u don't miss him u miss u
“the sweet thing about breaking my own heart’s that it hasn't made me hide up on love and never will.”
the version he reflected back to me of myself was quite accurate. i came out of my shell for him. i was present. i felt creative and fearless and wasn’t afraid to mess up in front of everyone because it’s normal to make mistakes. i believed that love was how i felt every time i looked at him or thought of him, rather than the way i behaved: gently, observant, and compassionate. safety was laughing with him, but the possibility of us was unstable to me. i would go back and forth between extremes: he loves me, he loves me not. that is why i now find it critical to find a love produced from action, not my conviction of affection toward me.
now it feels as though i have lost myself and the timeline i’ve had in my head since i was a teenager. i fantasized about a picture-perfect, white picket fence future back then. i dreamed of a family. it feels slightly awkward to admit that, given modern political culture concerns with a woman’s success, but it’s true. i did not dream of going to school for, like, 8–12 years, marrying in my thirties—no. if you asked me in 2016, i would’ve told you that i hoped to marry straight out of high school (lmfao). i dreamed of, most of all, being a mother and someone’s true lover. i dreamed of cultivating a home for a family that i carved out of patience and lifelong, fairytale-type love. i grieve that reverie now.
my body believed that he represented all of that—comfort, warmth, innocence. my mind attributed all my dreams of being seen and chosen to somebody else’s existence, and while i’m quite sure now that his affection for me was real, those daydreams, goals, and that life were mine. i made up those beautiful spaces in my mind to keep myself safe, to survive. i created a world in my head where i had what i always needed but never got. i suppose that’s why i had been afraid of him exiting my timeline—he’d been representing the last time i ever felt like myself. four years is a tragic amount of time to not have felt like yourself, and it's technically been longer, like 22 years (i am 22). when i look at the messages between us, they slowly mirror this change; they fade. flirtatious jokes turned to dry check-ins. i used to think that would kill me, but it didn’t. i used to think that endings had to be big blowouts where everyone ends up loathing one another, but they don’t. best of all, i'm not even angry. i’m grateful.
i had forgotten who i am, what i do, and what i love. i forgot that when i am being myself, i can actually attract a love of my dreams.
i was afraid: when i attempt to separate these feelings—the survival ones from him—what if there’s nothing left of me? what if our rapport was just because he is incredible, not me? the parts of me that believed i could be somebody were gone and have only recently whispered of return. whichever part of me knew deep down that i was destined to have a joyful and fruitful life was destroyed somewhere along my way. my humor, my beauty, and my soul slowly disappeared along with him (and others), and that riled me up. it’s just that i adored being understood so easily and truly.
i cherished him because he was the only person that didn’t make me feel like i was complicated. he made me feel like i could be loved just as everyone else can be—like i was unique but simple to adore. not that i was scary, intimidating, or mean. he never made me feel like i was bad on the inside, even when i made mistakes. when i looked in the mirror, i saw someone that he loved, and that got me through a lot of distressing and tragic nights.
the grown-up me is becoming more rooted in reality. the incessant trauma i experienced at home made me feel like i had tricked or manipulated everyone close to me into caring for me. that's what being abused by your only parent during every developmental stage does to you. now i have learned that i can survive, laugh, cry, get angry, and calm myself down on my own and always have been able to do so. i wouldn’t have survived the last 22 years if it weren’t for my rare and incredible commitment to learning how to hold my own hand. punishing myself for overindulging in fantasies is self-harm. i just wanted to hurt a little less. hell, it worked, everybody learned something, no harm done (some hurt, though).
i don’t need to, nor have i ever needed to, have someone else to survive. it will be wonderful to discover a love with someone to live and thrive with, and i’ll continue enjoying my beautiful existence until then. sweet thing about breaking my own heart’s that it hasn't made me give up on love and never will. i like this trait about me. i have persevered bravely in this life, and that goes to show that i truly have been carrying my pain, and well; i’ve come out on the other side—against all odds? oh, word.
the old me, the more scared teenage me: she would be in awe of how i survive now. as of late, i’ve actually had brief moments where i am in awe as well. i thank my old self endlessly for keeping her head above the waves in the only way she knew how and was capable: loving.
where this world has tried to harden me, i’ve said, “no. i am going to love with every fiber of my being because that’s who i have always been.”
