Something tangible

there are nights on which i crave you. i can almost feel the soft wetness of your tongue, as it traced  the outline of my lips. i remember licking mine in return (something which was most uncharacteristic of me). but i cannot feel it anymore; the memories are fading into pictures, losing their tactility. i have told you before that sometimes all of it feels terrifying unreal to me. like it didn’t happen. like i never went to that house with green walls or got pulled into the rain. like i never nuzzled up to you in my drunken haze, for godknows what reason (i noticed you. i noticed you and thought you were nice). i remembered an evening the other day, it rose up in my mind unbidden- i hadn’t even been thinking of you at the time. i’d come over to steal an hour between the time i finished my work at the slum, and the time i returned home to the family. i was exhausted from the long sweaty bus ride and metro ride, and my libido was working overtime, whispering things in my ear. i got there and i remember we went into the bedroom and found roommate number two passed out on the mattress. we went back out into the living room then, and spent that evening just lying next to each other, swatting away the mosquitoes, talking, occasionally kissing. the dog was in the same room as us, tied up next to the window, where she eventually settled down. i remember the walls vaguely (were they green?), and the slow whirring of the ceiling fan. mostly i remember this sense of calm and peace. you fit me like one of those old, holey, threadbare t-shirts that you insist on wearing. no making out happened that night, but i remember feeling happy just to be next to you. i think this is the image or the feeling i fall back on at the times we react violently- like matter and anti-matter, as you said.

i don’t really get this open relationship thing at a practical level. theoretically, i’ve always been all for it, but i’m a lot less cool than i like to think i am. so i have a date, but the guy might just be gay (given my past streak with white guys), and i was really chuffed about it, but now i feel really weird. i mean, here i am, like completely fucking obviously in love with you but i’m going to grab a “quick bite” with him. i don’t know how to feel- i need to have a mental map of things, and i just don’t know where this situation charts. but you know, we’re on different continents, our lives may never physically intersect, and i’m only 21. i have to live and meet all the people i’m supposed to, right?

this is a nothing post, this is an “i’m frustated with the shitty boston housing market post”, this is an “i’m home on friday night post”. the truth is i just wanted to write something sexy. sexy is hard to come by from continents away.

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Insert epiphany here

Sometimes the person it is the hardest to love, is yourself. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I was born with a strange cocktail of chemicals in my brain that gives me a predisposition towards self loathing. Who knows? The point is that I have finally, finally come to realize that loving yourself or self love and all that jazz isn’t really some pissy bullshit that women’s magazines talk about, and people with too much time on their hands think about. It’s something that is absolutely necessary and essential. I’m beginning to realize exactly how much the way I feel about myself and my own feelings of inadequacy and lack of self worth colour my interactions with other people, the way I react to situations and my relationships- essentially my whole life. So, this really is more a matter of utmost urgency, and less a matter to be brought up on a rainy day when I’m bored. Has this insecurity, and relentless hungering for more,better,best spurred me on to achieve things and led me to the accomplishments I’ve stacked up? Maybe. Probably, even. But I think I’ve reached the point in my life today, where I have a healthy desire to succeed anyway, and this whole inadequacy thing is becoming more of a real problem than a motivation.

So yeah- I guess what I’m saying is, 2012 marks the time when I actively start to work on being okay with myself. No matter how many friends or people tell me that I’m great, I’m not going to really believe it on an intrinsic level because you just can’t rely on others for self-validation.

So, here goes. I have no idea how I’m actually going to get to point Z from point A/idon’tknowwhatthefucki’mdoing but it’s a process, right? Right.

So what do you …

So what do you do when you’ve grown up watching two people who came together after ten years of companionship, and camaraderie and romance, who came together finally- in the face of much opposition- in marriage? When you watched these people slowly fall apart over the years, first like slipping off a cliff, so surreal that you can’t believe that it’s happening, and then in slow motion, and then quick, all of a sudden, freefalling, and then a plateau of dullness. Two people suddenly realizing with dismay, how horribly irreconcilably different they really are. Realizing that you don’t really know someone till you live with them, and have to live with them and their quirks, and fancies, and their adorable absentmindedness day in and day out. You have to take the short temper, and the conventionality, and sink its roots down somewhere tangled up with the frivolousness and nature-loving.

What you do is this: In your own relationships with men, in relationships that appear to be terrifyingly real, you throw your worst self at them. Here, you retort, take my crazy, and my ugly, and my batshit insane and deal with it! When they do, you’re surprised, but not convinced. So you let go even more and let yourself unravel on them. You deliberately air out your morbidity, and your anxiety and the panic attacks, and cling on to them for air, drawing in deep lungfuls. You expect them to recoil, to want space, to slay you with a shrug of indifference. When they don’t, you’re a little bemused. Still you wait. Sooner or later, you’ll push it too far, and they’ll leave you. It’ll suck, and you’ll hurt and bleed, because this is the real-est it’s ever gotten, but deep down, you’ll be vindicated. You were expecting it, of course. You knew. 

So you don’t make the common mistake that most people do in new relationships. You aren’t on your best behaviour, and you don’t pretend to like sports. You don’t faff around like you usually do when you’re trying to impress people and seem cool. You confess to not remembering much of ‘Pulp Fiction’, and express the desire to rewatch it, soon. You confess your feelings of inadequacy and struggle against the fact that you’re hopelessly besotted. You use the word “besotted” in front of them, about them, and feel them smile from halfway across the world. The good things about you slip out unconsciously, like you can’t control them, or restrain yourself. The texts in the middle of an evening (yours) saying “I love you, I love you, I love you. I’m so lucky we met”- that he will wake up to in the morning. The spontaneous squishing of someone that you cannot believe you want to squish, and are allowed to squish. The semi-sexy emails in the middle of the day. The actually worrying about a person, and buying them fruit and making a detour to their place to make sure they’re still breathing. These are the things that pour out of you- words that you cannot stuff back into your mouth, thoughts that translate into sentences before you have time to think, that terribly foolish thing where you include them in your plans for a year later. The good things are unplanned, but your ugly you will fling at them continuously.

“When will you show me?”, he asks one day when you’re talking about a piece you wrote about him. “When I’m convinced you’re not running away”, you say. “I’m not running away, babe.”

You don’t believe him entirely. Yet.

I participated …

I participated in the Bust Casting session at UW’s Women’s Centre today. It was strange but also strangely normal, sitting topless with ten other women I’d never met before, making plaster casts of our breasts. We’re going to paint the casts later this week. It was… liberating. I mean, they’re just…boobs. Everyone has them, no big. Okay, correction- women have them; if men have them, it’s called gynaecomastia. 

Point is, I feel like I’m growing up, ridding myself of a lot of the neuroses and hang-ups that I carry around with me. This can only be a good thing, right?