It feels weird writing something that isn’t depressing. And it feels weird knowing I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
A two and a half hour catch up session with girls I’ve known since before I knew myself left me feeling high off happiness. Whenever I leave the ones I’m so lucky to have in my life, I wonder how these relationships found their ways to me. We’re bonded in the little looks across the table, knowing what each other are thinking…the gasps and screams with one’s good news, and the bond of having grown into ourselves together. History is irreplicable.
It’s also in the little moments too though. I called one of my best friends at 7pm on a Saturday, and was on her front doorstep in another city by 9. By 10 I felt like I’d known her friends – former strangers – for years. It’s in changing in front of each other because that’s what girls do, making poptarts together while hungover and realizing how much we like each other’s company despite knowing each other for 12 hours.
My mum has always told me to appreciate the little things. Live life with gratitude. I never felt inclined to be that way until now.
Now there’s just intimacy in everything. There’s little moments every now and then where I feel so intertwined with them. I’m realizing my fixation on finding my other half was a lonely waste of time. I am already so whole. I’m surrounded by girls whose pieces fit with mine. And we know so much of each other.
I just feel like womanhood is so powerful. I understand you because we have some of the same pieces. I know what you’re about to say and you know what I’m thinking when we make eye contact at a party. There are compliments on compliments. Permanent smiles. So much laughter. Shots, dancing, joints, shared drinks, photos, kisses, card games. Physical manifestations of love and warmth.
I also know though, the feeling of being a foreigner in my own body and trying to shower enough times that the feeling of heavy hands disappears. I know that it doesn’t for a long time. I know the feeling of trying to translate your mind to someone who just can’t seem to hear you. And the feeling of being disappointed that you “let” someone treat you that way. And then the realization that we have to forgive ourselves first. That we didn’t let them do anything. They did it to us.
The common experience we have – the good and the bad – is intrinsically us. The depth of understanding is so loving.
And the little things turn into big things. It’s in the way we are learning to demand respect. To say “don’t talk to me like that”.
To realize that these girls know who we are and they love us for it, through it, and towards it. So it’s about time to love ourselves too.
I just fucking love girls.
thoughts
03/02/21 Dear April
The first time I wrote on here was almost two years ago. I feel like I’ve floated in and out of characters so many times since then.
I read recently that over-explaining is actually a sign of trauma. It’s a coping mechanism. One explains too much of what they (think they) feel, who they (think they) are, why they (think they) are the way that they are. It leaves no room for anyone to get to know them, under the calculations of how they want to be perceived.
In writing this, I’m really just pleading with myself to let people know me.
Since I can remember, I’ve had a fear of people seeing me sleep. I felt like it was too vulnerable, too intimate. That’s when you’re dreaming, sleep-talking, moving, and you really have no thoughts about it or recollection of it. It’s like a deeper part of you.
I joke about having “intimacy issues” now, but it’s honestly the thing I’m most insecure about. Every single important (but quiet) moment between myself and someone else, I ruin. I don’t let words hang for long enough…I explain away the gaps in conversation where they could tell me they love me, or that they don’t. In the gaps, I find my voice going and going, telling stories of traumatic events with an edge of humour, willing the person to laugh with me in place of concern. I’m just not sure how to stop that.
In my head, if I can perfect every way someone views me – by not trying too hard, but looking nice, by being smart, being familiar, listening, understanding, validating them, seducing them, pillow talking them…they’ll never see the real me, which…if I want to hide it so badly…I must kind of hate. That’s pretty depressing.
I wrote in April 2019 that I’d find peace in sleep whenever I could. Perpetual escapism. That’s been a theme in my life for as long as I can remember.
Now, I don’t sleep even when I’m emotionally and physically exhausted. My dreams lately have been saturated with lost people. The past year has been a year of loss.
Despite all of this, I’m hopeful now that I’m getting better though. I try to write. I try not to obsess over the image of myself I’m putting out there. And I’m trying to write until it comes more easily to me. Maybe I’ll see myself between the lines.
Always with hope,
Mel
the significance of hours 