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.