Tag Archives: Love

I promise this time will be different.

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source: weheartit.com

I am not going to cry when you leave.

I know that’s what you’re expecting, I don’t blame you. All my actions leading up to this point have been emotionally raw. The last time you left we sat at the train station for 45 minutes with my head on your chest, trying to pull ourselves together.

I promise this time will be different.

When you leave, when I finally stop smelling your sweater, stop running my hands through your hair, stop leaning over to kiss you gently on the cheek; I will allow myself one minute to let despair catch up with me. I will clench my fists, breathe deeply and then choose to be happy.

I am going to miss you, my god, I am going to miss you. But as I’ve learnt, my dear, I can not afford to burden you with the responsibility of my happiness. You are a small part of my joy, but you are not the force holding me together. I am my own little hero, I am saving my own little heart.

When you leave, when I stop living in the golden haze that comes with you, I am going to continue studying for my test tomorrow. I am going to wake up early for class, celebrate my birthday with the people I love and read books that I will clutch to my chest, laughing until my breath stops.

When you leave I am still going to sprint down boulevards, yelling after all the devils I’m chasing. I am still going to dance around my bedroom to aggressive banjo solos and obscure bands. I am still going to grin maniacally at absurdities.

I am my happiness, darling. There may be a place for you in my ribcage, but I own my soul.

And my soul has decided to be euphoric.

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Don’t You Dare Tell Me You’re Broken

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Hello you bullet shell of a person,

You like listening to “Hand Me Down” by Matchbox Twenty  because you like to think it describes you. You poor, 2nd hand, misunderstood, emotional mess. It’s so fun playing the innocent bystander isn’t it?

Poor Harriet. You’re too much and not enough and everyone’s always leaving and you’ve put too much of your life into other people’s universes without thinking about the consequences. It’s easier to be someone else’s equation, someone else’s magnetic force, someone else’s someday than it is to be your own damn everything.

Poor you. You self-inflicted, broken human being. You like writing midnight drafts about how much of an idiot you are for loving people too much and not expecting anything back. You think demanding what you want will make people leave, you think if you stay light and breezy and happy that you’ll finally be the thing they pick first.

Poor you. You absolute idiot.

You’re not a fucking hand me down. You’re not a substitute person, you’re nobody’s second choice.

How can someone so voluminous and loud and flammable make themselves so small just to feel wanted?

Remember the nights you danced through the rain to smoky bars and tight embraces. You splashed through puddles and twirled down light-stained streets- don’t you dare tell me you’re broken. My darling, you watercolour palette of a human being, how dare you wait for someone else to make you feel worthwhile. Don’t you ever cry golden tears over cosmic promises-you are worth more than the tiny piece of infinity they have to offer you.

Remember how hot your words feel when they sit in your throat.

You

Can

Burn

Them

To

The

Ground.

Get explosive. You were born with a gun powder heart and dynamite thoughts.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re a god damn super nova.

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You and I are not equilateral.

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Sometimes I wish our feelings were a
vertex- poised together, clinging onto each other and converged to a point; but you and I are not equilateral. My favourite irregular shape, we were never meant to have straight lines- we are as voluminous as the night sky, we expand and stretch and can’t stay still. You and I are a constant, not designed for square holes or small spaces, we are an infinite equation.

A line was drawn across our path, and it left us with negative spaces far too great in diameter to fill on our own. I swear I’ll walk over vast planes just to see your perfectly angular face, you’re buried in the apex of my asymmetrical soul.

I wish I could silence my concaved heart, I wish there wasn’t a chord stretched 1500 km from my chest to yours, but you kissed me irregular and stroked my face until I was undefined by everything but your fingertips.

Yet, the length and breadth and depth of my affection is greater than the distance between points A and B, you and me.

So good night, my parallel line, how I wish we could touch.

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Coffee dates from Hell, not really- I’m just picky.

I went out for coffee with someone this week, and it was actually the most difficult hour of my young, angsty, emotional life.

That sounds nuts right? The indigenous extrovert, who can often be found drinking lots of coffee with lots of people and staying bonny and blithe in her quest to perceive the full spectrum of the human experience, goes out for such an event and immediately wishes she hadn’t.

However, coffee is only fun if you do it for the right reasons- I really didn’t.

Queue in the poor unsuspecting victim in this tale of woe, a male acquaintance who I’ve been conversing with casually, in an attempt to give way to a new friendship or, at least, to bag a date taller than me for various formal events this year. He probably wasn’t aiming to land in the friendzone so quickly, I placed him in there willy nilly for self-preservation’s sake.

