10/15/14, 12:20 PM, the house
No amount of anxiety or paranoia from either side—
No degree of disapproval from anyone outside—
Whether or not he loves me to the same grade,
whether or not he even ever will—
Regardless of what he does, even if it hurts and even if it’s unfair—
His silver tongue, sarcasm, insecurities (and my own, too) haven’t stopped me before and they likely won’t later.
None of that matters because despite all of it, my feelings won’t change.
I’ll still will want to be cuddled at night,
It’ll still be hard not to smile at every single thing he does—
the faces he makes in the mirror, the way he highlights words with his cursor when he reads something on the computer.
So I’m through getting caught up in the details. Who cares who loves more or less, where we are or what we do together?
At the end of the day, what matters is if I’m happy. And I am.
I’m happy just being able to come home to him, eat dinner beside him, do his laundry, kiss him before bed…
As intelligent people, it’s easy to get our heads swept up in technicalities. Procedures, plans for the future, who does what, who says what. But even if it doesn’t work out, fuck it.
I’m in love and I’m going to enjoy it while I am.
10/6/14, 8:51 AM, the house
John and I sit on the stage of an event at my university that I’m helping run, we talk and watch the people in the room below us, Bryce among them. We watch people move here and there.
John: So how are you and Bryce anyway?
Me: We’re great right now. I mean we had some troubles at the very beginning of our relationship—
John: Yeah, I know a little bit about that.
Me: I’m not surprised, I figured, really. But yeah, I mean things now are just great.
We’re pretty much perfect.
And I believe it, too. I believed it before he even asked.
John: Well that’s good. I’m glad.
Honestly I’m pretty anti-relationship right now. It’s horrible and I sometimes hate it, but things are so much easier with no attachment.
Me: No, I agree with you completely. Relationships are hard and love is overrated.
I say it, but have no worry in the world regarding my relationship. If anything, I’m only concerned about my chemistry homework.
We look at Bryce and he smiles, flicking us off jokingly.
We laugh and flick him off in return, the way our friendships work.
Me: It would be so easy to not have to worry about anything, but…
I do love the kid and I’m not in it for “easy.”
Bryce is right. Everything is so “convenient.”
Time just always works out perfectly for me, both for good and bad. I mean, 12 hours ago, I was boasting about how perfect my relationship was going and now I’m sitting in my bed, barely able to see through my tears for something I’m not even sure is wrong.
I managed to stay strong and drive home throughout/after my phone conversation with him this morning, but as soon as I parked in the driveway, it was over; I cried a river of tears. Not disgustingly, but excessively. I didn’t sob, but could have drowned in the amount of tears I have—and am still—spilling.
Honestly, he doesn’t deserve them. And I didn’t deserve that.
I’ve done nothing wrong. Not that I never have; the mistakes I made still plague us to this day and that’s the core issue here. But we’ve been working so hard to get over the mistakes of our past, and to take 20 steps back and bring it up and blame me for it again… Will we ever be able to move past this?
There isn’t a meter or gauge for how long it’ll take. There’s no way to measure how much guilt or pain I must experience, or how much blame I do deserve… But I believe I’ve been paying my dues.
He’s letting his own insecurities and doubts fester and cause us both pain. I don’t blame him for having them, but he isn’t fighting fair.
I’d do anything for you.
"And you think I wouldn’t?"
You once told me that you don’t think you’ll ever learn to truly love anyone. And I understood what that was like. I have loved, but truly I had never known unconditional love until you.
I’ve lived a long time thinking that I don’t need anyone. But I need you. And I would probably love you no matter what you do.
Part of me is sure you will never love me the way I love you, the amount that I do.
And if there’s anything I’ve hidden from you recently, it’s that this thought sometimes bothers me.
But I’m not here to be loved back. I’m here to love you and I just wish you’d relax enough to let me hold your hand. But you’d rather hold your grudge.
9/22/14, 1:16 PM, the house
This morning I woke up crying.
I had a dream that the world was ending.
The sky expressed a gradient from the deepest crimson red to an eerily suffocating orange as ashes fell from the sky. The air was tight—I could barely feel my lungs move despite a tremendous amount of effort. I turned and found myself out in the open in front of battered and crumbling houses, like something out of a zombie apocalypse movie.
I wasn’t alone.
“Don’t breathe,” my mother said, “The air is poisonous.” I can’t see her, but I made out the faint silhouette of her and my younger brother close by. [For some reason, my sister was missing but this isn’t something I realized in slumber]. I tried to do as she said, but had to let a little in out of necessity.
No shelter in sight. Nothing but dust and ash.
My mind was not curious about others who could be around, if there was anywhere safe… All I could think about was
How much longer?
How long until we’re all dead? If we can’t breathe, if there is nothing to eat, if there is no where to go, each of us would be dead soon. It could be seconds, minutes, days.
"You’re dad’s on his way in the car to pick us up," my mom assured me, and though I couldn’t see her face and read her expression I managed to find a sliver of hope.
