I think of us as seeds. Embryonic seeds that didn’t come from the same plant but aren’t so different. It’s not like you’re a cactus and I’m a daisy, or you’re a weed and I’m a rose. We’re two of the same species, but not identical. What I’ve learned growing my own sunflowers is that seeds won’t grow properly if they are crowded into a pot that can’t accommodate them. The soil will become more roots than nutrients and even though you may water them religiously and put them in the proper amounts of sunlight, they won’t grow if they’re just becoming tangled up in one another without the proper nourishment. But if you grow them separately until they are mature and then transplant them, they’ll be healthy enough to continue to grow.
So I’ll let you grow in your own pot. I’ll let you be healthy, nourished and well-tended for. And I’ll do my own growing over here in mine. And when we’ve done all our separate growing, then we can be planted together to grow together.
Because although I can bud without you in my pot, I can’t fully bloom. Sure, I’ll sprout a few here and there, but you are the missing piece that prevents me from fully springing to life in resplendent petals. Without you, there’s winter where there should be spring. But an unhealthy plant can’t grow and live. Neither can we. So you’ll get healthy. I’ll get healthy. And then we can be planted in the same pot with our roots tangled and enmeshed. We’ll soak up the sun and burst into full bloom – together.
Love at first sight isn’t a thing. Attraction at first sight is a thing. Hate at first sight is also a thing (girl in the horizontal striped skirt who stole my peppermint schnapps and left my best friend and me alone in a room after dragging the person we were hanging out with away – I am looking at you). But I don’t think that love is a feeling any more than it is a choice.
It is a choice to let things go beyond a secret 3AM kiss in the kitchen. It is a choice to kiss him again outside of the front door in the snow with a bottle of vodka in your hand. It is a choice to build a stone wall around yourself to prevent him from digging any deeper into who you are. It is a choice to kiss him over the drum and bass only to slap him two minutes later. It is a choice to reply to his drunken messages months later before finally admitting to yourself that maybe you do like him more than you hate him.
It is a choice to strip off your armor and let yourself be emotionally naked, letting him see the pink soft-shelled creature beneath that hard exterior. It is a choice to break dates with more geographically desirable boys because they just can’t capture your interest. It is a choice to swallow your feelings because he’s not ready to hear them, even if swallowing these feelings is like swallowing six saltines without water. It is a choice to stay and see the gold in him even when he is rolling in as much dirt as he can to hide it.
But it was his choice to go. He chose to stop choosing me. And that’s a choice I had to swallow.
But it was my choice to stop blaming myself for the choices he made. I chose to become okay with choosing for myself. I decided that I wasn’t going to fall apart when he chose to go. And I chose me. I picked me. I loved me. I spent time in my own head, in my own self and I came to the conclusion that I will not define my self-worth by the choices he makes because he’s too afraid to make the right one.
And now I think it’s my choice whether or not to choose to choose him again. But, if I’m presented with the choice of him or no him? I’d still choose him. I’d still pick him. I’d still love him. But I get to make that choice.
Tonight’s episode of Girls has left me with a heavy feeling in my chest and a burning need to write. And I don’t know why.
I can’t tell if I’m in the minority or majority, but I am really hating the Adam/Jessa storyline. First of all, I hate when girls trash their friendships for the sake of a boy. And second – Adam is Hannah’s. He has always been Hannah’s and he should always be Hannah’s. And from what I can tell on the internet, people are in two camps. Some people see that Jessa and Adam work really well – they’re both recovering addicts and both a little crazy. And then others, like me, absolutely hate the two of them as a couple. Now, I’ve watched shows where people I didn’t like paired up before (It’s really frustrating when it’s reality TV because, Bret Michaels, you should have picked Heather in the first season!!). But I couldn’t figure out why this bothered me so incredibly much and has been increasingly bothering me as the season has gone on.
And then I did.
Adam and Jessa together sums up everything I am so afraid of in regards to the boy.
