I hope that I am just a naive twenty-year-old and not a genius. I hope I am wrong. We like to love because we like when the love comes back. I think that’s what we like most about people, is how they make us feel. If it were enough to just love without expectation then house plants and cats would be enough. Strangers would be enough. Books and movies would be enough. These things are places for us to pour ourselves onto, to breathe fire into, to bend and curl ourselves around. But we’re selfish and electric creatures who carry around love like a boomerang.
It turned into one of those days where shit just feels wrong. There’s an air of doom, but not in the dramatic way, just in the unsettling way. The way papers look messy sitting on a desk, the way it gets later and later but your alarm clock stays set for the same early hour. It’s in the way I find old pictures of myself and can see how perfect I was, but not while I was there, and how if only I could look at myself today a year from now and think I am still perfect and how I know I may always hate myself right. now. But not hate in the dramatic way, just in the unsettling way. The way you look at a room you’ve been cleaning for hours only to find that it is even messier, and you have grown tired. I am growing tired. And the mess keeps getting worse. Hours spent looking at plus size models and absorbing them as beautiful, feeling accepted, until I find that even they have a smaller waist than me, and how I’ve never criticized my waist, but now I do every minute. And not criticized in the harsh way, just the defeated way. The way you exhale and stare at the thing you’ve been fighting with for so long and know that nothing is left inside of you. Now I know measurements, and all over again I am separate. I am almost.
I sat out here the morning after our first date. I was so grateful to fall asleep last night; This morning when I opened my eyes, after the wave of fear and sickness moved through me, all I could think was “Not yet, please.” I’m looking at the pond and all I want to do is run, screaming, towards it. I want my chest to burn and my legs to lose feeling. I want to cry and vomit, and I want loud music playing. He wants “it” and not me. I think I should be having fun anyway- I think I should cut my stomach out and leave it at home, let my phone die, dance until someone stops me to say “thank you.”
The truth is, is that I’m terrified. That men only want sex and women are left hungry for something that is made up. That no man can love as fearlessly and as big as I can. That I won’t be able to share my life with someone. That life doesn’t have magic in it. That there are no second chances. No right place right time. No big risks and big pay offs. No fulfillment. No beauty.
I’m terrified that all there is, is survival. And that the best we will ever truly be is “okay.”