Tag: love

my final remark

michelleLeave a comment

“I am so sorry for your loss.”

“Thinking about u x”

“Let me know if you ever want to talk” 

I am cared for. I appreciate it. 

However, this feeling is hard to describe. It’s hard to feel. 

I talk to you. I talk to you often. You are the only person I want to talk to.

But today I didn’t talk to you. My mind uncemented itself for the first time since I heard. Since you left us. I existed without you, and it wasn’t horrible. I survived.

And then I thought about you. I remembered, and I broke. For the first time, I felt it. Realizing this was the moment when I really spoke to you. I was ready to say my last remarks. 

I now know what heartbreak feels like.

I felt a crack. I literally heard it as it worked its way down my heart. I now walk with my chest throbbing, two broken pieces on my left side.

I never regretted where we left off. It didn’t mean anything to me. I watched you from a distance, I saw you fall in love, and I saw you graduate and travel. I congratulated you when you got your first job. We kept tabs on each other. You checked in, too. That is why I never doubted; I knew you knew it, too. There was still love. There would always be love. 

So I’m not broken because we hadn’t spoken in a while. Not because I hadn’t seen you. 

I struggled through memories and emotions, none of them quite fit. I remembered moments and in some instances, I was stuck in space, literally. I could not move because I’d think of something else that you would miss, laughing at jokes we shared.

An avalanche of feelings and then it hit me, and then broke me. That moment I realized that we would never get to meet again. 

I would never bump into you at the grocery store. We would never see each other at an airport somewhere somehow. There would be no more coincidences between us. Our physical story ended here, and for as long as it will take for us to meet somehow in the afterlife coffee shop,

This is heartbreak. I have never been so sad. 

This is why I always got excited when you posted something new.

It’s the reason I immediately became friends with someone who knew you, too. I was getting little previews. Things that you would finally tell me when I saw you again. I knew our story wasn’t over. I loved where we left it off. I was so excited to see you again one day so you could finally pick up where you left off.

You would tell me what happened and I would tell you what happened, too. 

And we would tell each other how we truly felt. And we would laugh at each other, and then scold each other for accepting that. But eventually, we will have caught up and maybe exchanged numbers, and maybe we would see each other, no date forcing our hands. 

But I sit here with harsh reality, and I’m cold.

And my heart is in pieces. 

You are not here anymore. You are not experiencing life anymore. You did what was needed and what enough for you. Your journey in this part was through.

I remain. Trying to make sense in a word so senseless. Forcing and then taking one step at a time. 

And it’s heavy. I didn’t expect this load, this weight. But I carry it for you. And I feel despair for you.

I feel despair for myself and things I have always wanted to tell you, songs I wanted to show you, and moments I wanted to know more about. My curiosity remains. My love remains.

And I am going to miss you. So so much.

I’m going to think about you, and I will laugh at the good parts and smile at the moments when we helped each other and held each other. And for the little girls that we were.

And I’ll cry a lot not to make you feel bad. But to let you know that you were loved. 

And I will love you forever.

And one last thing, before I go

michelleLeave a comment

Today marked one year. One year since Mark had packed up nothing and finally walked out of Sylvie’s life. She sat at the same booth in the same cafe where, a year ago, she watched as Mark tried to care and tried to explain why, even though he said he was not ready for a relationship, he now was, and it was not with her. 

She sat on the same side of the booth but ordered a different drink. Recently, she realized that she quite liked lattes; not only that, she actually hated green tea. She didn’t know why she drank it for almost 3 years. 

Everything in the cafe was the same. The barista was the same. Only Sylvie now had a blonde pixie cut. It suited her. She also dressed differently now. A lot was the same, and a lot was also different. The most significant thing was that she was sitting here alone. A year ago, you would never have caught Sylvie alone. She hated it. Over the past year, however, she has grown a fondness for solitude. It was great she had time to think about herself and what she wanted. 

Anyways.

