I Know I Don’t Want This Anymore.

Dear Human Courtney A. Walsh

Quote by Courtenay A. Walsh

I want to let go now—to finally, completely stop.

I am tired of looking at my reflection and almost breaking into tears when I see how, at certain angles (most angles) my body puckers and hangs and bulges the wrong way.

This is mostly the life I want, but my body tells me a different story. It tells me the story of my careless behaviour, of how I don’t mind for it as well as I could. I don’t feel that this body is me—which suggests that my actions are not in alignment with my values, my health. I can try to appreciated what this does for me, objectively, as a “unit,” but mostly I don’t feel that I belong in it.

So it’s not just about fat, it’s about the way I’m being with myself.

Eating and drinking for pleasure is one of my favourite things, but it can’t be my main every day pleasure. Not now. Not as a reaction to loneliness or stress or general malaise.

I do not wish to feel that whiskey-induced darkness, confusion and fatigue the morning after.

I am tired of asking questions, of wondering how they could possibly come and go with such ease, be entirely present and then forget about me. (You forgot once, and I’m sure you will again.)

I’m tired of falling into that belief that noone cares, when really it’s me that holes myself up, mostly out of healing, and mostly by choice.

I’m tired of wondering when that consistency will come, that feeling of being wholly loved, every day, of trying to reconcile that one memory from a few months or years ago, that feeling of completeness with the loneliness now. I’m tired of wondering how then and now can even be the same life.

I am sick of wondering what you are doing, thinking, feeling, of being scared to reach out and ask, because it means I want something. And that’s so obvious.

I am tired of wanting, of trying to reconcile this screened-shut world with some semblance of reality that consists of actual caring. When many of the people on the other end are basing their thoughts of me on a digital image or two, I just want to scream at them: That’s not me! Will you please step out from behind the screen and just come and just see ME, the real me, warts and all? 

Will you just love me, in real life, once and for all? 

I’m tired of thinking about this—exhausted, really. (And besides that, I promised that I would never ask for you to love me.)

I am tired of the way people seem to not want to make eye contact or small talk, day to day, maybe because I’m not French or maybe because I seem closed-off.

But I’m tired.

I will no longer fall back on nostalgia. I will not let sentimentality or some unfounded hope guide my words or my actions.

I remember how I felt beside you on that beach, you at that movie and you at that concert: I remember how complete and whole and real and present I felt during some of those times; then in other moments, I remember how my own stomach-knot screamed your feelings at me—feelings ranging from general apathy to just wanting to not be there, with me, then. 

I could sense clearly what you were(n’t) feeling, but you couldn’t—or if you did know, you didn’t  have the balls to say. So I would try to silence the knot in my stomach, to smooth everything out, to flirt and be nice and say sorry and “fix us,” but eventually that knot won out. So I had to walk away because you weren’t brave enough or strong enough, even though you were the one who didn’t want me. 

Sometimes being “nice” is the worst thing we can do.

I am sick of remembering all of these things, even the good stuff.

I am sick of the cycle of believing that this or that particular high will fix things—sometimes a high can shift things, certainly—even in positive ways—but a fix is never really a fix.

This may seem melancholy but in fact it’s not, because I am saying that I am actually done. I am coming to terms that this, me, right now, crampy and bleary-eyed in this too-expensive hotel room, writing for a reason that I don’t quite know. I am choosing to do this, now: write, hike in the sun, be somewhere new, smile at the dog, chat with a friend, swim in the pool, stretch.

I will love growing into my career and my body and will keep fighting for some semblance of active community and forget about (romantic) love for a while because clearly it’s just not showing it’s face and I have to let it go.

I am choosing to sink into the good, solid things about today, because I am done with the rest.

Posted in mental health, mindfulness, Moments, Personal growth, self love, Uncategorized, well being | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

I decided to be honest.

barren burned landscape unsplash

via Dikaseva at Unsplash

You’re gone again, just like the last time, and the time before that.

Over and over again, there you went.

The spaces between our visits varied: first came big gaps, then smaller.

Then when you really left, it was a leap across our country, then into another.

I know how it feels to want to go.

The last time I saw you, you said “I’ll see you soon” with such clarity that it jolted me into the realization that it must be a lie.

It was so easy for you to say the opposite of what was really going to happen. A part of me wishes that it were that easy for me too.

I should probably get better at faking it–and by “it” I don’t mean orgasms, I mean any little moment that requires a lie to hurt less.

Life might feel like less of a fight if lies could just flow. Mostly I mean those little white lies that benefit everyone and harm no one.

Mostly.

(Kind of like how when I was honest with the doctor—that backfired too.)

How is it that a person can feel like such a big part of your life, yet you were and are so small to them?

