I am grateful to feel disappointed that things haven't gone my way. I am grateful to feel.

I need to keep telling myself this because I could so easily slip into despair and get lost in negative emotions instead of being aware of the gift that the universe has given me. In moments of pain and conflict, I want to be able to ask the question "What is the universe trying to teach me?" instead of lamenting over why this seemingly terrible, unfavorable, unpleasant thing is happening. I fall prey to my own emotions very easily if I am not disciplined about the way that I manage my mind. I am trying to be better, trying to be stronger - mostly I am trying to be healthier mentally, and constantly leaning into negative feelings and self-talk is hardly a healthy practice. It is, however, a difficult habit to break especially considering that the only other way that I've dealt with those emotions is to repress them to a point of emotional numbness. 

Up until very recently, I was convinced that I had broken something within myself - that I had exhausted my ability to feel, that I was destined to be cold for the rest of my existence. I had also convinced myself that it was easier that way, that life would be simpler. Unfortunately, I've never been someone to be satisfied by simplicity. I crave depth, I crave complexity, I crave intricate intimacy. I could never choose a simple life or a simple answer - if I did, it would mean living unfulfilled, unchallenged, unstimulated. So it shouldn't have been a surprise to me that I wasn't actually broken, just incredibly sensitive from a past experience and understandably wary of people who could potentially waste my time or hurt me. I still cannot get over the return of what I call the feelings in my chest - the physical manifestations of my emotions in my body; the shaking and vibration of excitement and joy, my heart beating so rapidly to the point where it seems as though other people may actually be able to hear it, the electricity in my fingers, icy tingling through my veins, tightening in my chest as I feel overcome with awe.

I used to feel those things often - looking back on it now, it could almost be compared to a superhero not having learned to control or channel their powers. There was a person who made me feel everything - and when I say everything, I mean I walked around in a daze constantly because it felt like she had cracked the universe open and poured it out on top of me. Everything was drenched in the cosmos, and my world has never looked so surreally beautiful. I wasn't able to think clearly in that time though, I was so drunk on my love for this person - so determined to make her love me that I forgot that it was her decision to make and not mine. When she left my life, she took the stars with her... along with all the feelings in my chest. I was shocked at first, I didn't know how one person could affect me so profoundly. I was confused. I didn't know how I wasn't able to feel things the way that I had always been able to feel them. I got used to it after a while, and kind of gave up on the idea of ever feeling that way about anything or anyone ever again. It became a welcomed reprieve from the pain, I was almost glad for it as it promised that I wouldn't experience heartbreak like that again. I was momentarily protected from my own intense emotions - the Libra won out the Scorpio in me for once.

I got caught off guard and suddenly found myself around someone who allowed me to experience those feelings in my chest. I told them that I was scared... terrified. They didn't understand what I meant by that, I guess. How could I expect anyone to know how my own feelings make me feel, how vivid my own imagination is, how chaotic my mind is? I'm not scared of having feelings for someone because I'm scared of them, I'm scared of myself - I'm scared of my capability to love, I'm scared of my own depth, I'm scared of my intensity, I'm scared of the lengths I will go to for the people I love. 

I don't know how to navigate these feelings. I've spent the better part of four years grieving and healing and protecting myself. They're not just happy feelings, things have come full circle enough for me to now be experiencing the not so great things that people sometimes make other people feel. Things aren't going the way that I thought that they would. And that's hard to admit to myself because I didn't want to waste my time on something that wasn't ever going to be something - but you can't ever help who makes you feel a certain way, I only wish that I had not leaned in so hard based on the idea of someone or the potential that I see in them.

My emotions contradict my intense rationality. They make me impulsive which causes chaos for someone who plans so meticulously. I crave control in all things, I am disciplined for the sake of my mental health and survival. Now that the feelings in my chest are back, I don't know what this is going to mean for me going forward. I don't know how to control what is happening to me. I don't know if I can contain the cosmos raging inside me without it hurting me again, without it causing me to hurt myself again. I'm scared of becoming that person again, of not being able to control myself again. I'm so much stronger now, there's no question about that. I've worked so incredibly hard and experienced so much more than I ever thought I would. Now, I'm in a position where the universe is testing me, testing my growth, testing my preparedness and my readiness for something more. 

I'm trying to not let my fear halt me like it has before, I'm trying to be brave. To live bravely and truly. To not live in fear of myself, mostly. To not live in fear of the feelings in my chest. I can handle all joy, and I can handle all pain. I can love the infinite and expansive universe inside of my heart and mind, and it doesn't matter if anyone else will ever be able to. Because I can love all of me and that is enough. 

I've always found love to be a peculiar thing which makes sense because I tend to be such a peculiar person. I often think that I'd be so much happier if I had a mind that sought simplicity. Instead, I've always gone out of my way to make things so incredibly complicated and difficult for myself. The joy in that though is that I give really good advice to other people somewhat like myself, but unfortunately fail to ever take my own advice.

