed concerned but he didn’t try to help and he definitely thinks I’m annoying which, you know, I am and New Jake told me a fairy tale to try and make it better…” He is staring at me, obviously missing half of the information I am throwing at him in my emotional wreck of a rant.

“Keep going.” He prompts gently, waiting for me to get to the point.

“He still tells me that nothing can happen ‘now’ or ‘here’. It’s so frustrating. Can’t he just tell me that he doesn’t like me and get it over with?”

“But he does like you.” He told me.

“Oh, really?” I am half sarcastic, half snappy. How would he know? I sigh and wait for an answer that won’t come and even if it did, would be hollow in validity. “I don’t know anymore. I thought he did. I thought he just needed time but now...” my voice trails off. This wasn’t a situation that I could be flippant about; I couldn’t just assume he liked me, when quite possibly his feelings had deteriorated with time and distance. I couldn’t just assume that he didn’t though, either.

“Maybe it’s not enough for him to like you, Alice. He’s obviously going through some things. This certainly shouldn’t be enough for you. You deserve more.” If I am so deserving why can’t I have what I want?

I want to make Chris understand that Owen isn’t just some crush you can push to the side and forget about when the feeling isn’t obviously reciprocated, that I have to hold on to any hope, however fragile, however fleeting. It is getting increasingly hard; balancing between hope and actuality, and it seems the longer I continue to hold onto hope, the more ignorant I appear.

“Do you know that I’ve had 30 boyfriends, Chris?” A good place to start.

“You’ve had 30 boyfriends?” He repeats, a little shocked at the figure, perhaps, but not all that surprised.

“Yes. Approximately. Ebony made me count them one day. Regardless, that’s the equivalent of 3 per year, for 10 years” I say, doing the simple maths for him. “More, even, because there’s been a couple of long term relationships in there too. And I’ve only been dating for about 8 years. That’s not the point. The point is; I ended it with all except one. I am the one that breaks hearts, not the other way around. Hell, it’s what I’m known for; it’s what’s talked about at family barbeques. I am the daughter and the cousin and the sister and the niece that damages the hearts of unsuspecting and naive boys. They’re all “Whose heart have you broken this week?” and “Well, there goes another one!” and “Aw the poor thing, he doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into, does he?” as if I should agree with them. And the thing is; they’re right. I’ve done it so often it’s become a certainty, like my auntie not showering and my cousin’s increasing weight gain. I’ve broken up with boyfriends for the most trivial of reasons and each time I do; I feel nothing. I’ve even started to warn guys before they get involved with me. How self-loathing, arrogant and assured is that?”

“What kind of reasons?” He inquires, missing the point.

“Once, I broke up with a boyfriend because he gave me too many compliments. Another time it was because I didn’t want to spend Valentine’s Day in a relationship. Stupid Valentine’s Day.”

“Are you serious?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” He laughs at me and smiles because he knows I am telling the truth.

“I was with Hayden for a year before went to England. I didn’t cry when he left. I didn’t even think about him anymore, I didn’t miss him. He didn’t have a girlfriend for two years after we broke up. What we had together had meant something I’m sure of it, but I wasn’t in it. I hardly even remember it. I was with Tom for a year, too. No tears, no longing; nothing. I thought I was emotionally void. I wished that I could have a broken heart so I would know what it was like to feel. I wanted something that was real, and so clear that it was impossible to ignore, something so strong that I would remember every single moment of it, something that I could replay over and over in my head because it was too good to forget about. I wanted this.”

I turn serious. “He broke me, Chris. I used to feel nothing and now I can’t stop. I crave him so fucking much. Everyone thinks he’s a jerk for treating me like this, but he’s not. He’s broken, too. I know it’s not his intention but he keeps doing it. Every time I see him it happens and I leave him filled with dread because I know I won’t see him again for another few months. What if he doesn’t feel it like I do? What if it never happens again? I hate this, it’s all consuming.”

“I know he did.” He says pulling me close to lean against his chest and holding on, giving me everything he can to try and make it better. To my surprise, my eyes have dried up; I blur them over and stare into the distance. I think perhaps I’ve used up all the tears I had in me. 

post 14 : resentment and reciprocation

I wonder if he resents me for loving him the way I resent others for loving me. I wonder at what point you are allowed to claim love, not infatuation if only as a sign of respect; that you don’t actually know the person well enough to love them and you shouldn’t claim to. I wonder if this will make us an impossibility; the more I grow to love him, the more he will push me away. Hell, it’s what I do. I wonder if it actually is possible to stop. It has been possible in the past, sure, but was that love? I wonder if all of those cliché sayings that I hate so much are true: is love forever? Surely not.

The more lingering question is, though: can one really exist without the other, can you love without being loved in return?

In Law School we are taught that everything ‘depends’. Things depend on the facts, of the motive, of the definitions of the words in the legislation. There is a definition for everything. We express things precisely, categorise them into boxes so that they are easily cut and copied to fit into life where we deem necessary. Love, though. How does one define love? A dictionary meaning would suggest that it is a “profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person”; a “sexual passion or desire” but surely passion and desire mean different things to different people, surely love means different things to different people, and therefore is a feeling which escapes all definition.  
         

I know for certain that exclusively to love the way someone makes you feel is not love at all. I wonder also, if to love unrequitedly is not to love at all. I would hope not, but I am not sure.