In front of Sylvie was a blank piece of paper. After a morning well spent crying and remembering, she devised a brilliant idea to put pen to paper. Fortunately for her, she no longer had Mark’s number. She had nothing of Mark at all, just the memories. She wondered how she could get rid of those too.

The plan was to write a letter. It would be an unsent letter because, as we know, she did not know where Mark was. But the letter would be her final remarks and well wishes as she celebrated the anniversary of her rebirth and emancipation. There were still a few things she needed to get off her chest.

And so she wrote: 

Maybe I am not supposed to understand 

Maybe it’s not supposed to make sense to me. How you can treat someone one way, and they treat you another. 

For so long, this reality was difficult to accept. We are raised according to universal standards, at least that is what they say. “This is what is right. And this is what is wrong,” they said knowing this is gonna take you far. 

However, it didn’t take me anywhere with you. 

I have always been a rule follower. Rules make sense to me, I am often too lazy to go against them. You are not lazy at all. I guess there might be something good in that. At least there is something good. 

I still think about you, about us, and what we never were.

For so long, I replayed it over and over. Like seasons I moved from blaming myself to blaming you, to hating you. It was active, and I found myself suspended in my memories, still picking apart moments. Only this time, I wasn’t picking myself apart too. I would feel waves of sadness as I now understood how little you cared. How careless you were with me, with my heart. It breaks me to remember how little I knew, how beautifully I opened myself up to you, how I welcomed you to my place, my safe space. I now see the strength behind my vulnerability: the cowardliness behind your walls. It never made sense how I could approach you with such care, and you showed me the opposite 

Time has been proven to be nothing but a social construct. And while there was little time between us, I created a lot of space for you. And I kept the space for you despite the fact that you never made space for me. It never made sense to me. I now realize that it never will.

I can’t comprehend how you can treat someone the way you treated me because I would never treat someone like that. This is simple, but I needed to realize one thing before I came to this conclusion.

You did this to me. 

I did not hurt myself. I did not set myself up to be misled and lied to. I never gave you permission. Your actions were your own, and so is the responsibility. 

I prosecuted myself for the treatment you inflicted. I put myself at the stake when really I was the victim. What I needed was protection. What I needed was to be so far away from you.

Not redemption. 

How greedy must one be to allow a hungry man to give you food when you know you just ate? How selfish, how unkind.

Your actions provide an overview of your character. There is nothing more to investigate, nothing to discover. The proof is in the way that others feel once you have left a room, and I felt horrible. We operate on different playing fields; I am here, and you are somewhere. Our paths were never meant to cross. You stayed because you had never seen the sun so bright, I stayed because I thought I would see stars in that kind of darkness 

Our exchange was not even. But I have since returned what was never mine, a desire for acceptance that I have never needed. 

I can run now, that burden is off my chest. I can breathe even deeper than I have ever done. 

We are not the same, and we will never make sense to each other. What a blessing that is, what a blessing.

Sylvie

“Excuse me, ma’am, would you like another latte?”

“Oh no, thank you, I’ll take the bill”

Sylvie never returned to that cafe; she found one down the street that she liked more, and they had freshly baked croissants, too.

about pressure, my unwelcome guest 

michelleLeave a comment

Pressure

Pressure

I can feel every second 

I can see each minute float away

My heart beats, we look at each other. She is tired, she beats all day. 

What’s wrong?

I look around for the problem, I can’t find it. I search for words, there are none.

It feels so dark, but I’m still blinded by flashing lights. This makes no sense. A sharp, high-pitched sound clouds my mind. Who is screaming? 

I think I would know if it was me. Right?

Pressure.

Pressure.

I don’t say stop. I don’t say enough. 

I don’t deserve it. 

I can’t move. I am stuck. 

I am alone. There is no one in here but me. But then again, who else could access my thoughts? Who else could access my mind?

Besides, Pressure. My uninvited guest. My captor. Trapping me inside my mind. 

I can’t smell the roses anymore. I don’t want to.

Pausing is a privilege granted to those who deserve it. Pressure reminds me. Do you deserve it ?– they question me.