It's not uncommon for people to want what they can't have - to yearn for it even. I've definitely found myself in that kind of situation more times than I care to count or admit. Throughout my life I've been a perpetual fool - a peculiar, perpetual fool - with grand and unrealistic expectations of love and romance accompanied by a fiercely overactive imagination.

I wrote a poem about a woman that I was enthralled by at the time (I'm sure I was once convinced that I was in love with her, but I now know that that isn't what that was). She happened to be one of my best friends. I was looking to understand and navigate my own feelings for the first time since coming out to myself as bisexual. It's easy to see why I got so caught up with my feelings for her - I already had so much love for her which fueled this realization that I also found her deeply attractive in both a physical and intellectual sense. I still believe she is one of the most phenomenal human beings I have ever met in my entire life. But it would be stupid to think that that was love. It was certainly some intense form of infatuation and desperation for her unique understanding of me to overflow from the platonic into the romantic (so that I could be understood in that way as well). And I could never hold her responsible for the version or the idea of her that I had concocted in my mind.

She taught me so much both during and after that time in my life without even knowing or trying. I learned that I loved women, and I wasn't going to burst into flames and immediately descend into hell for admitting that to myself and other people. I learned that I am an excessively generous and giving person - sometimes to my own detriment - and that I ought to be very careful about who I invest my time and resources in. I learned that you cannot use pain to make people love you (I still struggle with that after  having been so obsessed with pain and how I came to identify myself in accordance with my pain. I thought I would always have to maintain an aesthetic of being broken and brooding), and that as hard as you may try, you cannot force people to feel how you want them to. 

I've since learned that I continue to experience emotions very deeply and intensely much to my own annoyance. I'm doing my best to be patient with myself, but mostly just kinder since I've been scared into repressing those intense emotions out of fear that I won't be able to control them or that people will think that I am too much. It's far easier, in the moment, to repress one's emotions and push people away, but it all catches up with you eventually and usually in a much more malicious manner. I've gotten a lot better at dealing with my own emotions more constructively and healthily - I have yet to master dealing with people because they possess their own set of emotions and intentions that I have no control over which leads me to the practically knee-jerk reaction of pushing them away to save myself from any potential harm. There's always more to do in the name of self-improvement, growth and healing. 

I've also gotten used to the idea that I am too much for most once they catch a true glimpse of me, and that's entirely okay. Being too much for some doesn't make me any less worthy of love from myself or others. It's a hard pill to swallow especially when you're holding out hope that someone you care about and took the time to trust will be able understand you or appreciate you with no guarantee, but it's worth figuring out who is capable of experiencing your power without being intimidated by it or scared of it.

Finally, I've learned and am learning that all pain is temporary (and the same can be said for pleasure or happiness), but the way that it shapes you lingers for a lifetime... so the way that we process and address hardship is as important as it is to seek the joy that can come beyond it. As Humble the Poet so aptly said, "Fortunately/unfortunately, nothing lasts forever."

I love you, Lynn Seale. And not in the way that I thought I did when I wrote this poem, but I'm so grateful to have experienced myself with you as a muse.

I used to get so frustrated with South Africans who had immigrated or had travelled abroad. I used to roll my eyes whenever they complained about how unsafe South Africa is. I didn’t get it. I have been afforded opportunities and privilege that heavily protected me from seeing the true ugliness and violence that people go through on a daily basis (Thank you, Mommy and Daddy. I don’t say that enough.). Nothing had ever happened to me or too close to me, so I used to think, “It’s not that bad.” There was also this mixture of denial and defensiveness that always popped up whenever people mentioned crime and politics. I couldn’t stand people talking shit about my country – I still can’t, especially when the opinions expressed are poisoned by ignorance or miseducation. As someone who likes and wants to be right all the time, I always do my research or if I don’t know enough about something, I don’t contribute to the discussion just for the sake of hearing my own voice. It still blows my mind how often I come across people who are so confident in their simple, boxed in view of the world – how are they so comfortable with not knowing about the world they live in, about the history that got us here and how it will continue to shape and affect our future. Can you tell that I’m sick and tired of having to deal with people who don’t think?

My heart breaks every time I read news about South Africa, Cape Town specifically. I’m saddened by the fact that I understand why one of the things that people think of about my home country is the crime. I hate knowing that they’re right. Living in one of the safest places in the world has made me see that even more clearly. I can do whatever I want whenever I want and how ever I want, and no one would even think of messing with me here. It’s just not part of the way people think and exist here – people take responsibility for themselves and don’t mess with what is not theirs. Every time I think about going home to visit, I’m met with waves of anxiety because I don’t know if I can go back to a space where I’m constantly fearing for my own safety. I don’t know how I did it before – always being on guard. I’m still that way – when you’re taught to be exceptionally vigilant and aware of your surroundings, it is sewn to the way that you move about in this world. It robs people of experiencing so much when all that they can think about or focus on is merely surviving. My people deserve so much more than that – mere existence is not living. Yet people are forced to spend their days focusing on just staying alive. I spend a lot of time thinking about what I could potentially do to instigate and be a part of change in South Africa. I don’t feel like I have what I need within me right now to influence things the way I want to. A part of me doesn’t want to go back until I can fix everything, but then there are my people awaiting change in the most dire of circumstances while I’m safely tucked away with this immense amount of privilege unable to give them any of the joy that I am blessed to experience.

