Years later, across a crowded room, our eyes will meet, linger even. Time will stop for a moment and our love, now past will flash before our eyes like a movie.
He was the man I loved for so many years. He held up my universe inside his pocket and picked up the stars so he could light up my night. I wanted to believe that he loved me too. Because he said so, in whispers, in screams, in his sleep, in his songs, in his eyes. For so many years, I let him invade my heart. He let me love him in my own selfish ways. We have so many misunderstandings we took a few days to settle and solve. And we have past mistakes that came up whenever we argue. He barely understood my own language but he studied it so he could see which part of me was vulnerable to hold.
If we are going to talk about endings, then probably that thing has been overused and was scratched too hard I felt numb. We broke up and we got back again. We stopped yet we started again. We paused yet we decided to keep going.
Yet, all endings always had its own severe ending. The one that makes you realize that it won’t come back. The one that makes you ache for silence because you know he won’t reach out. The ending that we all fear.
But I tried to move out and tried new places, without him. Without his shadow. Without his smile and grips and his voice that calms me down. I tried moving out and started collecting scattered dust until I could have my new universe again. I searched for him in someone else’s eyes and voice. I looked for him in someone else’s skin and smell. But I realized he was the only one. He was one of a kind that no matter how many times he hurts me, I could still take it. No matter how many times he forced me to leave, I’d still run as fast as I could in his snap of wave and flash of a smile.
I realized he never holds my universe rather he became my universe. That every time I hear the words love and pain, his face will appear crystallized.
Yet he found his new world.
He found it in you.
Now that you’re with him, you got to understand that he’s unpredictable and changes so often. But as long you could stay, please do.
I might be the girl he had as his dreams form. I might be the girl he got to watch his all-time favorite movies and the first who heard the songs he wrote as he strummed his guitar. I might be his first love as what he called it but you’re with him now.
And you will have him in ways I could never have. I am now a part of the past that will one day be forgotten.
Yet here you are, the one he sees spending the future with and the rest of his life with. The woman he sees growing a family with and pajama cuddles and morning coffees and the hand he’ll hold while traveling the world. The woman he sees sharing the same water bottle and beer-stained kisses, and teases under blankets or the hair he’ll play in his finger and the head that rests upon his chest when you sleep.
And he still has me,
more like a memory,
a told story,
an ending example.
But he has you,
more like a dream,
a vision of wedding aisle,
a wedding dress,
a mother to his children,
a body he comes home for,
a rocking chair,
He looks at you
the same way
I see him.
take care of him.
I am kind.
I am generous.
I am flexible.
I am smart.
I am polite.
I am diligent.
I am a hard worker.
I am cat lover.
I am book lover.
I am good at math.
I am outgoing.
I am cheerful.
I am a good friend.
I am fighting for justice.
I am strong.
I am wise.
I am not fake.
I am not bad-tempered.
I am not wrong.
I am willing to do anything.
So please love me.
~ Yoan Mimi Fransiska
“YOUR ABUSIVE PARTNER DOESN’T HAVE A PROBLEM WITH HIS ANGER; HE HAS A PROBLEM WITH YOUR ANGER.
One of the basic human rights he takes away from you is the right to be angry with him. No matter how badly he treats you, he believes that your voice shouldn’t rise and your blood shouldn’t boil. The privilege of rage is reserved for him alone. When your anger does jump out of you—as will happen to any abused woman from time to time—he is likely to try to jam it back down your throat as quickly as he can. Then he uses your anger against you to prove what an irrational person you are. Abuse can make you feel straitjacketed. You may develop physical or emotional reactions to swallowing your anger, such as depression, nightmares, emotional numbing, or eating and sleeping problems, which your partner may use as an excuse to belittle you further or make you feel crazy.”
― Lundy Bancroft, Why Does He Do That?: Inside the Minds of Angry and Controlling Men
This quote reminds me of my ex-husband who doesn’t only believe and did everything that has been said above he also thinks that being his wife means I have no right at all. He is the exact opposite of the saying what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. He alone has the right to say and does everything his heart’s desire.
He spent a lot of times on the front of the computer tracking women, chatting them, meeting them and went on vacation with them but I was not allowed even to touch the computer. He changed its password every other day and forbidden my children to even breath a single letter of that bloody password to me. How’s that for unfair?
He disappeared for days not telling where he was and if I dare to ask him he will tell me it wasn’t my business. He drinks as if there is no tomorrow, violent beyond belief, rude, distant and utterly, utterly abusive not only physically but mentally as well. And the way he demanded sex from me was out of this world. As if I was created solely for that purpose. As a result, I cultivated an abnormal aversion to it and avoided being intimate with him at all cost and believe me it cost a lot.
Yet for him, I was the bad one. He often accused me of not behaving like a wife and not doing my duty. That I’m good for nothing and has nothing to offer to a man that I’m lucky he keeps me because no man will ever want a short fat and ugly someone like me. I will not survive out there he said. Without him, I will not make it.
It took me thirteen years to learn to give him a taste of his own medicine and to find out that eat your heart out is a wonderful motivation to survive. And another seven years to actually find the courage to walk out and leave him for good.
That was fifteen years ago.