Taunting me

Laughing as I beg. I reason I try to escape my solitary confinement.

I look for distractions. I look for short obstacles, I want to keep them happy, I want to be myself. I need to learn what that even looks like. 

Pressure.

It chips pieces of me from myself. Now I walk around feeling exposed, I walk with my head down, my eyes say too much. 

I walk alone, but I’m begging for a shadow. I am begging for a shoulder. 

I do not want to be alone. 

But the only way that you will find people is if you are something and do something. 

This is not enough. You are not enough. 

Pressure is harsh. My wounds are not healing. Excessive friction. Everything is out of sync. 

I am spiraling. While the minutes continue to float away, I circle down the drain. 

Finally, I am free. I think I am. Hours can’t haunt me anymore. Time is finished with me.

But Pressure remains. It becomes the soundtrack of my life, whispering and reminding me. My wounds never heal.

Pressure

them

michelleLeave a comment

We hurt together.

She hurts. I watch 

But I am not welcome as a viewer,

My presence is not enough. 

I, too, must join

I ask to help carry it instead,

But that is not enough.

Helping is not enough

Nothing is enough. 

The pain becomes an infection, 

It is vicious and consuming. 

But I can’t carry it, and I can’t view it,

I must become it as well.

I am frozen. Unknowingly so, I begin to hurt.

And so we sit in it 

And her pain becomes ours 

And nobody watches because nobody knows. 

And no one asks to carry it and nobody wants to.

And we remain 

Hurt. Together.

about the temporary,

michelleLeave a comment

Justice for the temporary.

Justice for the temporary, although my voice has significantly lowered and I have looked around to see exactly who has heard me, heard this declaration.

A truth I am slowly but surely starting to believe and embody.

Justice for the temporary, appreciation for the temporary! 

The temporary situation, person, and feeling.

For so long, temporary has been a dirty word. It signifies insecurity; it implies that there is more work and more uncertainty until, eventually, you can get to the point of finality. In a world that only feels livable once everything is secure, the temporary feels like a fate that the unlucky, the less fortunate succumb to. It is not permanent (of course), but it will inspire a look of pity and words of encouragement that are more successful in reminding you just how bad your current state is than, I guess, uplift. 

It’s understandable, though.

It makes sense why the temporary isn’t seen with the highest regard. Why the minute you discover that a situation, person, or feeling is temporary, you quickly begin the journey of finding the situation, person, or feeling that isn’t. 

The temporary can be seen as a waste. A waste of time, a waste of effort, and a waste of energy. We barely have enough to begin with, right? We don’t have enough emotional capacity to love someone who isn’t your forever, right? We don’t have enough time or money to waste on a job that is not aligned with our divine purpose, right? We don’t have enough energy to be in a situation any longer than we need to be, right? 

Once you find out you are in the temporary, the only option is to escape quickly. 

But what happens when you are stuck? What happens when you decide to go against the status quo, against the rule, and befriend the temporary. What if we sat and enjoyed the view instead of watching the coastline – waiting and pleading for the boat to finally reach its destination? Isn’t this what the “enlightened” have been telling us this whole time? 

I mean, I get it now.

However, as we know, practice has always been harder than preaching. 

It is uncomfortable to sit in a situation with a feeling or a person who is not really supposed to be there. I believe that is the point. It serves as a reminder that this is not it. You are not finished.  My argument is that we can never know for certain if anything or anyone is forever, and attempting to find out is how it becomes a negative experience.

What if it became, just an experience. 

The temporary. A moment in time. 

Also, about time. 

The final boss. The other enemy. Time, always running and never enough.

To enjoy the temporary is to seemingly go against time. And even though time is seen as a scarcity, it has been there and will be there after us, and the temporary.

So what does this mean? 

Honestly, I’m not sure. The enlightened tell us to take a breath. They encourage us to be present. to exist in a space where time passes, and we let it. They challenge us to be comfortable in a situation not wondering or worrying if it is temporary. 