Why do I always feel like the small one?

I’d like to be all shiny and rosy about it, but what I’ve learned from love is that there’s more to life than honesty and authenticity: we have to choose where to be the most transparent. We have to choose who we’re honest with, what we say, when it comes to our bodies, souls, hearts. Not to build completely impermeable barriers, but maybe semi-permeable.

I’m talking about a balancing act: Bleeding open-hearted everywhere is not always the best bet

I played the fool, over and over again, in the name of authenticity. Left bereft, belittled, graceless and strange. Solution-less. There was no answer behind that coming in and shuffling out.

I asked, you delivered. You got me high, then hit me right where I needed it most.

It was exciting and refreshing.

Even the aftercare—being with me moments and day(s) after. That was what I needed most, and also what was the most misleading.

But it’s not fair to pretend that you care like that. It doesn’t matter that you are “supposed” to do. It would be better to just not stay. Staying for longer than a day, a week, a year, when you don’t really want to—lying like that is more hurtful than just leaving.

I eventually figured out when to believe you and not, but by then it was too late—ergo, I’m the fool.

I always felt empowered as I would walk out your door, confident that there was no more to go back to, because I knew I’d always be in the background, not the foreground. We got close enough so that I’d see just enough into your life to let me know that I’d never be enough.

So when I left, it was okay.

For you there was and will always have to be something new—curvy and colorful, pristine, ready to delight you.

I know, I know your heart was in there, with mine, for just a minute. But it came and went so fast that now I barely even believe myself that that was true.

It’s been two years since you mostly left, and six months since the last time. I lie here and my thoughts turn to that time when I was somehow at my most beautiful, beaming through the bullshit.

It’s exhausting, lying here wondering why mostly people from my past seem to find it easy to see me as a mere acquaintance now, no matter what kind of relationship we had. Maybe we lived together, maybe we shared the deepest intimacy. Maybe the drugs inflated things somewhat—but it still meant something.

I can’t help but wonder what you thought of me after the sex haze drifted away. I was just another one of those girls on your list. I was more than that, but also less.

Too emotional. Too into sex. Not firm enough. Too open.

Too much of this and never enough of that.

I’m tired of playing small.

I know for a fact that you don’t think about me anymore because I never get that pang. I used to get a pang now and then where I just knew I was on your mind.

I do miss you, that feeling, and I hate it. You missed me once a little too.

But not now.

We’ve faded and it’s better this way—my world is a little dull. You are still playing and doing all the things you want, life is exactly where you want it. You have all the choice in the world: a steady job, lots of money, at least one woman who loves you wholeheartedly.

You can have anything you want, and even if you dont’ know what you want, you have everything you think you want. And will have more of that.

That’s what counts, really, doesn’t it? That we work to attain what we think we want? We like to ramble on about how money is not important, but really money is key to attaining what is both important and not important.

Money means the freedom and space to figure it out. And if at the end of the day we don’t have it figured out, then money at least allowed us the freedom to try to find that.

So now it’s just smoother, easier. The photos are prettier, and easier to explain, more exciting to show off. Right?

It’s comfortable for me to stay alone and for you to stay with her (them).

Easy.

I went to New Orleans, you know. Did you know how much I love live music? We never really went to see the kinds of shows that I love. I think that kind of jazz is too lowbrow for you.

I decided to be honest and that got me exactly nowhere, save a few good times and a semi-feigned feeling of love that I am terrified I will never find again.

Noone understands it, either. They saw through you, and so they clapped when I said I deleted your number.

They applauded that finality, but it’s not something I celebrate, because it reminds me of the terror of never knowing that feeling again.

It all still hangs at the back of my heart as a missing piece, and probably always will.

 

 

 

Posted in Love, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

A Certain (a-) Symmetry

abstract forest art stephen hall flickr

“Pass in Time” via Stephen Hall at Flickr 

Something about the way I learned to lean backwards

cross-sectional on the sofa
obliterated
Composed well, but weirdly—
almost deconstructed
to the core
point of reference,
maybe.

Laughing and loopy
A bent and staggering mess
holding steady (ish)
enough to scrape by
on today.

You’d hold me up now and then,
taught me how to stay
despite my starry criss-crossed gaze,
my lopsided stance.

Our circus show balancing act:
survival.

I couldn’t lean there forever
so I think of you as I teach myself
to stay steady yet
delightfully crooked.

For this I am
unequivocally grateful.

Our messes are forever misaligned
juxtaposed, mismatched, scattered.
Each day a lone paint splat
ungracefully bland in its seclusion,
necessarily uneven and unique.

When I step back a little, holding my gaze,
I know that beauty,
I feel its worth.

Art, love, life.

Such as it is.

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