Still, the nightmares continue. The damage that he caused I (and my children) will carry for the rest of our lives. The consequences of his cruel and senseless thoughtless actions will resonate through the years and will affect generations to come. The pattern is set.
“Religion has actually convinced people that there’s an invisible man living in the sky who watches everything you do, every minute of every day. And the invisible man has a special list of ten things he does not want you to do. And if you do any of these ten things, he has a special place, full of fire and smoke and burning and torture and anguish, where he will send you to live and suffer and burn and choke and scream and cry forever and ever ’til the end of time!
But He loves you. He loves you, and He needs money! He always needs money! He’s all-powerful, all-perfect, all-knowing, and all-wise, somehow just can’t handle money!”
“Life is for the living.
Death is for the dead.
Let life be like music.
And death a note unsaid.”
― Langston Hughes, The Collected Poems
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.
~ Emily Dickinson
“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.”
― Jim Morrison
Do we have to listen to people who killed themselves? Come to think of it most geniuses have committed suicide, no? Think of Hemmingway, Woolf, Van Gogh, Plath, and so many others. What it is they have in common aside from being tortured souls and suffering from psychological illnesses… fascination or obsession with death? Dislike of people and society in general? Aversion to the rules? Chronic melancholia perhaps? Whatever their personal reasons were, it was strong enough to drive them over the edge.
The funny thing is: We look up to these people and they are often the source of our artistic inspiration. We quote their words, we read about them, we admire their works and spend a great deal of money paying for one of their masterpieces. Ironically, those geniuses didn’t see or enjoy the fruit of their labors because most of them acquired a famous status after death. Emily Dickinson published fewer than a dozen of her 1,800 poems during her lifetime. And they were even altered significantly by the publishers to fit the conventional poetic rules of the time. Now, those tortured geniuses are considered the crème de la crème of their chosen fields. Someone to aspire to become, an example, legends. If they only know…
“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!”
― Hunter S. Thompson
I wish I could say I have a love-hate relationship with food, at least, that way, there is still one positive side to it but the truth is I neither love nor hate food. For me consuming any form of nourishment is nothing but a necessary evil. I don’t enjoy the act nor the taste. My father said I eat like a soldier and it doesn’t change since then. I gobble and gulp the food as if there is no tomorrow and with minimal chewing. The sooner it’s done the better. If I have one feeling which associated with food that would be guilt.
I feel guilty when I eat and I don’t know why. Never been anorexic or bulimic. Never had so much issue with my weight. Of course, I don’t want to get fat who does anyway but a serious problem regarding weight I never have. But I feel guilty nonetheless when consuming a fair quantity of food. What is a fair amount in my book? Eating three times or more a day. I feel that I should be eating only once or not at all. If I could skip a meal or two, That would be ideal. I feel better that way. Believe you me if I can go on without food I will, there is no doubt about that.
I only eat when I’m dying of hunger or craving for something. Mostly fried crunchy food because sweets I can’t tolerate. I never fancy cakes or ice cream. I can eat them without a problem (if you consider lactose and gluten intolerance not a problem) but I draw the line at chocolates. No matter how hard I try I simply cannot acquire the taste for it. I can go so far as saying I hate them. I don’t care if they are artisanal or expensive coated with eatable gold leaf, if it’s chocolate, I pass.
So, where is my aversion for food originated from?
From my youth, where else you might say, but I don’t think so. We were poor and every meal we considered a feast back then. I grew up on a diet of seafood being born and bred in a fishpond. Meat was scarce and so hard to come by we only had them once a week on Sunday. If you want to know a little bit more about how my life was when I was growing up, you can read some of the painful details here and here.
Anyway, whatever psychological issues I have with food, I don’t know where it comes from. All I can say is: Food doesn’t excite me. I wish I can go on without.
And slowly time begins to fade
Slipping through my fingers
Turning to grains of sand
To be stomped on by millions of
Aimlessly walking the streets
With no destination
And nowhere to turn back to.
Slowly I begin to rot
Layers of my happiness decaying into
Like the layers on an old, dead tree
Cursed to be on earth
Way past its years
My face is young but my mind is
My brittle bones are shattering
They will join the ashes of my flesh
To make one disintegrated me
Forgotten and lost
To be trodden on by more hated feet
Not knowing where to go.
Life is just a vicious cycle
Of ups and downs
Like the scars all over my body
They reflect all the steps I take in my days
Stretched out so thin
Like a piece of cloth
Trying to fit a frame much too big
We never size things just right.
We never know what we are doing
Where we are going
Or why we are going there
We are just millions of feet
Making the time pass
Making the scars multiply
We will all end up in ash
And be walked on again
To our deaths…
-found poetry from an old forgotten file.
Learning and teaching the art of composition.
Small Stories of a Twenty-Something Adventuring Through Life
One day at a time...
Cooking, gardening, traveling and photographing around the globe
My words will either attract a strong mind or offend a weak one.
Riddle of the century? Yes, that's her.
The latest news on WordPress.com and the WordPress community.
Celebrating gardens, nature, photography and a creative life
The Art and Craft of Blogging
I'm Michelle. This is my blog. I write about women and fatness, expound upon semi-coherent thoughts I have in the middle of the night, and offer tough love to those in whom I am disappointed; they are legion.
Creative and technical writing, design and translation services