I don’t like to get angry – like that enraged, seeing red kind of anger. Those primal, instinctual emotions and I are not the greatest of friends because of my obsession with rationalism and logic. I don’t like to allow myself to get to a place where I don’t have control. One of my triggers though is people who hurt people and don’t feel any remorse or understanding of what they’ve done. I don’t understand why people cannot care about how they affect others. Recently, as I’ve watched from afar as the situation on the Cape Flats becomes more and more violent and dire, it’s become more than people getting hurt. It’s more than hurt feelings or bruised egos. It’s more than someone doing something that annoys or inconveniences others. I can’t comprehend why people are so flippant about human life. People are dying. That sentence feels so weighted to me, and I can’t understand how others don’t feel it. My people are dying, and I can’t do anything about it. I remember having a conversation with my brother and his girlfriend about why I needed to leave South Africa. There’s so much pain. Everywhere. The air is thick with it. I can see it in the way that people move, I can hear it in their voices even if they don’t recognize it as being in pain. It’s something like a second skin that people wear and because they’ve never experienced anything different, they don’t know of the weight that they carry. I couldn’t bear it anymore – carrying my own pain, and the pain of a country (That sounds dramatic, I know, but I have a lot of feelings). I needed to leave so that I could come back with the emotional resources to actually do something about it.

I want to scream. Every headline I see with a body count makes my blood boil. To make things worse, the people responsible don’t feel an ounce of guilt. They don’t see the people they kill as people – they were just collateral damage, they just got in the way or, my personal favourite, they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Who would’ve thought that hanging up laundry in your back garden minding your own business would be the wrong place or time? Or being an unborn child on the verge of entering into this magnificent world (because I still believe that it is) only to have that light snuffed out before it even had a chance to burn? I have nightmares about standing in the middle of the street in a gang-affected area – not a person in sight. I never see people in those dreams, and I don’t know if it’s because they’re all locked away in their houses, afraid to leave or if they’ve just killed us all. It’s always just me and the dust being tossed around by the south-easter. I’m haunted by the faces of the people that I love and millions of other innocent people who, at any given point, may be taken from us. My heart sank when I heard that the army was being deployed. The most harrowing part of that reality is that they’re not there to solve the problem and the gangs inflicting this chaos and cruelty aren’t scared or worried about them in the slightest. They know the army’s every move, they know how to get around them because at the end of the day, business is business and there’s still a demand for their drugs and weapons. It’s so much bigger than the Cape Flats yet those are the people who are the most heavily impacted by this. Who do I need to speak to in order to change all of this? Who do I need to convince that these people’s lives are more important than their ridiculous payday? Someone please tell me how I can get them to stop killing my people.

My hope is that I may one day contribute to the healing of my country. I want the world to see that there’s so much more to South Africa than crime, poverty and Kruger National Park. No more hiding behind the guise of ‘The Rainbow Nation’ while people are being denied of life and the opportunity to truly live. I have had the honour and privilege to be raised by a community filled with so much love, talent and radiant culture. Imagine a world where those things could be nurtured and cherished – a world where we were encouraged to create instead of to destroy. We have so much to give yet they insist on killing their givers – like a snake eating its own tail
.
I want the narrative around South Africa to be what they promised us – freedom.
​
If you’ve gotten this far, thank you for entertaining my naivete and massive messiah complex. I appreciate you.

You liked what you saw
And then you probably liked it even more
When her clothes were on the floor. 
You liked the way she felt,
You liked that she was sensitive
So have you tried to make sense of it?
Perhaps you’ve been distracted,
Obviously drawn in,
Attracted 
To another pretty face. 
Those big, brown eyes -
You love the way she looks at you -
But do you know those eyes
See everything
They see what you’re wanting
They’re trying to see what you’re hiding
She’s enjoying wondering
About you.
And all that hair?
Every curl holds a secret,
Thick with all the reasons
That she’s the best person you’ll ever meet
And the worst. 
But to know,
You’d have to get to know her first. 
Do you want to know more than
Just what she feels like under your fingertips?
Countless pretty faces
But just one with a mind like hers
One that, when it stirs,
Makes riptides. 
The thoughts that she holds inside, 
Nothing short of the divine. 
Have you ever known God?
Oh, you would
If you dared to get to know her. 
Be prepared for her 
To show you 
A theory of everything...
And she would tell you
If she thought that you were interesting,
If she knew that you were interested
In knowing
More than just her pretty face.

