after Olivia Gatwood
I was once 24 and vowed to never cry again. Never to cry again over a boy that broke my heart. But I did cry, I’ll admit. I cried quietly in my bed so my sister couldn’t hear me. I sobbed, I wrote so many Notes on my phone, countless poems on this blog. But I still did all the things that I thought proved that I lived in the alternate universe where I am unfazed by men who do not love me. I biked long distances, learned to expertly navigate my city and its gourmet shops, procured a roomy basket that fit my groceries and other knick knacks for errands. I lived a life. I got tan over the summer, I weaved through cars, I laughed, I bought new sandals.
I read dozens of books every year. I made time for all my friends. I strengthened my friendships. I wrote, I reflected. I interrogated every part of myself and my grief, reran through every part of that relationship, that heartbreak to see where I went wrong, where we went wrong. Tried to savor what I could… memories that have since browned at the corners or have become lost to the wind. I don’t think too much of it. It’s important to let go. For years I was so afraid of that. To forget some part of him. To forget the gestures of love he had extended my way, as if I would forget my own self worth if I didn’t carefully pack and unpack those moments in their cream manila envelope that has since gotten dirty with fingerprints. And when I turned 25, 26, 27 I got into a rhythm, didn’t I? I traveled. I got thin, I got my teeth fixed. I got pretty. And for whom? I said myself. I said I did it for myself because I didn’t do it for him. I set goals for myself. Fitness goals, career goals. I also lost myself along the way but you can’t say it was because I waited for him to kiss me. Because I burned photographs or slashed tires. No, I lost myself along the way by watching movies, shows, listening to music. Maybe to get lost in my thoughts, maybe to drown them out. But also with the intentions to curate a perfect personality. To find myself. To optimize myself. I did find myself through that, impressively I will say. I was always someone insecure about my tastes in culture. I didn’t want to be too basic, too simple, too girly, too tryhard. Too anything. I wanted it just right but never could put my finger on the pulse of it.
When he left, I rebelled. And in my rebellion, once the dust settled, I inadvertently did find myself. I found podcasts that made me feel more comfortable with my upbringing. I felt less shame with having grown up with less. I felt less shame for my flaws. In fact, I learned to accept them through the osmosis of others’ self-acceptance of their own circumstances. I went through a bewildering bout of streetwear fever and that faded away. I found music that I actually liked, because it was music that he wouldn’t have liked. But I also found music I liked that he would have liked. I felt more in tune with what I didn’t like: country music. Which he loved. For a while I thought there was something wrong with me when I didn’t want to camp out in the middle of no where to sing along to croons that never struck a nostalgic chord with me. I found books that I loved, and also found books I hated. I became more in tune with fashion, but that only happened during the pandemic. I thought fashion was the panacea to all my problems… genuinely! I bought bright and fun dresses and pieces, all carefully curated, as a reflection of myself and also as a key to my happiness. It did give me this temporary high but it was so fleeting and unfulfilling that the brutal realization kept me in denial. I didn’t want to have to admit it and I never did have to until the pandemic hit and I realized that I dressed for others. Now, I will admit that there are still a few pieces that I regret not having bought during the pandemic and we’re in 2022, so who is to say that my attachment to fashion is entirely superficial? There is staying power in it, in my connection to it. Fashion is a way that I express myself. When I dress well I feel more confident. It’s certainly not the only thing that gives me confidence but it can be the perfect pick me up. Easy.
But all these things… I suppose they would exist in this alternate universe, at least I’d argue it, though my heart and intent would have been in the wrong place. I did these things out of heartbreak. I found myself when the dust settled in the turmoil of heartbreak. Does the ends justify the means? The means were supposed to be more noble… but surpriiiise!
Ah, and here we are. Funny, isn’t it? Somehow I’m back on the other side. You know, the other universe where I waste hours and hours waiting for him to kiss me. Here, I write notes about him. Here, I go on reddit to look for answers, watch YouTube videos I wouldn’t otherwise, talk with friends about things that I havne’t talked about in years. I buried that heartbreak from 24. I was so much wiser, I grew up! I feel like the pandemic robbed me of a few years of my 20s but to be honest, I was the biggest culprit. I robbed way more years trying to be re-engineer myself into someone who was unfazed by heartbreak, someone who was going to be even better from heartbreak. What I got in return was skyrocketing anxiety, this wistful but deep set dissatisfaction with certain parts of my life that I’ve been able to brush away, because I am unfazed after all. Nothing can hurt me after all. Men can’t hurt me. He is out of my life and I stand tall now, don’t I?
Here is in this other universe, I suppose I feel embarrassed because I have acknowledged my presence in what some might call a reverting stage. No one admits to coming back here where they pine over men who don’t love them. No one wants to declare that they’ve moved back to that makeshift home where their happiness isn’t necessarily dictated by someone else, but it has an outsized influence over it. I was laughing watching some video giving advice about relationships because I was doing the complete opposite in my situation, but my intuition tells me that it’s the right move for me even if this video with hundreds of thousands of views says otherwise. I am a wiser person aren’t I? Maybe I skipped a few steps.
Sometimes I close my eyes and I can imagine I can smell him and it’s addicting. I’m not sure why I like the scent so much. I never really think about the future because I’m not sure what to expect. I am more terrified of the near future than the long-term future. I wonder if we will remain friends through all of this. That’s a line I have told many people. I want there to be a happy ending but I’m not sure how that bubble of my wildest dreams bursts. Is it naivete? I’ve always chastised and beat myself down for being naive but maybe it’s not the best way to live. But this life also feels like a prison. Not knowing how this works out. Feeling conflicted in my feelings. My feelings are legitimate, I know. I also know the truth of the situation. That I don’t want whatever this is currently. That I want more. And the only way I will be happy is if I stop compromising and I end this and accept the fact that the hopes I have for this arrangement are not going to come true. Or if they somehow came true, it won’t be this summer, very likely. And because of that, I am torturing myself. And I will always feel a dissonance between what I want and what I have. And so everything will always feel juuuuust out of touch. And I don’t have the hours to send in the mail, to hand to the girl sitting outside of the bar. I don’t have the time to read the novel in a day, to have arguments about God or a good night’s sleep. Because I am preoccupied with thinking about men who do not love me.
So I sit here at my laptop and I write this opus. I write what I have always known. That I’d have to come back here when I was on the other side. But maybe what I’ve truly been denying myself was whether or not I really made it to the other side, really made it to the other side of the universe. Or if I fooled myself into thinking that I reached some type of nirvana that felt like I was unfazed.
Because we know that I was always fazed. I broke formidably over his departure. I have written the word count of a novel for someone who did not love me. And yet I grew as a person. And maybe what I’m trying to say is that I will grow from this, I will grow during this. I don’t have to make it to the other side to do that. I can learn to love. I can learn to forgive. I can learn to speak up for what I want. I can learn to negotiate. I can learn to live.
I can learn to live. Because I wasn’t really living when I thought I’d made it to the alternate universe. I was just protecting my pride and nursing myself from all my hurt. But I didn’t live. And I came to New York to live, didn’t I? And not only that, I came to New York for Joan Didion’s NY, that brutal, unflinching, unforgiving foray into living my life, complete with all the heartbreak, love, joy, hope, peace, salvation, forgiveness, tears, fulfillment, and closure that I’ve quietly sought. It’s here. This is the universe. There was never an alternate one. It’s just here that I need to make my home.
tenminutethoughts 