In season 4 of Girls, Adam pulls the same move that just got pulled on me – while Hannah is away, he meets someone new and immediately leaps into something that he tries to make serious. Enter Mimi-Rose Howard. The episode where Hannah meets Mimi-Rose and talks to Adam about his new relationship is probably one of the hardest episodes for me to watch (although Adam describing Hannah is a pretty accurate description of me – “She’s stubborn as fuck and likes to be in bed a lot”). The things Hannah says to Adam – “You were in love with me a month ago, who is she, how did you meet her, this doesn’t make sense” – are all things that I said 6 weeks ago through hysterics. But that’s another story for another time. As Hannah shuts herself in what used to be hers and Adam’s bedroom, it’s weirdly Marnie who drops the life advice that I have been using every day for the past 6 weeks. “You have to give him room to see where this goes or he will hate you forever.”And it’s true. I have to let everything run its course because if he is supposed to be with me, he’ll be back.
But the Adam and Jessa storyline is throwing me off. If Adam can be so happy with someone else and want to be with someone else so badly, can’t the boy? I think I root for Adam and Hannah because I see so much of my own relationship in them. I see the boy who won’t commit until the girl tells him what she needs from him (and that’s where we differ because I knew that was what I needed to do but couldn’t). I see the girl and the boy who really do need each other but don’t like admitting it. And I see the boy who does not like when shit feels real. And so if I do notice the parallels in our relationships, does this mean I will also be replaced so easily?
But here’s what I ultimately think – Adam and Hannah are each other’s. Watching them belong to another person is weird and wrong, but in a way, it’s also fantastic because it just proves that they can’t be with anyone else. And sometimes, you have to let them figure that out for themselves. It’s not going to work with her. It didn’t work with him. Because we belong to each other.
I don’t have the biggest sweet tooth. I crave sweets at specific times but I’m more likely to want something cheesy. But I figured candy was an appropriate metaphor for something so sweet and yet so damaging.
Let’s start with the most recent boy. The one who is responsible for this Alanis Morissette-esque mess here. He is a lollipop. He is something that will break if you bite it too soon and lasts for a long time if you take it slowly. The flavour lasts for a while, the colour stains your tongue and lips for hours and you can’t really eat lollipops one after another. They’re not exactly made for mindless consumption. And after you finish your lollipop, you have a tangible, permanent reminder of it – the stick. Lollipops are meant to last and so is he.
About two weeks ago, I decided that it would be a good idea to see someone else. The best way to get over someone is to get under someone, right? Not exactly. So this guy – really nice, really chill, decent taste in music, plays the guitar – did I mention he’s really nice? And initially, some sort of spark was there. But it was pretty clear that he was feeling it more than I was and rather than be an awful human, I decided to end it before things escalated and he ended up with my initial tattooed on his ass.
Here’s the thing – right now, the last thing I need is a boyfriend. I need Razzles. You know – first, it’s candy, then it’s gum? And the flavour lasts approximately two minutes and if you’re like a certain friend of mine, you pitch the spent wad onto the empty packet in an artistic pattern (Lys I love you but that was a very strange moment in our friendship).I need something that I can chew up and spit out when the flavour is gone. In that guy’s opinion, I probably did Razzle him. But he was trying to be a lollipop for me.
I need pack after pack of Razzles before my lollipop comes back.
There is no earthly being that I love as much as I love my dog. I am not joking.
When we picked out a little yellow lab puppy nearly 10 years ago, I knew that the one sitting in the shade and only selectively giving out face kisses had to be ours. I even picked his name – Walker. Now, however, he goes by things such as Pupsy, Woof, Snuffy, Walker Doodle, Strudel Doodle, Smelly, Big Butt, Mr. Baby, Booty – and that is just to name a few (didn’t even add in the truly weird ones, like Widdie and Squiggs. Also, don’t ask. The more you love something, the weirder your nicknames are for it. Fact).
Whenever I’m at my parents’ house, the first thing I do every morning is tiptoe down to the basement to retrieve Walker from his bedroom.