“How much further?” Diana asked, huffing as she hiked her backpack up. Diego seemed not to have heard her and simply kept walking along, dog-leash in hand, with a bounding and joyful Formosan Mountain Dog ahead of him. If she had seen his face instead of the indifferent back of his head, she would’ve seen a wry a smile creep across his face.

“Stop asking,” Diego called back. “If you stop asking, we’ll get there.”

“I just need some kind of idea,” Diana rested her hands on her knees.

“I already told you,” Diego said as he turned around. He paused to eye his over-dramatic sister. “We’re close.”

Diana let out a sigh and carried on trudging toward him painfully slowly. At this point, Honey was circling excitedly around Diego’s legs, desperately wanting to keep going. She loved going on hikes with Diego – she probably didn’t like them as much whenever Diana tagged along because she didn’t get to race through the trees at her own pace as much.

“You said that ages ago – surely we must be closer than ‘close’ by now.”

“Fine,” Diego rolled his eyes at her use of air quotes and then set off again. “We’re ‘closer’.”

Diana rolled her eyes, and trudged along, eventually matching her brother’s pace and catching up to him. They walked in silence from then on. Diana would glance at Diego every now and then, and the look on his face immediately dismantled the sarcastic quip she’d been preparing in her head. It wasn’t like her brother to look so disengaged while doing something outdoors – it was usually the way he got back to himself and to the present moment. He didn’t look angry or sad, just wholly vacant as if he were sleep-walking or operating on autopilot.

“It’s starting to look more familiar to me now,” Diana said cheerfully, trying to coax Diego back into the physical world. It seemed to work somewhat as the corners of his mouth suddenly twitched into a smile. They returned to silence except that now one could hear Honey’s soft panting becoming more rapid. Diana sped up and walked ahead for a while, trying to distract herself from the pain in her thighs from the stretch of uphill terrain they’d been traversing for the past 15 minutes. As they reached the lookout point, Diego finally spoke.

“Do you think they’ve repaired the arm?” he called to Diana. In the distance was a wooden bench, tucked away under some trees where the rest of the mountain path continued with enough of a view the forest, then later city landscape, sprawling beneath them.

“Nah,” Diana said as she squinted to get a better look. “I’m pretty sure they’ve forgotten there’s even a bench hidden away there.”

They stood for a moment at the lookout point – Diana took some pictures and Diego let Honey run around and expend some energy in the open space where he could keep an eye on her.

“New camera?” Diego said bemusedly as he watched Diana prance around, occasionally stopping to stare thoughtfully at the sky or crouch down artistically to better capture the beauty of the dust between their feet. Diego was somewhat disapproving of his sister’s pursuit of the arts – almost out of jealousy as he had always been more actively guided (or required) to pursue more ‘reliable’ career paths.

“I figured I earned it,” she replied with her face scrunched up against the viewfinder. There was a sharp click, “I covered three weddings this month.” She furrowed her brow as she went through her recent shots. Diego smiled to himself – Diana had the same emergent set of wrinkle lines as their mother had had.

“So, what’s on your mind?” Diana inquired after remembering her brother’s sustained strange behavior and conjuring up the confidence to pry. “You never ask me about my job, what gives?.”

Diego had never been incredibly open, and she learned when they were kids that timing was crucial to asking him questions (never when he had just finished eating, up to an hour after he had watched a movie, before he got dressed for school but after he had brushed his teeth etc.).

“You need to buy actual hiking shoes,” he replied cheekily, nudging her shoulder. Classic Diego – King of deflection.

“You told me we were going for a walk,” Diana yelled into the air as she set off towards the bench she had been squinting at earlier. Diego watched his little sister walk off towards the shade – Honey racing past him and after her. Diana had always been louder, more expressive and extroverted. Perhaps because she was the baby of the family, she had been allowed a little more freedom. Their parents hadn’t been controlling or over-protective, but they often communicated to their son that he had responsibilities (his sister’s safety and well-being apparently becoming one of them). They had come out here countless times as a family. His father, in particular, loved walking, particularly walking with no end in sight or decided destination. He knew his mom just loved the view and being in nature enough that she would put up with a little bit of uphill to be able to experience it.
Diana was sitting on the bench now, camera in hand as she continued to go through her pictures. Honey had wriggled under the bench and was happily sprawled out catching her breath. Diego walked over and could see the golden glint of the dedication plaque glinting in the dappled sunlight.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF ANTONY & MARIA DE SILVA

They had died in a car accident three years ago – the day after Diana’s university graduation.

“Thanks for doing this with me,” Diego whispered, wiping his sweaty palms on his shorts. Diana gently rested her camera in her lap and looked over at her brother.

“It needed to be done,” she said just as softly. “I haven’t visited them since the funeral and well… so much has happened since then.”

