The tears hadn’t stopped since the day I found out. It had been an uneventful typical Friday evening, arriving home from a typical, uneventful day at work. At first I was doubtful, bouncing denial around my head as I typically would about any unexpected news as I carried on, doing things I would typically do.

Then came fear.

...

It feels as if a pebble the size of my palm –smooth and cool, had settled heavily into the curve of the pit of my stomach since Friday. A sense of loss, an enveloping sadness that I had to put on a brave face and do what is rationally right and good for me, and fear – a fear that the man I imagine the rest of my life with wouldn’t see through my facade and walk away. Buddha said focus on the present. All I hear is the pounding of my heart, my breath caught under the tacit weight of the pebble. In my present, beyond the warm streams of light through the blinds resting on my closed eyelids, I see nothing at all.

...

I didn’t expect it to hurt this much. I didn’t expect the trauma to nestle itself so snugly inside of me. I didn’t expect you to assume it meant nothing to me and turn away, so angrily, leaving me reeling in the dust of the storm’s aftermath alone. I had thought I would be o.k.

Breathe Again - Sara Bareilles

Car is parked, bags are packed, but what kind of heart doesn't look back
At the comfortable glow from the porch, the one I will still call yours?
All those words came undone and now I'm not the only one
Facing the ghosts that decide if the fire inside still burns

All I have, all I need, he's the air I would kill to breathe
Holds my love in his hands, still I'm searching for something
Out of breath, I am left hoping someday I'll breathe again
I'll breathe again

Open up next to you and my secrets become your truth
And the distance between that was sheltering me comes in full view
Hang my head, break my heart built from all I have torn apart
And my burden to bear is a love I can't carry anymore

All I have, all I need, he's the air I would kill to breathe
Holds my love in his hands, still I'm searching for something

Out of breath, I am left hoping someday I'll breathe again

It hurts to be here
I only wanted love from you
It hurts to be here
What am I gonna do?

All I have, all I need, he's the air I would kill to breathe
Holds my love in his hands, still I'm searching
All I have, all I need, he's the air I would kill to breathe
Holds my love in his hands, still I'm searching for something
Out of breath, I am left hoping someday I'll breathe again
I'll breathe again

More lyrics: http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/s/sara_bareilles/#share

Time flies when your heart is bleeding. Hours and days blend into each other seamlessly, all you hear is the pulsing ache etched under your skin. I guess coughing to death doesn’t help either. Time caught in a haze of cold medication and ashy skin.

I said once to a good friend, when the breakup was even fresher, that my circumstance had shockingly made me more idealistic than jaded. I believed, so fervently, that love could fix everything. I believed that if he loved me enough, we would strip ourselves bare for each other, start afresh, and grow. But it’s been over a week, and already I am starting to feel and think differently, that things will never change and it is only foolish to look back.

But of course, who would I be if I didn’t indulge in this masochism, even for a little bit.

I am back at his apartment, wearing his PJs, listening to the same sad Robyn song on repeat. There is no doubt that I love him, that I still crave his warm body next to mine as I sleep, that sometimes I think I can smell him on my own clothes. It still hurts every time I breathe, and shake off my denial, but I am starting to feel myself let go. Perhaps he is lucky enough not to go through the routine heartbreak and move on, which probably explains this afternoon's chill.

Now I long for recovery and healing, a sense of permanence I need to find within myself. I guess those self-help books were right – build up your self esteem and sense of self so no one can take anything away. Nonetheless, why would I heed intelligent and rational advice when I can play the fool and remain sitting here, writing this, waiting for some sort of answer from him, that may allow me to take another step.

Despite my loud convictions of independence, and ridiculous impulsive behaviour that I thought could protect their integrity, I am in fact a meek, insecure dreamer who relies heavily on the concept of “love” to be my “salvation”. At this point, I see some of the benefits of religion. An omnipresent guide whose rules you cannot bend (manipulate – yes, interpret – yes , but that is for another discussion). This guide prevents you from forming an equally deep attachment to anything tangible or physical – your body is your temple, literally. An earthly being or opportunity could say no to you, but you will always have yourself – and God. The ultimate safety net.

Tonight, I have only myself, waiting.

Waiting to expose my still bleeding heart to possible danger.

My darling friend Sora told me today that it is my duty, as a young person, to waste time. It is also my duty, as a young person, to experience this pain, and somehow find some joy in it. Despite all the show of frustration and hissy fits, part of me already knows that my first adult relationship is coming to a close. I am suspended in half-denial that there is just not feasible reason not to give an answer unless it is a negative one, and courage is lacking. But that is what hope does to you i guess – u project your desires onto a fading mirage and pretend it is all okay.