And so I accept. I create a space that is comfortable and productive, in the temporary. I’m aware that in each moment time passes. It is uncomfortable, but then again, I remember, it is supposed to be. It is a challenge, after all.

Justice for the temporary and its friend time. I now see beauty in the temporary situation, person, and feeling. I treat them kindly, I sit with them, and I learn what I can. What is a temporary situation, person, and feeling if not an opportunity to learn, for growth, and a memory? 

What is the temporary, if not life itself?

It’s not perfect, but it’s better.

michelleLeave a comment

One year ago, I couldn’t wash my own hair. 

I texted my mom and asked if someone could wash my hair for me once I got home. I lay in bed tears streaming down my face, I stared at the ceiling, I looked around my dark room. I was tired; I was so tired. 

A year later and, on Thursday, I woke up and realized that I wanted to wash my hair, so I did. I also made my own homemade pizza, and I watched my favorite movie. 

It’s funny cause I wouldn’t say that I’m downing so much better on paper, that is. In January, I walked into the new year small. I chose to have very little expectations, my fear of dreaming big was backed by the belief that the world would remind me that I was too small to dream. That last year was tough. I was just happy to have made it, beaten, broken, and all. 

In this past year, I was not spared of the curveballs. Disappointment, failure, and redirection remained prominent figures in my life. At almost every turn, there seemed to be block after block. Hell, even right now, there are several things that could be going right. But, tonight I made some delicious homemade pizza and I watched my favorite movie. Did I mention that my laundry is fresh and neatly folded in my room? 

It’s not perfect, but it’s better. 

And sometimes that is enough.

I looked at the wallpaper on my laptop. I made it myself. It’s my mood board for the next year. I have dreams, hopes and wishes, they are big ones. I remain humble in the complex, ambiguous beauty that is the human experience, but there is hope and excitement that accompanies it. 

My perspective has shown that it desires change. It no longer wants to remain complacent and as accepting of the world, it craves experience and growth. It is curious and naive. It has relinquished control. It does not desire to be passive. It moves with intention. Intention that is not pretentious. It is, as I mentioned, humble too. 

A year ago, I was tired. I am still tired. Some things don’t change as quickly, but I am learning that that is okay, too.

Pretty people die, too.

michelleLeave a comment

Did you know that? That pretty people died, too?

We live in a society. A society hellbent on dividing but not conquering. We live in a time where the perceived sum total of a person is based on what category they fit into and what box they tick. There is an emphasis on all this separation and identification even though, at the very end, no one is exempt from the hand of life and, ultimately, death.

These man-made pedestals do much for the living and nothing for the dead.

And even the most powerful, influential, and beautiful, they, too, remain at the mercy of life itself.

In a world that thrives off on separation and distinction. In a world with occupants that continuously seek to push an agenda that ties our worth, our dignity, and the importance of life itself, based on its ability to meet criteria. Criteria that those who perpetuate don’t and can’t meet themselves,

I urge you to remind yourself that pretty people die, too.

And a statement like this can imply a wealth of ignorance. I am here to inform you that I know the world that we live in (- or at least I am starting to). I see how these categories and divisions create a perceived sense of power and ability to determine another’s worth. This is why many march, many demand, and some ultimately have to beg that other person someone can see beyond the division, beyond the categories. 

It is why empathy is reserved for those who can actualize it as opposed to a universally taught standard.

Despite this, despite all of this, pretty people still die, too. 

Everyone does. A moment, a second, a decision can be the only line separating the living and the dead. We know this, but we can and probably will ignore it. Ignore how simple and how fragile, how precious, human life is.

And so, we continue to polish the pedestals, rejecting those that do not meet the requirements of the pedestal. While others will dehumanize those standing on the pedestals, subjecting them to fates, few understand and speak about. 

A few will fight against the pedestals, and fewer will see actual change.

And the train will keep going. And everyone, including the pretty people, will die. And we will all wonder what the point was and why the pedestals even existed,

And then, slowly but surely, the cycle will continue. 