Diego sighed heavily and nodded, then reached into his backpack to pull out Honey’s portable drinking bowl.

“Can you tell me why we’re here though?” Diana persisted. “There’s no way this was a spontaneous urge of yours.”

“Well,” he paused and looked down at Honey who was happily lapping away at her water, then back out at the view before them. “I wanted us all to be together when I told you.” He reached back to touch the plaque that bore their parents’ names.

Diana’s eyes widened – a mixture of excitement and worry washing over her.

“You’re going to have another wedding to shoot,” Diego said in the most serious voice he could muster, but as soon as he made eye contact with Diana, the biggest, most foolish grin spread across his face.

Diana gasped and grabbed Diego’s shoulders, shaking him and exclaiming, “NO, YOU DIDN’T! WHEN? WAIT, WHICH ONE OF YOU? I MEAN, IT MUST’VE BEEN YOU, RIGHT??” Diego threw his head back as he laughed at his sister’s excitement and as tears of joy filled his eyes.

“I proposed two nights ago,” Diana squealed as Diego spoke. “And, Kalvin said yes.”

“Obviously!” Diana flung her arms around her brother and hugged him tightly.

Diego laughed and pretended to sputter at her impact. Suddenly, she relaxed her grip and hung back to look at him. She glanced down at the plaque and then back at her big brother who had always denied himself of joy, especially after their parents died. Finally, he had chosen himself and his own happiness instead of something he assumed people wanted from him.

The siblings sat on opposite ends of the bench, still half-hugging and crying happily as Honey jumped between them to assess all of the recent commotion.
​
“They would be so proud of you.”

“What’s your happiest memory?” she asked as she stared up at a thickening band of clouds. I looked over at her and chuckled. I love that she asked such random questions, but I never had answers to them – or at least, they didn’t feel like answers to me. “I don’t know, Willa,” I said slyly and rolled over onto my side. She did the same and took a drag of her cigarette. “Wanna know mine?” she said as thin wisps of smoke spilled over her lips, wafting to the sky – grey on grey. I nodded and fanned away the smoke – it made my eyes itch. “Sorry,” she muttered as she sat up.

“Tell me,” I said.

“Give me a second to compose my thoughts,” she giggled and glanced down at me. “I was hoping you’d have more to say to buy me some time.”

“You know I never answer your questions the way you want me to.”

“Or you just don’t answer them, Miss Mysterious.”

“Even no answer is an answer, babe.”

She rolled her eyes and looked out at the city that sprawled out around us. We loved coming up to the roof on days like this – a rare overcast, but not rainy day in the middle of a tropical summer.

“I had spent the larger part of the morning researching some new camera models before heading off to meet a friend for lunch. I was getting annoyed because I couldn’t find something that met all of my needs that wasn’t disgustingly expensive. My current camera at the time was still in fair working condition, but I had just received a bonus at work and wanted to treat myself – also, I figured I could sell or give my camera to someone looking to get into photography.”

I loved her voice. Perhaps subconsciously that’s part of the reason why I never answered her questions with much detail or depth and just put her own questions back onto her. I just wanted to hear her speak forever, I wanted to learn about her forever. She had this way of speaking about the world that was insanely enchanting without too much annoying optimism. She saw things so purely and became enraged at times when she observed pain and imbalance. Seeing her angry was rare, but she wouldn’t stand for injustice. I don’t think she is capable of forgetting anything which might be both her blessing and her curse. Remembering the good meant remembering the bad, too. I was also in awe of her ability to be understanding of herself when in pain. She has this grace, the way she just holds of herself with such care and love and says to each of her emotions and facets and thoughts in turn, “It’s your time to be felt and heard now.”

“My friend messaged me the location for this new spot she wanted to try. It was this sushi place she had been telling me about for weeks. It was so good, too – really worth all the hype it had been getting.” She put her hands up in the air and exclaimed, “And you know how much I love me some salmon sashimi!”

I laughed and stroked her back. She’d been trying to go vegan for the longest time, but almost always switched back over to pescatarian after about a month. She hated that I was able to “do it so easily” or so she always says. I just didn’t like the idea of eating anything with parents and/or a face.

“Anyway, so I got up to get ready and for some reason I just felt this urge to pick up my camera and take it with me. So I was walking around my apartment in my underwear with a DSLR around my neck, and after I put my coffee mug in the sink I looked up and saw my girlfriend walking towards me holding her phone and smiling down at it. Nothing out of the ordinary, I thought she was going to show me another one of the memes she found hilarious and I would fake laugh and then she would kiss me to get me to stop and then call me cheeky and walk away and I’d slap her ass and she’d laugh and call me childish.”

“So many ands…”

I sat up and hugged my knees. I knew so much about her and her life because of the way that she rambled on when she told a story. There were always so many detours and digressions and for each story, she always had to so kindly provide me with context. Despite how much I knew about her, there was something about the way that she looked into my eyes that made me eerily certain that she knew absolutely everything about me without me having to say a word.