But it isn’t.

Like every heartbroken drama queen, the initial reaction is to reject love. Say love isn’t for me, love is too volatile, i will never love again. How can i, when all it does is take up time, and cause so much hurt? How can i, after sharing the same food, the same fabric softener, the same desk, and the same bed with one person for this long? That same person who isn’t the only person i reach for in the waves of semi consciousness of sleep, and is also my furnace? It all sounds so sappy, pathetic, and ridiculous, until i pack my shit up in laundry baskets and grocery bags to sob for 3 days in a row from rejection, frustration, and disappointment.

Young or not, it’s just not fucking okay.

Karma ii

(Cheese alert)

I am not one for karma, really. I just find the irony surrounding this concept of retribution and reward, based on the idea of fairness and the natural balance of the universe, quite appealing. And since when was it a crime to believe in the unreal? I mean, don’t lots of people believe in God? Hah, i jest.

I moved out last week, inexplicably a sodden mess. Even as I am writing this, a million hours later, the memory of bawling my life away in the privacy of my room, unable to stop the snot and tears from falling off my face, and endless sleepless nights, still follows quite closely at the back of my head, still deeply etched along the inside walls of my skin in ache and fatigue. It had technically been my decision to move out. I’d offered, but refused the responsibility – something i would have to grow out of. I learnt a few things about myself during this experience, and according to a few sources, apparently the lessons are eventually worth the pain. Yay?

As you know, from my last post, i spent a considerable part of my young romantic life believing that there is always a way of manipulating someone into loving you, mostly because i had been lucky enough to be spoiled. But to my utter dismay, being heartbroken and repeatedly stabbed in the metaphorical heart was how i learnt how wrong i was. I had never been rejected before in my life, and now that it happened, i resisted understanding and coping with the situation. One of the many firsts that will hurt i guess. karma.

Nonetheless, i can still see i am still a lucky girl. The man i consider to be the love of my life didn’t need to be manipulated into loving me, i just couldn’t convince him to love me the way i wanted him to. I wasn't rejected due to a lack of love, but due to differences. We had unfulfilled expectations, insecurities, accumulated tension from unresolved issues, trying living conditions, and terrible communication skills – but never a lack of love. Patience ran out, frustration and disappointment took our gaze away from the reasons why we chose to be together in the first place, which is the point where the sticky ends fray, and detach.

In my mind, love solves everything. It was supposed to forgive and nudge healthy changes. It was supposed to encourage compromise and commitment. But what i didn't realise is how hard it is, and no matter how much of love you have, there are so many other things that will and can override it. Yet again, the same age old fact applies here - the mind knows many things, but oh, the heart.

Karma i

Chuck Klosterman confidently stated that [north] Americans have lost the ability to experience an earth-shattering romantic affair, and that no woman will ever satisfy him. These days I believe that he might be right. How is it possible for one person to wholly satisfy another’s multifaceted, multilayered, multi-tiered, overlapping multiplicities as we drown in the banality of daily agenda? Reaching my mid 20s, I have convinced myself that this romantic heart has suffered enough disenchantment and heartache to form the cracked calluses around it. Trust, loyalty and infatuation - everything associated with textbook love - were pretty much my tools of manipulation as I trudged through puberty.

By the time I was 14, I had walked all over multiple adolescent male hearts via txt and grossly false convictions of independence. At 14! (One might argue that this standard doesn’t apply to kids-these-days, but I was pretty advanced for the 90s in Asia). My portrayal of loyalty had merely been a wildly inaccurate card I played according to the cultural rules surrounding me at the time to maintain a specific social status. This is proof that knowledge is power. Power is offering the potential to satisfy but never really doing so - whether out of inability or sheer selfishness - only to whet the idealist appetite, back off, and enjoy the attention.

There was no magic, other than the fact that I grew up in a Southeast Asian country, there was no metaphorical Santa Claus or Easter bunny. I traded my luxury of innocent disillusionment for the projection of ideas from the books I shouldn't be reading. The first time I had sex was as significant as the first time I tried vodka – the experience was a little invasive, with a glimmer of the promise of adulthood’s freedoms, except my stomach didn’t agree with vodka. I used every excuse in the book and got away with everything. It might just be this experience, and logic (or cynicism?) that has led to this crippling disability Klosterman speaks of.

And now I think I am in love – naturally, with someone I will never satisfy.

Word on the street is karma's a bitch.