And I’m sure every morning he looks at me thinking “Ugh, can she just leave?” as I wake him up with a rousing chorus of “Good morning to YOU! Good morning to YOU, Walkie! Good morning, buddy! Get your baby, let’s go upstairs!”
I’ve seen this tweet multiple times on those parody accounts: “‘At least you really love me, I whisper to my dog, holding him to my chest as he tries to run away.” That is my dog. We used to take him to the breeder where we got him whenever we’d go on long holidays – a week or two. And he would get to play with his biological family and other dogs, running wild and having a great time. When we’d pick him up, he would hate us for interrupting his fun. Every time, I’d make him homemade dog treats as an effort to bribe him to come near me.
I’m sitting here watching my dog sleep in a pile of his Lambies – Lamby is his favourite toy – a squeaky plush Lambchop in various sizes and colours. And I can’t believe my little baby man turns 10 on Thursday.
After weeks of hearing nothing about you except that you met your temporary fix in a club, I finally heard something. Surprise. You were spotted by the seafront today, alone and looking miserable. The same seafront where I kissed you as the sun kissed the sea. The same seafront where you carried me over the pebbles because I was drunk in stiletto booties. The same seafront that captured my heart and has become the happy place in the forefront of my mind.
And at first, I was elated hearing that you were miserable – it proved that everything I’ve been feeling secondhand has been right and I’m not carrying this alone. But now, I’m gutted. Gutted is the wrong word. Melancholy, maybe? Because what does it say about me – the girl whose heart you crumpled in your fist like an origami crane – that I don’t want you to be upset?
I mean, I do. I want you to know that giving me up was a mistake. I want you to feel what it feels to miss me – do you feel like someone has stolen your left side of your body and is just walking around with it? Does it feel hollow? I’ve cradled – literally cradled – heavy feelings from you before. I’ve shouldered the pain so that you wouldn’t have to feel it and it’s not something I can handle. So in that sense, I’m happy you’re feeling this. I’m thrilled that my absence is affecting you. But I don’t want to hurt you. I never have. It’s why I never chewed you up and spat you out.
The solution to this, my dear, is so simple that I can’t believe you haven’t thought of it yet. But my demons need to be caged before I can even think about adding yours to the mix. And you need to, if you can’t cage yours, at least leash them and get them under some form of control.
I could get lost in the ocean in your eyes. Don’t lose me in the actual ocean in front of you. Because I promise you, you’re not going to.
You had known me for 72 hours and I already knew that kissing you lit a fire in my blood that scorched every vessel and corpuscle in my being. And it was during one of those nights when I would forget to breathe while your lips were on me that you took your hand and pressed it to my throat – not so firmly that I blacked out, but not so lightly as to be mistaken for a caress. I saw stars, the air grew hotter, your lips fused me to you and the fire that you lit inside me burned even brighter. And then the next morning, you did what would become a pattern when you couldn’t handle the fire that I lit inside of you.
You choked. But we caught our collective breaths and moved on.
There were the nights later on when you would wrap yourself around me in the tightest vise, stealing the air from my lungs and sucking out piece after piece of my soul with every kiss you gave me. And I would watch the stars flash before my eyes and in the hazy glow of the kind of bleached dawn that only comes from a sleepless night, I would think to myself that losing you would be like losing oxygen and without you, I just might choke. And I did. I gagged on words unspoken, suppressing every “I love you” behind clenched teeth, spitting out words I knew you wanted to hear instead of the ones you didn’t. Because those words would make it too real and you’re not supposed to feel that burn in your blood just yet, right?
Once again, you choked.
And now. The clearest skies remind me of the ones in your eyes and the stars at night remind me of the freckles on your back. I sleep with your t-shirt at night tucked beneath my neck. And I think about your hands in my hair and your lips on my lips and it’s enough to take my breath away. I wake up beating my fists on the bed from dreams where my hands wrapped around your neck but only long enough to make you see stars, the air grow hotter, my lips fusing you to me and the fire that I lit inside you burn even brighter. I feel your ever present phantom hand on my neck and I don’t know how to make that go away.