She clicked her tongue and nudged me before continuing, “I asked her what she was looking at and she bit her lip and paused for a moment before showing me the screen. She had taken a picture of me. She said it was ‘A wild Willa in her natural habitat’. It was weird for me to see a picture of myself that wasn’t a selfie or a group picture. I was so used to being behind the camera, you know. She told me I looked stunning. I told her she was silly. She told me that she was right. She was always right, so I had to believe her and give my cognitive dissonance the middle finger. She joked about me using it as my new profile picture. She didn’t ever make jokes like that, so I could immediately tell that she wanted to say something she had been thinking too much about saying. She bit her lip again and tugged at my camera strap. I asked her what she was thinking about. She couldn’t make eye contact with me. She gently traced the curve of my left collarbone with her finger, her gaze resting on the clock on wall just behind me. She glanced at me and then back at the clock and said something about me being late to my lunch date. I asked her what she wanted to tell me. She sighed and then finally resolved to look me in the eye. She was still holding her cell phone up between us, the ‘Wild Willa’ picture now beneath her lock screen.”

She stopped and lit another cigarette. I thought it was weird (or perhaps great storytelling) to stop right before what was clearly the climax of her epic tale. She was biting her lip now, maybe the way she recalled this ex-girlfriend of hers had done.

“She told me she loved me.”

I started thinking about when we started dating and how far we had come in the time that had elapsed since then. We hadn’t said that to each other yet.

“I had told her I loved her about 3 months prior. I knew she would need time to say it back, so I wasn’t expecting it then. In fact, it would’ve been very noticeably insincere if she had said it then. She was never a woman of many words, but when she had something to say you could trust that it was important and genuine. And in that moment, she had decided me worthy of those words and the knowledge of her feelings that she had been keeping locked away safely in her own head.”
I related to that. I was never quick to talk for what I always felt was just the sake of talking. Suddenly, I realized that in all that Willa had ever told me, she had never mentioned this ex-girlfriend or any girlfriend for that matter. She had always made it seem as if ours was her first real relationship.

“What happened to make you want to end things?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said with an exhale of smoke.

“When did you break up?” That was the question I truly wanted answered. I needed to determine how much time she had had to get over this girl whom had apparently made her so happy.

“We didn’t,” she said slowly and looked over at me almost sadly.

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as anger trickled down my spine in the form of a cold chill.

“What are you saying?” I said shakily, now sitting straight up.

Then she smiled and shook her head at me. “You’re so smart, and so cryptic, Miss Mysterious. You can figure this one out.”

“What sick joke is this, Willa,” I felt my voice growing louder and more vicious. “When did this happen?”

“Three months from now,” she said instantly.

I froze along with my anger which was subsequently replaced by confusion. I had no idea what to say, she made no sense.

“I love you,” she said and then rested her dwindling cigarette in between her lips.

She reached over and tugged at a strand of hair that had fallen into my mouth as it stood agape.

“That… that doesn’t,” I sputtered as her finger touched my lower lip. “I thought you were telling me your happiest memory.”

“It is.”

“Babe…”

“Hmmm?”

She put out her cigarette, and then kissed me. My eyes stayed open as my brain was desperately trying to reboot.

“That’s not a memory,” I said breathlessly as she pulled away.

“It’s a memory of the future,” she said with a cheeky grin.

“Not what a memory is,” I said quickly. My brain was starting to come to.

“I put a lot of thought into how I’d tell you,” she said. She stood up and began twirling around on the rooftop. “I also thought about what I wanted it to be like when you said it to me. Technically, it’s a memory of thinking about it then, right?”

“You’re insane.”

“You wouldn’t have it any other way, baby.”

I smiled and nodded. Then I became serious.

“What?” she stopped twirling.

“What if I can’t say it then?” I looked up at her and by the way her face softened, I’m sure I must’ve looked terrified. She walked over and sat behind me and wrapped her arms around me.

“That’s the joy of the future, right?” she kissed me on the cheek. “We can embrace the unknown and make it our own.”

“You loved that that rhymed, didn’t you?” I smiled and rolled my eyes. She was adorable. She was adorable and she loved me.

She threw her head back and laughed – a sound so beautiful that it might now be my happiest memory.
​
“I mean, who knows?” she said, still giggling. “Maybe you’ll be the one who slaps my ass.” 

I mistook love for something else. That's always so difficult to admit because am I not also, by default, admitting that I wasted my time? There's something that I hate more than being hurt... and that is being wrong. I've tried to soothe myself by positing that maybe I wasn't fully wrong - maybe there was some kind of love there. There must have been. I want more than anything for that to have been love  and to now be done with it for good. 