And when another pretty person dies, we will stand in shock because we will be reminded that pretty people die, too.

I wish I cried on the train.

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I almost cried on the train today. I also almost cried at the bus stop. And I almost cried as I walked home.

I held it in, of course. I focused on something else

But throughout the day, the feeling followed me. A wave of unexpected sadness and a desperate need to release it. To feel it. But I held it in. I focused on something else.

Soon, I was no longer at the bus stop, I wasn’t on the train, and I had finally reached home.

Every step and every push forward was backed by the promise that I would grant myself a moment, a time to cry. “Just not now.” I believed myself. I trusted that I would give myself a chance to feel and an opportunity to express myself. I always trust myself because if I did not, then who can I trust. Who else would let me cry?

But I never did. And the feeling left. At least, I thought so. 

Because I have been wanting to cry, I have been feeling the feeling of wanting to cry. But every time it comes, every time I finally allow it to come, it doesn’t. And I am left here with feelings I can’t express and a weight I can’t let go off. 

And I hope eventually I will cry. And as I hope, I also fear for the moment because I am not sure if I will ever stop once I start. And, instead of being the girl that never cried, I will become the girl that never stopped.

I wish I cried on the train. And at the bus stop and, as I walked home. I wish I cried because that would release me from being anything. It would release me from being the girl who cried or never cried. 

It would release me because I would be feeling. I would be feeling instead of wondering what type of girl I was. Because I would be present, and I would be just a girl who is crying on the train, at the bus stop, and on her way home. 

I wish I cried so that I could just be the girl who cried when she needed to. 

On remembering and Not remembering

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I am still recovering. 

I am still working on it. I am still feeling it. 

Still dealing with it.

There are moments when I am fine. Moments when I don’t remember. I don’t remember the hurt, the embarrassment, the feeling of instant regret. There are days when I forget that I ever experienced any of that. 

Then, there are days when I remember. 

The days when I stay inside. The days when I get consumed in the hating, and the pulling myself apart, the days when the self-doubt takes over.  On those days, hoping feels a little sillier and a little hopeless. 

So, I try my best not to remember,

I put them away, distract myself, and instead, I imagine: I set the scene, and you are placed right in the middle. The best seat in the house.

In my theatre

Here you cannot miss this show. You cannot miss a second, a turn, a smile. I stand before you. This time, I am prepared. This time, I know your game.

This time, it is a fair game

I see through your facade. I recognize the bullshit bluffing as your so-called confidence. The blurry image I once thought was mysterious has cleared up to be insecurity. 

This time, you can’t hurt me.

You can’t hurt me because while you can see me. And while you can hear me and feel my energy, my presence, my impact.

You cannot touch me. You cannot approach me. You are only a viewer in my show and you can only watch me because you cannot watch anything else

I am the show. And you are my audience. 

At this moment, I have control. I am in control, and you cannot hurt me. 

When I remember I go there, to this place. The place where I tell you who you are. The place where I confront you with your shame

The place where I hold the mirror, and instead of hurting me, you see yourself. Clearly. 

On the days when I don’t remember. 

I hope, I long, and I wish. I am once again just a girl who has feelings. The girl who may not have worn her heart on her sleeve but the girl who imagined the good. The girl who would daydream about the boy who handed her their sharpener, about the other boy who held the door open for her, and about the other boy whose laugh was a cure for any bad feelings in her mind.

The girl who didn’t even for a second, second guess intention, the girl who never doubted her worth of deserving love.

When I remember, I go to the place where I can tell you what you have done to me. 

The place where my scars are visible. Where my pain is universally understood. Accepted and not justified. 

When I remember, I speak clearly. 

I share my shame with you because it should belong to you.

I leave the stage and you, with the baggage you gave me. I leave the stage and realize what I have always known, what I needed you to know. I leave the stage, and finally, you know

You realize your loss. You realize your misfortune. I leave, and you curse the air and feel the feeling. The sensation, and it engulfs you 

I leave, and all you are left with is regret. 

