I’ve ruled a big part of my short life through the things I didn’t want. My minor, for example, was picked through exclusion between all the options I had but didn’t see myself doing. The books I end up selecting sometimes, the clothes I might wear for the next day; a lot of unconscious choices I make seem to be picked in this spirit of whatever remains, not in a sense of… wanting. Only searching through the leftovers.
It doesn’t stop there too. A few weeks ago, I’ve noticed that when I look back with the tinted glasses of nostalgia, it feels like I’ve loved a lot of things not for the sake of loving them, what they were or reasons solely mine. No, it ties to a topic I’ve written before, but I did it for the sake of others, those I care for, those I wish would care for me, almost as an act of devotion. A surrender of sorts. I’ve been doing things for somebody else for so long, in hopes of love, forgetting to sort of cultivate a garden and attain to my own roots. Look my way, look at me. Here’s my love. I love what you love, all of it, and I love you. Please, look at me.
While watching (cough binging) Fleabag recently, there was a confession scene that touched me. Next thing I knew, I was crying, hands trembling, oddly fascinated because this isn’t the most philosophical series out there, but some moments… some moments hit you like a car crash, or with an equivalent impact. Here’s the transcript of said slip.
“I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat, what to like, what to hate, what to rage about, what to listen to, what band to like, what to buy tickets for, what to joke about, what not to joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in, who to vote for, and who to love, and how to tell them. I just think I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far I think I've been getting it wrong, and I know that’s why people want people like you in their lives, because you just tell them how to do it. You just tell them what to do and what they’ll get out at the end of it, and even though I don’t believe your bullshit, and I know that scientifically nothing I do makes any difference in the end anyway, I’m still scared. Why am I still scared?”
You know those moments in your life where you feel it, in your bones, that you’ll never be the same afterwards? Me neither! (joking). Well, I’ve been searching for answers, like we all do in this godforsaken earth, all the damn time, and I finally found one of them. I’ve been loving, living like a student, working relentlessly on a subject as if I’ll be evaluated on it, mastering it, waiting for the next topic, pen in hand, hoping for some sort of praise or grade at the end. Loving has been an act to get out of my own head, let go of my willpower, of the burden of responsibility, of confidence, trust the wheel to someone else, flee. To know more of what to do and who to be and what else to want, not for myself, but for… everyone, everything, I’m guessing. Loving has been a way of knowing how and what to want from the world, by copying somebody else, to simplify whatever mess we live in. Without it, I’m only half a person.
And is that wrong? Who am I to say… What I’ve discovered is that it hurts you more than it helps you. If it hurts too much, there’s a slight chance something could be changed. Over and over again, loving like this, means becoming shapeless. Holding on relentlessly through the wants, the needs, hopes, wishes of others, like a wind kite riding in the breeze. I’m a child tugging at the skirt of a mother, a dog waiting for the owner to throw a bone across a field. I’ll chase it, I’ll find it, it will mean something. It’s scary to imagine, how much I rely on others to do anything with myself, for myself.
It’s always a load of must dos and mustn’t dos, of promises thrown at the air. Infinite paths of who I can become. Like a caterpillar, I build a cocoon to protect myself with and become a new me in the process. It’s a bit cheesy, this way of picturing it, but yes, in the long term, love is a constant process of transformation. It’s not a dead end street, at least most of the time, and you’re never the same afterwards.
But I don’t think I’ve been doing this transformation thing very well, much like fleabag. It keeps hurting too much — it’s not that it hurts, pain is part of living. It’s the too much. It keeps failing. It’s opening the door to the same mistakes, the same kind of misery that I’m getting weary off, that’s making love become something that burns my hands when I touch regardless of how much I’d wish to, that is making love, living become duller.
And it’s weird. It’s the things I love that have me waking up in the morning and get out of bed. The people I love the ones that make me happy. This sick wanting, this doubt, comes from somewhere deep within me that trusts that everyone else will always have the answer. That thinks someone else knows better than I do, and has a place for me to lay and put down my love, my admiration and trust, my fears. By doing this again and again, I run away from myself, and forget to be a bit more… my own. To know what I want, even if I cannot get it. Not just what I don’t want, or what people might need from me.
And yes, yes, it’s essencial to lean on others. To love is to have hope, and faith, but in my experience, until we get there, we go through a lot. Misunderstandings, words we don’t say, words we do say, wishes, needs that go unfilled, people that change, situations with their natural, various hardships — you name it, suffering is embed into us. We have no choice in the matter, and perhaps that’s exactly why we run.
Okay, I feel like the theme is a bit lost, and so is the message; it’d be easier if we could all have someone to tell us what to do, what’s the right choice, what’s the path of less pain. I keep wondering why I’m searching for a person like that when people are just people, and that might be the biggest disappointment we’ll ever have to face in our lives, among many others. Same goes with most material things, they’re just gadgets that mean something to us. We can turn to gods, and to love, and to ourselves. That’s what we have. People too, are always there, but, as with all things in life, we should rely on them with moderation.