I never experienced any sort of closure. I desperately wanted to at first, but time heals all wounds -
or at the very least, it makes you forget what hurt you then because you're facing what's hurting you now. There is a sort of relief that comes with that though. Once you start to forget, you realize that it 's not important to you anymore. That is, until you remember to think about it... then it all comes rushing back, and a part of you starts to want to be back there again, back in the moment when everything felt blissful and magical and unending. People grow and people change as life and experience shapes them. There are parts of me that I've retained, but I wouldn't say I resemble the person I was then very much. I wonder if I'll reach a point where all the pieces of me have changed and reformed, where I'll technically be a different person. It's like that thought experiment with the boat, you know? If you replace one rotten piece of wood for a new one, most would agree that it's still the same boat. But after a long enough while - as all the pieces of wood are replaced at different points in time - would we still say that it's the same boat? Or is it a completely new entity? You see, right now I can't ever see myself loving anyone ever again. Enough of me feels as though I've loved enough for a lifetime. I wonder if that will change. I wonder if those parts of me will be relegated to the shelves of my former selves. I wonder then, if I will ever look at another person with the intention of loving them. 

Of course, all of this is a non-problem if it was never actually love at all. Perhaps it was just this hope that I clung to that I was capable of love. It could have been the alarm bells ringing in my brain - you know, the ones that alert you to act like a normal person would? Or is that just me? My relationship with forming relationships is interesting, and has been a catalyst for me to seek out deeper understanding of my own mental health and makeup. I don't think I'm wired like most people. It doesn't come naturally to me to form relationships, but I have a deep and keen understanding of how people work - what they desire, what they feel, what they think. My way of forming relationships is giving all of myself to people - my time, my energy, my resources. I'm a giver because people love to take. Even givers will learn to love taking from you when you allow them to become addicted to it (i.e. when you out-give them and they realize the attention they were missing out on). I wish it were as simple as being able to call myself a psychopath/sociopath, but I think there may have been clearer warning signs. If anything, the worst of it is just that I'm hyper-annoying and end up pushing people away because pretty soon they start to see through the facade and realize that I'm not that interesting or beautiful or intelligent - I just always give them what they want. Most people need more than that. [Side note: For anyone who thinks that I have self-worth issues or any concerned family/friends reading this right now, please just know that I am very much aware of the lies that I actively tell myself. I am in the process of rewiring my subconscious mind. My brain is constantly exhausted as it spends most of its time correcting decisions or thought processes initiated by a tainted subconscious. Don't you dare worry about me, either. If you love me, you'll know that I am stronger than myself. And if you truly love me and know me, you'll understand what that last sentence means.] Anyway, that whole giver/people-pleaser act is launched when my brain acts on a protocol deeply-rooted in my psyche. I get so excited by the prospect of having found this 'love' thing that people keep fussing over that I go crazy. I try to do everything in my power to catch and cling to it. Ironically, it never works. The more that I have tried to keep 'love', the faster people ran ("You're too intense.") or they just got bored ("My feelings for you just kind of fizzled out.").

I've been told about the mystical thing called love and told what it's supposed to look like and who I will find it with and what it will mean for me. Since childhood, I've been groomed to want love, to need it. Nobody takes the time to explain why. Nobody can tell you what love is anyway, but people seem to agree that it exists. I grew up with a very naive and immature idea about what love was. My parents were never honest - not in a malicious way. They didn't know how to communicate that to a child, and I, being a child, simply didn't understand yet. I still don't (but that is purely from a lack of trying to because of a sort of self-imposed exile). I had a good understanding of transactional love... because that's what easy to see, especially as a kid or teenager. If I was good like my sister, my parents would be proud of me and I wouldn't get into trouble. But I've never been like my sister, and I've always gotten into trouble (As a kid, I conflated the two). Everyone would be proud of you, if you participated in all the family events and sang for your aunties upon request. Boys had crushes on my friends because they were pretty, so I tried to be pretty like they were (Spoiler alert: I was never able to be pretty like them, and I didn't understand why I couldn't be and never focused on being my pretty little self instead). If you liked a boy, you were supposed to marry him and have kids, and then the world would look at you and nod their heads and say that you were happy and fulfilled. Pretty screwed on all counts there. There's an understanding my brain still operates under: They'll love you if you do what they want, and if you don't then you're not good enough to be loved. That's what I thought love was. I met someone that that didn't apply to, at least not fully. My brain still followed that protocol though, there was an inkling of interest and the hope sent me into overdrive and the normal processes - give her whatever she wants, say yes to everything, otherwise she'll never love you. But that chapter closed with me having experienced something completely different. Just in case it wasn't actually love, it was at least a different kind of hope. Instead of this desperation for connection, it was the hope that I was capable of feeling more and being more. There was hope that I was more than just someone who never said no. It was hope that maybe someone would love me even if I did say no to them.   

Other people seem so sure of themselves. I look at them and wonder if they know how badly they're wrong about what they think is love. I'm not the expert and love is clearly the furthest thing from being an objective and/or tangible thing, but I certainly know what love isn't. So many people can't seem to discern between love and hope. 