That’s the part that’s left. The reason why the memory of you still lingers. The reason why I remember and don’t remember. My curiosity keeps me, making me revisit you and the memory and the time. It makes me think about you, unable to forget you. I wonder to myself, I wonder if you feel it.

Do you have any remorse? Regret? 

I wonder if there is a split second or moment in your day where you pause and wonder. Long for a moment. A time when you could be on the stage. A moment when I sit across in the best seat in the house. Right in the middle because I cannot miss a thing. Because you need me to hear from you

To see you.

A moment when you say how you felt, how the shame was too much.How the shame, the embarrassment, the instant regret was the spillage from the overflowing pool of emotions you carry on your chest. You tell me that the isolation was a gift, a moment of compassion and protection from the mess that encompasses your self-hatred and anger and that your unresolved troubled childhood trauma was the sole reason. That I was just an unlucky casualty in your war against yourself.

That way, I would see your pain—all of it.

I would see the shame. 

You would get to tell me who you really are. 

You would tell me about the days when you remember. Days when you can’t choose not to remember. You would tell how on the days when you remember how you go to this place. You would go to this stage, and you would say to me how you remember.

You would then do the most unexpected thing. 

You would ask me how I felt.

And you would tell me how seeing my shock and confusion after that question would pain you. 

You would tell me how you never realized that that was the first time you had asked me this, the first time you paused and considered me, my story, and my feelings.

And then I would tell you what I do on the days that I don’t remember and on the days that I do. 

a monologue about anger

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The white lights and stainless steel cabinets made the kitchen feel like a police officer’s interrogation room—and honestly, so did the energy.

The cluttered kitchen felt empty, and tension hung like blackout curtains, completely taking over the room. We sat across from each other, nothing but the space of the table between us. The table that I thought had been chosen in agreement easily and happily—a once happy memory ruined by the new unknown context I just found out tonight, three years later.

On the table lay the remnants of what could only be described as a train wreck of a five-year anniversary dinner.

Like the spilled wine on the table, a lot of angry and rage-filled words had been spilled tonight. 

It was at this moment it clicked. It all made sense. I looked at the man across from me, the man I claimed to love. I studied his face, I looked at his skin, his hands, his eyebrows and then big one, the one my eyes had been avoiding. The tears. Tears flowed down his cheeks, and I watched in awe.  Staring at him I realized -this was the first time i am seeing him cry. In confusion, temporarily interrupting my anger, I realized I didn’t recognize him. Or rather, I didn’t recognize him like— this.

This is the part that had been missing, the part that I wondered about, the place where he sometimes disappeared to

5 years worth of frustration and suppression 

5 years of wondering, of asking, and revisiting 

Finally, I could see him 

All of him, I had arrived.

He was looking back at me. 

His breath was only a little faster than mine. His was sharp and frequent like he just took a brisk walk. He looked a little smaller, vulnerable. His shoulders slightly hunched over – his final attempt to conceal something, anything as he sat here heaving after completing the most open, gut-wrenching and anger filled outburst.

After he finally bore his soul.

I can tell he has been holding this in.

5 years of saying it’s fine.

5 years of saying that it doesn’t bother him 

That he didn’t mind,

5 years of pretending to be okay when he wasn’t.

I want to laugh because look at us! Becoming the very same people we used to mock. The people we said we could never become

It’s been 5 minutes since he spoke. We have sat here for 5 minutes 

He has been recovering, and I have been thinking.

It’s quiet, so I can hear every teardrop 

This man is angry, and he has finally told me. I can finally see him 

I feel relief, but I am angry, too.

Our eyes are locked, and we study each other, searching, investigating, waiting.

It’s my turn to speak 

To share my piece

To bring forth my 5 years of context

My response 

I take a deep breath each molecule preparing me for the response that may change everything. 

The response that defines 5 years, our 5 years …

“Are you done? 

Can I speak now? 

