This is one of those things that I have so much to say about, and stuff that really is constantly shifting and evolving, so I put it on the back burner of my entire life and think “I’ll get to it at some point,” — but God damn, y’all know the time is now if I’m writing an unsolicited informal post like this.
I write to you at 5:15 AM on a balmy March Sunday, with thoughts provoked by indica that are apparently dire to convey. Reading my thoughts is always a hit or miss for you, yet you still come back, so maybe you’ll get a little hint of recognition, sympathy, amusement by mockery, what have you. You already know I really don’t give a fuck at this point. 🙂 Therapy costs money, and writing for long periods of time does the trick at 100% off original cost. I highly recommend it, if you have the means.
I remember writing a post on this website in 2014, when I was (!!) fourteen years old, about teenage relationships, and the falsities of “love” at such a young age. Clearly, I was a bitter little bastard, mad that the EDM-producing kid from the backyard music festival only wanted to grab my sports bra-constricted tits and not my personality. That was also prior to my parents’ monumental divorce, and so my views of romance and relationships were dysfunctionally skewed. I had limited experiences and expansion at that time, as it goes for many high school freshmen, and so I also believed that complex matters, i.e., love, were one-dimensional in perception. It was either you believed in love and soulmates, or you didn’t, and were okay with the fact that you would most likely die misunderstood and undeniably alone. Black or white thinking was my expertise back in the day.
I had this petty little boy named Patrick fastened to my brain for the entirety of age thirteen and probably into fourteen, as well. I had met him at summer camp in Three Rivers, Michigan. He was a dumbass with a cowlick, without a care for me, but for some reason I made him out to be my petite soulmate. I had completely lost my voice the week leading into the session (fucking dumbass), and so Patty and I hadn’t spoken until the fated night he asked me to the camp prom while we danced to Yellow by Coldplay. I absolutely flipped my shit, the hardest that a 70-pound 13-year-old could. The prom was unmemorable, but what stuck in my head was the kiss; my first non-stage, romantic kiss. We said goodbye in the parking lot. I cried into my best friend’s arms, devastated that I had lost the love of my life to a city as absurdly named as Kalamazoo. His mom’s minivan pulled back into the drive, and wouldn’t you know, out jumped Patrick from the hind seats. He swept me into his arms and kissed me, the treacherous Will my braces catch in his? thought racked my brain, and my knees went weak. Oh, bitch. Oh, bitch, I was in love.
Now, as we know now, he turned out to be a true dick. He one time stood me up in a Portage, Michigan mall, after I had pined after him over Skype for six months, and I ended up eating four Auntie Anne’s pretzels with Jensen. So, with later dissection, we see that the “love” I experienced was merely an ideation — a girl as, at the time, self-pitying and loathing as myself, receiving the type of affection Rachel McAdams did, was world-
tilting. Alas, I got over Patrick, and received my first hardening towards love.
My understanding of romance growing up was heavily saturated with film ideals. My parents were non-affectionate, which I understood wasn’t the norm. I loved romance, the idea of two people caring so deeply for each other was super hot, super appealing to
me. My sad little child dream was always to be liked by everyone, and so a committed and stable relationship was, I mean — it was a whole fucking fantasy. But I faced an issue, there. I’m going to be laying down a few scattered post-mortems, but they do correlate.
The message underlying in the following is my adolescent issue – commitment.
When I was fifteen, I found another romance. He had a funny name, and lived two hours North in Madison, Wisconsin. I was nearing my end of freshman year, and he gave me a special type of attention I wasn’t used to. Being that neither of us were old enough to drive, our little relationship functioned like a long-distance. It was stupid, and a funny
point of conversation now looking back; he exposed me to my own sexuality, which, yes, I am truly grateful for, but in manners that involved the request of the sex name daddy, and untasteful, poorly-lit nudes splayed out over a hotel bathtub. The thing is, the obscurely named Wisconsinite managed to fall into some type of love for me the summer before sophomore year. That had been my first semblance of a relationship, and it had no apparent boundaries. I managed to separate a part of my life for him, the evenings when I fell asleep with him on FaceTime. He called it my “night love” years later, this passing existence I held for a few hours at a time for him. When he wasn’t there, he didn’t exist in my eyes. I ended up breaking his trust and truthfully his heart. I was angered by his requests for commitment suddenly; I was disgusted by the idea of being trapped. That’s undoubtedly where my parents played into it, the view of a prison-like marriage. The taste in my mouth has remained soured. The Wisconsite and I ended up remaining friends, as we were each other’s first real romances; we held an intimacy unlike most, that we both are still fascinated in dissecting five years later. That sounds like a science experiment, but he is hilarious and doing well in Los Angeles.
This was followed by a pattern of half-invested relationships on my part. I struggled to open myself fully, in fear of almost everything that could go wrong in sharing human intimacy. I was convinced, at the time, that I could hold all of these separate personalities to whip out for each person I interacted with. I loosely based myself off of everyone, hoping I could somehow find my real people by catering to what everyone else searched for in a friend or lover. I even remember writing about that here, how I considered myself a “placeholder”, existing solely in other people’s lives to act as some bullshit giving tree. In relationships, I gave full vulnerability in certain aspects, and then closed myself off completely in others. I couldn’t commit to myself, to openness. Bullshit!
Sexuality is a whole different (yet enmeshed) conversation to open in regards to my own experiences, but I will add that I faced roadblocks in my understandings due to my bisexuality. As many bi identifiers experience, I received criticism or digging – people, even with the “most” open minds, were concerned that my fluidity between sexes was an underlying sign that I had commitment issues. And sure, of course I did, but my sexuality had nothing to do with it. I beat myself up, belittling my own sexuality, which is again bullshit. So fuck that noise, I can’t stand to hear bi backlash and won’t dwell on it longer.
All of my past relationships held an underlying expiration date in my mind, one that was unspoken. I didn’t start seriously dating until my junior year of high school, and so there were many outside factors aiding my escape from each relationship, subconsciously leading myself away from commitment, from the possibility of hating someone who I once loved so crazily. And I love dumb crazily, so the idea of my partner slowly hating me was dumb terrifying. Distance, moving to France, moving to New York. I don’t want to call them escape plans, in fear of belittling the relationships that taught me so much about myself and how to care for another — but, you get the idea.
In simple terms, I love love. I can’t deliver it in any other way that sounds less predictable, less kumbaya. I’m sure I said the same sentence in that 2014 post, too — there’s clearly enormous complexities in this, but yet there is a core of simplicity. It took me until recently to start to fully grasp a lot of things (and I continue), and I’ve found it very frustrating that I struggle to verbalize what I’m discovering. But I’ve also learned to find peace in just letting these complexities exist as they do, and recognize that every other person has their own set too complex to verbalize, as well.
I am quite sure Brenda, my essay professor, would beat my ass for this speel — there is absolutely no moral. But, again, you must remember; you got this far for a reason…
You must be in love with me.
This has been Mars on Earth, thank you and goodnight.