The longer I wait to write, the angrier I become with myself. This setup seems so foreign to me – How do I write? Was I ever able to do this? I’m annoyed that I even let myself get to this place where I’ve lost all momentum and motivation and discipline to write and I have to spend more time re-teaching my mind what my body has never forgotten how to do. My fingers don’t seem to fumble on a keyboard, yet I find myself hitting the backspace button repeatedly because my brain is a mess and can’t quite decide how it wants to express itself. It feels as though I've been stuck replaying the same level of a game over and over again. There's always something that prevents me from progressing and keeping me at square 1. I have insufficient experience, I haven't found a collectible needed to progress, there are enemies that lie in wait who remain undefeated.

I haven’t published on this website in months (I mean, the proof is in the archive). It has been ages since I’ve written anything more than a paragraph or two that wasn’t work-related. I remember when I purchased the domain to my website, I promised myself that I would post every Sunday or least dedicate some time to write on a Sunday. I’ve always found it unbelievably easy to break the promises I make to myself which is frustrating and strange considering how I bend over backwards to appease other people and uphold promises made to them that even they are unaware of. I suppose it makes some kind of sense. It’s easier to please other people than to please myself - I’m far less easily impressed. I make other people a priority so that I have an excuse not to focus on myself and my personal aspirations. Why? I don’t know, out of fear maybe? Maybe what I’m so scared of is going full force into taking my goals seriously and then failing. It’s been ingrained into me not to be selfish or self-serving to the point where my own failure would be processed as a warning that I had been focusing too much on myself. There’s a part of me that is so terrified at failing that it doesn’t even want to try. Of course, not trying is worse than failure because I haven’t grown from doing nothing – I just get more comfortable with the idea of being safe in nothingness. However, I can’t keep claiming to be a writer if I never write.

​I need to be writing more with the purpose of publishing my writing. Otherwise, I’ll be waking up on the other side of five years abroad with nothing to show for it in regard to my writing goals. Writing is one of the few things that make me feel alive within every cell and semblance of my being. The problem comes with how I’ve used writing throughout my life as a healing activity. I learned that I was good at writing when I started writing about pain, more specifically when I wrote in a way that channelled my own pain. There has been so much therapeutic value that I’ve found in my writing, but that came at a price. I have conditioned myself to associate writing with pain and the processing of difficult emotions. I always end up writing about pain in some way, I end up caught up in the same cycle I’ve been in since high school. Even now, I’m writing about the pain of writing about pain. Hopefully the difference is that I’ll be able deconstruct and dismantle the cycle... because I’m so tired of writing about pain and sadness and heartbreak. I’m not saying I never want to write about those things again, I just don’t want that to be all that I am capable of writing. I want to be able to do more.

​I remember being so terrified in high school to write about anything other than death because that’s all that I had written about convincingly. As much as my writing healed me, it kept me in a place where I was feeding into my own depression in order to have something to be sad about... in order to write again. University was similar, although more deeply connected to themes of unrequited love and heartbreak. Just a different kind of sadness. I found almost every excuse to punish myself. I wasn’t good enough for these people and that’s why could never return my affections. I was never good enough to be loved. Therefore, I needed to be punished. And then I could write. Sexual identity and orientation became promising themes for me as I struggled to come to terms with things that I had learned about who I was and the parts of myself that I had been hiding. While I speak more convincingly on those themes due to greater experience and confidence, I struggle to write about them because they are so wildly entangled with my history of self-harm and self-loathing that it would mean more writing about pain and suffering and inner turmoil.

​Writing became cemented as strictly for healing and processing purposes. I never gave myself the room or allowance to grow as a writer beyond that. If I wasn’t in some kind of pain, I convinced myself that there was nothing to write about that I had the ability to convey - that only happy people could write happy things, and I was not happy. Any sort of published writing of mine has been decidedly depressing or at least recalls depressing times and experiences. So much time has passed since some of these moments on which my mind dwells. I gave myself an unnecessarily long grace period when I moved abroad, and even once I started taking my writing ambitions more seriously, I let myself make excuses and put other things ahead of them.

​Now, I wish writing wasn’t so immediately triggering and traumatizing. It saddens me that the one thing that brings me such instant relief, release and joy has been imbued with the pain of my past. Every time I sit down to write, I’m inevitably sitting down to cry. I very rarely make it through writing something without crying. Most times I’ve just stopped. Issues I didn’t even know were issues bubble up from my subconscious and make their way into my train of thought. The pieces I have tried to work on often become derailed and lack their intended focus and depth, and I am usually left trying to stuff unwanted memories back into storage. I’ve processed my pain and past. My most eloquent style of writing, however, asks of me to dwell on old issues as if there’s something more to be said about them. The truth is that there isn’t anything for me to say – at least not in my writing, not anymore. It’s taking so much longer than I expected to learn how to take the heaviness out of my writing.

​Does that make any sense?