Some are of the opinion that love creates love; that it is circular. I tend to disagree, though believe that some prefer it to be so, if only to satisfy their vanity. Do we slip somewhere along the way, and fall into love because someone loves us? Do we push ourselves into something reciprocated? Do we enjoy being loved more than we enjoy love itself? Sure, this creates comfort, a feeling of being wanted, a mere satisfactory white picket fence life together. But is it love? If it is, I want no part in it.

Was it Jane Austin that said: “There are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement”? Now this, I believe. I don’t believe reciprocation will always unfold, but I believe that it feels fucking good to love, to really love and I would choose that, every time. 

post 13 : the topic of love

Let us indulge a little on the topic of love.

I guess I have always felt more comfortable loving than being loved. Whether this is my fiercely private nature unable to let someone in; or unwilling to, or whether I am simply more interested in knowing someone thoroughly and choosing to occupy an, albeit momentary, unwavering love for them despite their flaws, however naive, then having them know mine without the reassurance they won't judge me also. I'm not sure. Perhaps it's both. Perhaps they are the same thing. Either way, I have a tendency to dive well into knowing someone; delicious and refreshing. And for the most, they will let me.

"If not for the comfort of love” is a statement that makes no sense to me. Love is not comforting. Love is demanding and cruel; a self-sacrificing precious thing but for the purposes of merely being precious, a thing people cling to and as such it is also an ever lingering risk of loss. And then there is loss. If not reciprocated; each side equally torturous as the other.

Anger begins to build when I start to notice a person's affection. Be it a defence mechanism or otherwise, I will change my vibe of slight seduction to frank rudeness, verging on insult in order to have them change their mind, as if it is a decision for them to change their mind. It is a contradiction, really, because it was my vibe that placed the thought in their head in the first place. They see this as playful, hard to get even, but they mistake my change in attitude for this almost as an excuse so that they don't have to take the advice that I lay out straight for them; if you continue, you'll ruin this. You can't have everything. If you try, you'll end up with nothing. Though I am sure it is not possible for most to shut down emotion as easily as I do; they continue. I say "they", because if it is one thing, it is a pattern.

The anger increases gradually until they express their feelings and I am forced to either feign a calm and continue until the inevitable phase of "I can't stand you" begins, or cut it off there, ruining the friendship before it has begun and missing the opportunity of getting to know the ins and outs of someone new; my favourite way to pass the time. Which to choose when I know myself well enough to know three things:

1. The inevitable phase of "I can't stand you" will being. It will begin as soon as the desperation begins; the attempt at manufacturing returned feelings through fake cuteness or fake sulking and a general increased annoyance in attitude. It is a pathetic attempt at forcing one into liking another, and subsequently pushing them further away. It is at this point were respect dulls.

2. I will adore them to a point, though the adoration will quickly drain due to unwanted affection and said annoyances.

3. The fact that I adored them in the first place causes more hurt and confusion than if I didn't at all.

But would I stop it at the start, knowing what I know; prevent the cycle? No. And neither would they.

As I am the one that pre-empts said cycle each time, is it not then my responsibility to provide a little for-warning? If I do, I risk the look of arrogance. If I don't, I risk their dignity; their preservation. As a general rule, I choose to not. So what then, does this make me? 

post 12 : scream

Reluctantly, I get in the car with Jake. After this morning’s antics this could be awkward. We spend the first 15 minutes in silence. I stare out my window to the clear field that just last night was congested with tents and cars. I look in my rear view mirror and see Owen. I look ahead of me and see Tom. To my left is Jake and I want nothing more than to run to the field and scream.

We have moved maybe 10 meters so I put my car into neutral and tuck my leg up onto the seat. It is hot; the wind blows my hair over my face. It makes me think of the night we walked to the beach, instead of to home. We had been out and we were drunk. It was probably close to 3am, autumn and it was hot. We stood ankle deep in the sea laughing loudly, kicking the water up at each other and once we were adequately soaked, started with the mud, collecting handfuls and hurling them but falling short each time. It was so windy that I didn’t see him come towards me through my hair; I only felt him push it away from my face, his hands wet and rough, and say “There, that’s better” sticking my hair to my cheeks with mud and lulling me into a false sense of security before tackling me into the water. We stayed until the sun came up and we built a sandcastle. 

I grab for the hair tie on my wrist and take my hair, throw it up in a bun on the top of my head. I feel the tears hit my cheeks and think fuck this, not again. 

“Alice?” Jake asks, reaching out in an act of comfort and touching my leg.

“Don’t touch me!” I scream at him, and his hand is back in his lap in half an instant. “I’m sorry” I say, hating myself and turn the car off, throw him the keys and run as far away as I can before my legs collapse. I drop to my knees in the middle of the field and scream into my hands to muffle the sound.

*******

The cars have probably moved but I don’t suppose that matters; they won’t leave without me. I sit down. The grass is surprisingly soft for having had so many people trample it. The sun is hot on my back and I’d prefer it on my face so I lie down, palms up, eyes closed and let it burn.

It’s Lola that comes to get me. She leans down, a shadow darkening the black of my eyelids. She touches my hair with the tenderness her brother used to. “Hey” she says, soothing “it’s time to go.” I don’t want to open my eyes. I don’t want to move but she says something that makes me.

“I’m sorry he hurt you.”

I let her take my hand and pull me up. We walk back together in silence.

“Are you alright?” Jake asks me when I get back into the car. We are still close to Tom’s van so I assume he’s moved the car forward and then gone back around to the passenger’s seat.

“No.” I tell him. “I’m not alright.” But then again, neither is he.