No, I genuinely mean it, are you finished. I want you to get it, get this off your chest. Finally 

I want you to say it all! even if you scream it all!

Because this is the closest, the most I have known about you, the most anything that I have felt from you in months!

This is real. This is honest. This is you 

You are angry. You are still you but right now you are you and you are angry! and that is okay. 

`I take a deep breath’

I stay begging; you call it nagging. But we sit here every few months, upset at each other; We kinda sorta figure it out, and I say what’s kind of on my chest, and you don’t 

We “solve” the issue – and then we move on. Except we don’t, and you don’t get heard, and I never know, and then we go right. back. to. it. 

But finally. We are here. 

It’s not great, it’s not comfortable, it’s definitely not fun but shit we are here. 

I am here, and finally finally, so are you. 

You are angry

The thing is, I can finally say it. I can pinpoint it. It’s identifiable. T h i s h a s m a d e y o u a n g r y. Before, I just had to guess. I always wondered. Ultimately, I resorted to just assuming. Guessing that each time you disappear, each time you isolate, vanish, it means that you are angry or upset. 

And it’s not healthy. It’s not!

But what choice do I have when you only ever show me the good parts? What options do I have when every time I ask, you lie? 

`I take another deep breath’ 

You say you are fine, and then you go for a walk

You say you are fine, and then you go for a jog

You say you are fine and I am picking you up from a bar from god-knows where. And then I ask you again and you lie and say that you are fine!

`he wants to talk, but I persist’ 

When I push, when I engage, when I sit here – quiet 

I am quiet because I want to exist with you

I want access to this this world, this bubble 

This life that you so desperately try to hide, to gatekeep

To exclude me from 

You are angry 

You are still you, but right now, you are you, and you are angry.

I am angry too. I am angry, and I love you. 

I am angry because I have never once asked you to withhold this part of yourself. 

I never told you that I only wanted the good parts

I understand it is above me, above you, above all of us. I understand it’s because we live in a space, a world, a society 

-A society that demands us to hide, retreat, and disguise moments like this, feelings like this

But this is me, and this is you. 

And this is us

We make up this space 

We create this space 

You occupy this space with me. You exist as a person here, alongside me. Your space and your world intersect with me, here. When you leave me out, when you don’t say why you are so fucking angry 

I exist in this space alone. 

You isolate me 

That is when your anger, your feelings, things are that are about you, become about me too, okay

So don’t stand here and call me selfish; don’t dismiss me and say that I don’t understand. Of course I don’t, how could I? You are angry, I know you, but I don’t know your anger 

You are you and I know you 

But you are you and you are angry and I don’t know you with that.

`I am yelling, I pause. I lower my voice’

I am not saying that I need to fix it. I am not even saying that I can but I am saying that I just want to know, okay? This is our space, and in our space you have brought anger, and I deserve to know that.

I want to know your anger because that is a part of you and you can’t escape it. 

And yes you are right, I do not want to be a victim of your anger. So don’t take it out on me. 

But 

But fuck! If you think that not telling me, not opening up, and not being honest is the opposite of making me the victim, then I have some bad news for you. Shocking news! 

Because right now, this, this silence, this coldness, this distance?

I am a victim now.

I am standing at the forefront in the line of danger, and I am standing here alone. 

Because you are angry 

And because I love you 

So what now? What happens next? 

I didn’t realize that asking you to bring your whole self was asking for too much.

It didn’t occur to me that you would bring any less of you in this

Because I brought all of me!

`I am crying – how do I stop crying! ‘

I didn’t know, and now that I do know, I no longer want to be a part of a relationship where we are not bringing ourselves, our whole selves, into it. This is a condition of my love.

The good, the bad, the ugly.

 Oh, and by the way, anger has never been the bad or the ugly. At least not to me, anyway 

So I’ll ask you again.

Are you done, or is there anything else you would like to add?”

Picture this, a place where love exists. A place where even after a rage-driven argument has left two breathless lovers silent, there is still the mutual knowledge that love persists.