Today is one of those days where life feels insanely bleaker than it actually is. Where the sun isn’t out, not completely, not yet, and the chest feels stuffier, heavier.
I didn’t get to stay at the place i had my internship-ish experience, so this past week I came back to the dreadful process of job hunting. 1 month down the drain in a 3 minutes conversation, facing critics left and right, not just at the way I work, but at my personality too. I was told I should rethink my future if I keep being the way I am. The tone and words were quite condescending, even though I was told it was with good thoughts in mind, impersonal, with wishes of seeing me succeed. It all felt so finite, a matter of life and death, an expiration date in the middle of my forehead. I was told that I wasn’t humble, because I always had an answer at the tip of my tongue, ready. It hurt me more than hearing I wasn’t cut out for that place, or distracted, or that I asked too many questions, or that I didn’t adapt or progress in the way I was expected to.
Surprisingly enough, I took it all far better than I expected. I didn’t cry, at least not in front of them. At the metro station after getting dismissed for the last time, after reading words of comfort and reassurance from a couple of friends, that’s when the tears came — at the realisation that I’d have to be the bearer of bad news, the target at the end of a very sharp arrow. A moment where it felt as if the whole world sat at the top your shoulders. And I let it.
What I was, above most feelings, was very angry. Even as far as betrayed, given the one that spoke of rejection to me had been the kindest of the three I worked with. It felt as if I had bitten into a rotten apple. I am always too late to notice the clock running late, to fix what’s broken beyond repair, so even when I was receiving the explanations for letting me go, I still rushed to justify myself, as if I held it in my arms it’d go away, stating my point of view. As if anything would change. As if they cared. I had nothing left to lose, I thought, so I’ll speak my truth, keep it as respectful as possible, and leave. It was a goodbye far more bitter than sweet, I’m sure we both tainted the memories we held of each other.
I don’t know how to be angry, neither how to argue. When a fight breaks out, it´s as if all my phrases become defensive, like I’m protecting something. I know how to snap, how to say the words that hurt, how to let my emotions take the lead and crash the car at either a wall or straight to a cliff in mere seconds. Other times, I become lost at the face of anger, I dissociate, leave the room without leaving my body. Anger to me is an act of shame, of surrender, of loss. A talented, quick shapeshifter.
Ironically enough, in most of my efforts to not let anger overtake me and touch what’s dearest, awaken what’s hidden, I only end up making things worse. By speaking up, with hopes of reaching a common ground, I only further proved the arrogance they held against me. By trying to reason with people while we argue, I seek a validation that won’t come, I seek to control a beast that is wild from nature, it never ends with an apology, with a promise or proof of change, at a place of peace in both ends. My anger leaves me somehow emptier, hollow. The anger calls for what is weakest, turns my favourite shirt into rags. It leaves only guilt, shame and resentment.
Yet the more I rummage it, the closer I come to realise the fear of being misunderstood, together with my clumsy sense of self, pushes and pulls anger until it tears itself apart, until its mask falls. Much how I sometimes want to break apart, and scream, or cry, and shout at a sky that won’t hear me, won’t answer, won’t understand, won’t be hurt at what I get to say. I want the liberty of choice without the burden of consequence.
I know plenty about myself. I know I like yellow, dark chocolate (around 70%), cold sunny days. I know we’re stronger than we give ourselves credit for. I know a lot more about the things I dislike. But these truths don’t hold much depth, even if they’re many. I don’t ask bigger, more specific, even uncomfortable questions. I don’t know where to begin searching, if I’m ready to face the answers. What do I want from the world? What aspects of life are non negotiable to me? Do I prefer mornings or nights? What do I look for in a person, besides kindness? What do I want when I’m in pain? What does sadness look like to me? Why is that? And peace? What’s the difference between loneliness and boredom to me? What expectations do I hold against the world? What does real rest looks like to me? What do I actually, really, want?
When you don’t know what you want, you’ll accept whatever you can get. Oh, isn’t it tempting, to be whatever the world wants you to be? To follow the path walked by hundreds, thousands? To not question, or ever be in doubt? Even when the people don’t know you as long as you know yourself, don’t see you at your worst and best and in betweens. It’s so much easier to not listen or trust your heart, but it comes at the price of rarely ever being contempt, at peace with yourself alone, in a space of belonging. Always walking on extremes and eggshells, living in a seesaw. I’ve been at this state of not knowing for so long, it started to feel like home, but it’s one so empty, with no chairs or bed or windows. I don’t want to live like this.
It takes courage to confront yourself in the mirror and not look away. Faith to be true to yourself and what you’d like. I want to be as clear with myself as water. I don’t want to cut corners, nor do I want to sit in this place of victimhood with only anger and resentment left in my hands. I want to grow into myself. To be more certain, less of a question mark, less shaky and afraid.
And I’d say, as in many other times, when I muse about life, I end up realising that it takes facing a lot of discomfort to live, to love. It’s that moment, where your teacher asked a question to the class, and no one raised a hand. You might know the answer, maybe you have no idea. There’s an acute disquiet in the air, unavoidable. Or when you try to take a photo in public, of the sky or a flower or whatever it is, and find people staring. You’re not doing anything wrong, yet it feels strange, disquieting. Your mind might rush, run, hide, or stay. And it takes a whole lot of moments like these to get to know what you value or you don’t, what you want to keep and would rather let go. It’ll only get as easy as long as it has been, once, twice, painfully uncomfortable.
These days, I keep and write a fear inventory. It started with little over 20, then 27, now it sits at 34 fears. It’s an exercise that has made me more aware, more reassured at the type of person I am, I might be. I’ve always been a student of failure, but I’d like to try and learn through curiosity. When I write those fears down, I burn, engrave them in my brain, and become a little less afraid. Or perhaps it’s just that awkward stage when you’re meeting somebody for the first time slowly fading away. Getting to know myself a little bit better wasn’t as scary as I thought.
Thank you for reading delicate this week. I love you, and I hope anger won’t scare you.
DELICACIES OF THE WEEK
This poem from Tumblr ties itself beautifully to the poem ‘Good Bones’ from Maggie Smith. This one, ‘WHAT IS LOVE IF NOT THE SHARING OF SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL?’, was written by the user heavensghost.
Ryan Beatty’s new album, ‘Calico’, was a nice addition to the music-for-sad-girls movement, albeit less well known. Beatty has a soft voice, not angelic enough to worship but one that almost asks for forgiveness in every line he speaks. As for my favourite tracks, ‘Bruises Off The Peach’ and ‘Little Faith’ took the cake for me.
As a true Emily Henry girly, I couldn’t not ready ‘Happy Place’, her newest book that came out last week. This was a tough, heavy read to get through, because it wasn’t a love story, it was more of a story about love, where Henry’s ability to flesh out a character from every corner and end reached a new peak. The romance aspect was definitely weak, as it took the backseat. This was a work to explore different friendship dynamics, the relationships we hold with ourselves. I have no idea when, but I’d like to read it again sometime, simply to admire Henry’s craft a little closer.
SONGS OF THE WEEK: bruises off the peach by ryan beatty, petals on the moon by wasia project and no fun at parties by margot liotta
Ines,
It has been months since I opened Substack and sat down and read anything in my inbox. I am glad this is the first one in awhile. It's been a very difficult couple of months, and I feel so seen through this post. I thought this was so brave and strong of you. I hope life treats you with a little more gentleness soon <3