He picked me up, a bunny in headlights expression clouding his face as he looked over my rather grungy, newly darkened aesthetic, I didn’t expect him to like it as much as he did- damn it. He took me to a cafe where the sitting arrangements were too small for our hands not to touch, so I sat on mine. He bought me iced tea, made long eye contact and leaned way too far across the  dollhouse sized table to be deemed comfortable. I’m sure he would have charmed the contour lines off of any other wholesome, fun-loving, bushy-tailed nymph spirit, yet I remained motionless as a heavily kholed, exasperated cloud, immune to his efforts and raining all over this poor guy’s one-man parade.

He asked me about my favourite TV series and expressed his amazement at how avidly I read. He disregarded my blog as soon as I told him it was about “my feelings” and proceeded to embark on a long monologue about quantum physics. I almost exploded from trying to slurp my iced tea in a dignified manner without removing my hands from my butt and trying to figure out how to get out of the entire situation early.

He exited, oblivious to the bear I sent after him, returning my rag doll hug with a tight embrace and a salutation that listed all the things he hoped we could do together on another date.

I got home, slid down my door like a cliche and cried into my knees, because in the Jane Austen novel of life, I am eternally Marianne Dashwood- all sensibility, all feeling, very little logic. I cried because he was actually quite nice, despite his Vanilla disposition. I cried because I am cursed to crave people with more flavour to their personalities and to disregard anyone and anything who doesn’t make me excited. I cried because the only reason I went on that stupid coffee date was to feel like I’d somehow won something, like I wasn’t sitting at home waiting for the void to stare back, like I was achieving shit like bagging tall dates to formal events and moving forward a little bit.

He bombarded me with messages enquiring after my well-being and when he could see me again, I plagued him with several blue ticks of death until I eventually let him off the hook by expressing my desire to take myself out for coffee dates from now on.

I guess I can always pay attention to myself if there’s no one else exciting enough to do it for me.

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Vulnerability is not how I was brought up.

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Source: weheartit.com

The one thing I’ve learnt in the past month or so is how easy it is to learn how to be happy.

It’s something I’ve always been weary of- showing emotion other than happiness, especially around people I’m not close with. Sadness is a weakness, crying is not likeable, showing vulnerability isn’t how I was brought up.

When I was 16 years old my first boyfriend ever decided to break up with me, I saw it coming- we were too young and too silly to carry on much longer. Before I went to go see him for the last time, the end of his affection darkening my sunny doorstep, my very independent, brilliant mother stared into my eyes and told me that under no circumstances was this boy allowed to see me cry.

“You walk away Harriet, you keep your head up and you accept it with grace. Don’t you dare let him see you cry.”

I took her advice, I cried in the car- dented heart and bruised ego trailing behind me.

It was the start of an era- I remained steadfast and stoic until 18 when my heart was smashed into fragments by someone who didn’t deserve it and I went a little nuts. I cried into the phone, I begged him to reconsider his lack of affection, I stayed in bed for a week in a state of decline, I stopped eating. I tried to squeeze myself into every single mould he wanted me to fit into until I gave up and broke down the box he tried to keep me in.

Since then I take my mother’s advice. I cry when it’s necessary, when I can’t hold it in any longer. Sometimes I slip up and I’m forced to peel myself off the floor- I’ll scoop myself together bucket by bucket, piece by piece until I’m a little less misshapen. It’s a routine I have become adept at and the last time I left a piece of myself behind it’s because I gave it away freely, I desperately wanted him to hold it close and keep it safe.

Since the removal of this vital piece I’ve learnt how to cope. I get up in the morning, I read books that make me think and spend afternoons drinking coffee in soft shorts and messy buns.

Grasping happiness is easier in soft shorts and messy buns, grasping happiness is also easier when it’s dependent solely on myself.

I could cry into the phone, I could stop eating and get drunk and kiss strangers- trying to find some comfort in their empty sentences. But I think it would end in too many pieces of me being stolen by too many careless people.

I’ve learnt how to be happy. I’ve learnt how to tightly hold each delicate piece of me together, I’ve learnt how to be whole.

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January 14, 2016 · 7:28 pm

Kid, you gotta love yourself.

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source: weheartit.com

I got to spend time with one of my favourite people this January which is significant as we’re currently averaging on seeing eachother every 700 days. The distance between Canada and South Africa is a bit awkward for visits to be more frequent, so we make do with the time we have.