[I’ve forgotten what happened in between that moment and this, so the dream skips ahead]
My mom turns to me and I don’t recognize her. It’s like her face has been scribbled out with a dark charcoal pencil.
"I have bad news," she says, almost as if she doesn’t care about what she’s about to say. Somehow I know.
"Don’t say it," I beg her.
"Your father has died on the way here in a car accident."
“Shut up," I say firmly.
She doesn’t move. She is still. Unfamiliar.
I don’t even know if this is my mother, but they share the same voice. “I’m sorry,” she says laconically.
“You’re wrong…!" I plead. "You’re wrong and he’s alive. He’s going to be here any moment, just you wait and see!"
The figure becomes less and less distinguishable. Less recognizable.
It moves towards one of the houses which I now realize is the dream home we used to have in New Jersey.
"You’re dad’s dead," it says.
I lunge at it, tears streaming down my face. I punch and kick at it, but I feel nothing. “You’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re wrong!” I continue to cry, still unable to breathe as I focus all my energy on destroying my mother—or whatever this thing was at this point. I wanted to kill it.
But then I see someone carrying a body towards us.
—- Suddenly, I’m awake, lying next to Bryce with a river of tears and a damp pillow. His back is to me, and I sob into it, holding his motionless body and wiping my tears off his skin, not wishing to wake him at what was apparently 3AM.
9/17/14, 9:42 AM, the house
I can’t remember when I realized it, but my brother and I both have had this terrible habit of getting into things without putting our 100% into it, relationships included.
It’s not from lack of caring. It’s like we always did enough but never cared enough. We’ve done just above the bare minimum just to keep things afloat.
I can’t readily pinpoint the reason for this flaw in our personalities. When it comes to relationships, maybe we’ve always been afraid of getting too close. Or maybe we’re both just inherently terrible at dealing with people.
Last time I spoke to my brother, I admitted that this time around my relationship is different. Again, it’s not that I’ve gotten into relationships completely disconnected, but this time I want to put my everything and more into it, if possible. 110%.
"For the first time, I really, really care. Like, before, thinking about my relationships ending was like, ‘Yeah, that would suck,’ but it didn’t break my heart. It does now.”’
My brother said he was proud of me for finally deciding to swim instead of just treading water.
Again, I don’t think I’ve ever put this much effort into anything. I’m very mindful, devoted. I care. And it’s frustrating, but not because I’m unhappy or its discouraging. It’s just—fuck it—I’m in love and there’s so much to that, y’know?
I’m giving this relationship my all, so every time something (even minute) goes awry, I take it to heart. It becomes very personal and I’m very quick to blame myself because if I’m doing everything in my power to make everything right, then why is something wrong? It hurts.
I mean, I’m not that idealistic, I know people make mistakes and some stuff is beyond my control, but sometimes things hurt us when we’ve been doing all we could to make sure nothing would.
The most frustrating and painful thing though is the fear. Submerging myself into this unequivocally and sincerely has exposed me. My nerves, my feelings, the very essence of who I am as a person—exposed. I’m wide open and it’s introduced me to insecurities that I previously did not know existed:
Like, what if I’m not good enough?
I’m giving you my all, but what if it just isn’t good enough?
I suppose that’s the thing about being lost at sea, about life in general. You’re going to struggle to stay alive and do what you can, but you have no fucking clue what’s gonna happen to you. There’s no map, no life jacket. You’re gonna be scared, frustrated, and sometimes it’s going to hurt.
But you gotta put effort in, despite all those consequences. You may never find land, but you will definitely get nowhere if you do nothing.
If you’re apathetic, you’re already dead.
9/14/14, 9:22 PM, the house
The Great Gatsbyby F. Scott Fitzgerald was one of the required readings in my high school AP Literature class. It’s undoubtedly a prevalent literary cannon and a staple of common plot tropes. As cliche as it was, it became one of my favorites (along with it’s recently remade movie with DiCaprio).
The green light, the boat against the current… These came to symbolize one of the dominant themes in the book: optimism—or more accurately—idealism.
I remember during a group discussion I said:
"I don’t think he’s great at all."
Frankly, I thought the guy was an idiot. He was a hopeless romantic and fatally starry-eyed. An optimist until his dying breath, the Gats was determined to follow that verdant light and beat against the waves even if it killed him—and it did.
Most readers, my peers included, disagreed for reasons which I can assume is why the book became such a success in the first place. Gatsby was a symbol of hope, the epitome of following your dreams no matter the cost. People thought it was admirable, brave even, that Jay Gatsby was so full of hope.
Yes, I thought the great Gatsby was a fool.
But I’ve recently realized I am just as guilty. I’m exactly the type of girl Daisy hoped for and exactly what I thought Jay Gatz was:
“…a beautiful little fool.”
The thing that sucks about mental illness is that if you aren’t depressed enough, suicidal enough, bad enough, nobody cares. Nobody cares until you reach their standard, and that standard is when your problem is bad enough to effect them
The amount of people who can relate to this makes me equally incredibly sad and immensely angry