I hold on things too close, and when they don’t work, or end, I’m back at square zero because, and not to brag, I’m an adult that barely knows herself anymore because of this, since so much of who I am was shaped by the presence of others around me, of what I could bring to a relationship and make things better, the world better with; or the presence of some higher deadline or shore that doesn’t exist anymore, or forever. Of wanting to rely on everything but myself;.It’s frightening, to face time alone when I could just… wait for stimulation, for distraction, for that good feeling alongside somebody. I don’t know how to be when no one else is around me, and that is terrifying.
Here’s a fitting poem, ‘I DON’T WANT TO BE DEMURE OR RESPECTABLE’, from Mary Oliver.
“I don’t want to be demure or respectable.
I was that way, asleep, for years.
That way, you forget too many important things.
How the little stones, even if you can’t hear them, are singing.
How the river can’t wait to get to the ocean and the sky, it’s been there before.
What traveling is that!
It is a joy to imagine such distances.
I could skip sleep for the next hundred years.
There is a fire in the lashes of my eyes.
It doesn’t matter where I am, it could be a small room.
The glimmer of gold Böhme saw on the kitchen pot
was missed by everyone else in the house.Maybe the fire in my lashes is a reflection of that.
Why do I have so many thoughts, they are driving me crazy.
Why am I always going anywhere, instead of somewhere?
Listen to me or not, it hardly matters.
I’m not trying to be wise, that would be foolish.
I’m just chattering.”
There is this one quote I’ve heard years ago, and I can’t remember where, but it was this: sometimes you can’t find comfort, you must create it. And I am now learning how hard it is to find force within yourself, willpower, enough strength to simply begin, to continue, and not give up.
We trick ourselves and say it’d be easier if we had someone else dictating everything for us, but, who knows, maybe in that scenario we’d be wishing for freedom, we’d still want change. We will always keep wanting, the struggle isn’t going anywhere. Those too are certainties to life, just not exactly sweet ones.
For now, I get up from my chair and I organize my room for a while. I start somewhere, it won’t be as hard if only I begin. That’s the truth I remind myself. Like a fawn, nearly born, learning to walk. Opening the heart to failure, to disappointment, to fear; trying again, but staying put, staying here. I join a discord for accountability, thinking to give it a try, that it might change something, make me finally wake up earlier and read and learn, but feel so odd and misplaced. I feel silly, standing at the edge of something so much bigger than myself, next to gym users and people with real careers when I barely know what I want.
The world, people, will still be busy, and I’ll be afraid, but we have ourselves to spend the rest of our lives with. You’re going nowhere, and that’s both agonizing and comforting. You can always start from scratch, whenever you wish. You can always find your way back to yourself.
I’ll finish this letter with a list of things I’ve noticed about myself, which is egocentric and cheesy, I know, but I urge you to do the same. No one else needs to know, it can be your, our secret: I love bread with butter. I love watching romcoms, especially comedy series that don’t have a linear plot. Fantasy laced with existential crisis and a lot of romance might be my favourite genre of any kind of media. I still like the cold more than the hot weather. I love seeing cats. Putting on lotion or cream makes me feel lighter, and nice, and I look forward every night to apply some before going to bed. I don’t like when socks get wet, or people seem to stop needing me. Change of any kind is scary. I might never be ready. I hope I can become someone I don’t try to avoid.
Thank you for reading delicate this week. I hope you can finish your nights while letting go of all the guilts, fears, doubts, and other burdens you’ve dealt with through the day. Next week I’ll write about something lighter.
delicacies of the week
Watching Fleabag was a mixed experience, but with all things considered I really enjoyed the whole experience. It captures a lot of short moments of raw, vivid… humanity, I guess, even if it does it in a pretty weird way. Doubt, lust, fear, you name it, even looking French, it includes the whole spectrum of human experiences.
This episode of Radio Headspace was nice. If you have 6 minutes to spare and struggle with being uncomfortable, give it a try.
I found this song through TikTok one day. It’s the type of soundtrack that you’d picture in fairy-tale, the kind of song that makes you want to dream, enchanting. It brings me a lot of peace.
Also, Wrapped happened, and Taylor Swift, once again, dominated my charts (to no one’s surprise). I’m airing my business, but this is what my top songs looked like. Musically, it was a year of going back to my songs-that-make-me-feel-safe-and-as-if-love-is-real era. Back when I was 15 and listened to M O S T L Y Strings everyday.
SONGS OF THE WEEK: the night by lovewave , tallwhip revisited by men i trust and the great war by taylor swift