We met on his 15th birthday, I was 14 and obsessed with side-fringes, converse sneakers and bright skinny jeans. I thought jumping off a golf cart would look super cool and ended up with a spectacular face plant to leave a lasting impression. He has therefore essentially seen me at my worst and most embarrassing- it’s been 6 years of tripping over my own feet, running head-first into fire places, acquiring various black eyes and dropping a number of objects he has chucked at me to realise that not a lot of people have seen the parts of me that he has.

When I was 17, I got to spend almost 2 weeks with him in Kenya. It was 10 days of constant exposure to the pros and cons of a particular human being. We both learned the colours of each other’s anger, we spent a full day in the hot sun after getting half an hour of sleep and by the end of it were bickering more than usual, we spoke about our respective futures like they weren’t right around the corner and some days when we ran out of topics of conversation, we’d sit in silence until the things we desperately wanted to say came bursting out of us.

We had such a moment this week. It was hot and we had stopped talking for a bit. He was lounging on the couch that I had my back pressed against and I was feeling rather conflicted about the emotions that were running rampant in my chest. He looked at me like he knew what I was thinking, I stared back, trying to figure out how to phrase my crazy.

“Do you think that someone can wake up one day and just stop missing you?”

He gave me a skeptical look, a constant calculation shooting off in his head, I’d told him about everything that’s happened and how I’m still trying to figure out where I fit, he knows me well enough to say the right things. So he leaned over and flicked the bottom of my chin before stretching back and uttering this resonating statement:

“You don’t need to be missed Harriet. You have to learn to be autonomously happy, regardless of whether you are missed. You can’t tear yourself apart being emotionally dependent on anyone.”

He knows me. God, he knows me. He knows how easily I leap into my emotions like they haven’t let me down before, he knows how I feel about effort, how desperately I cling to any hint of romanticism. It’s been 6 years and countless mistakes and so many letters home trying to figure out why I like my life to be filled with intensity- and the man summed up what I needed to hear in 3 succinct sentences.

I do not need to be missed.

I need to have autonomous happiness.

I can’t afford to tear myself apart.

I can’t afford to tear myself apart.

 

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I’m a little less superlunary.

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Source: weheartit.com

I saw this coming. Didn’t you? From the minute you kissed me- hands on my waist, eyes slightly open; trying to count my freckles- I knew. I knew it was going to end with me sobbing into your t shirt at a train station, trying to conjure up the last bit of strength I had to stop smelling you, stop kissing you and to get out of your car.

Fuck.

Every step I took away from your stupid bittersweet little smile felt like ice. I never want to feel like that again. Saying an almost permanent, definite good bye to you was scarier than being locked inside a room and screamed at, scarier than traveling alone, scarier than walking home in the dark. At least in those situations I had an end goal – break down the door, find terminal A, sprint to safety. The outcome of being left behind by you is “try to be happy”- try desperately not to spill tears all over my keyboard, find the few upbeat songs I own, don’t cry on the train, don’t cry on the train, don’t cry on the train.Walking away from you was like hacking off parts of myself to leave behind, I swear I left a piece of my being on your front seat.

The thought of kissing anybody else goodbye makes me sick. I couldn’t possibly share dinosaur daydreams or Halloween kisses or tubs of ice cream with anybody else. But when I stepped out of that car, I accepted the possibility that I’d have to.

cotton

Maybe we fit right?

Maybe we don’t. Maybe our little love affair- our dalliance with miscommunication and morning giggles- is doomed to remain strictly digital. Maybe you’ll get busy and write your masters and forget to come home and I’ll go back to kissing strangers in bars, trying to find some parts of you in the wreckage.

Maybe we’re both not as great as we thought we were.

Maybe I’m doing that thing I do where I’m over-dramatic and you laugh and kiss my cheek and tell me it’s one of your favourite things about me- how much I feel, how desperate I am for genuine human connection.

There’s a lot of maybe when it comes to us-yet I’ve never felt so definite, so attached, so willing to use superlatives.

This is a mess. I’m a mess. A rubbed raw, icy footed, miscommunicated mess. But if the mess was caused by us, and that last kiss goodbye caused this type of carnage in my life, then I can live with it.

I can get up in the morning. I can write paragraphs that don’t mean anything in an attempt to stay numb. I can lie when people ask me where I’d rather be, because the answer of “next to you, holding your hand” isn’t a plausible answer.

I knew this was coming. I’m still in denial that it has, I still expect that you’ll come back and pick me up in a spirit shirt and brown corduroys. I’m desperately clinging on to the notion of July and December visits, like a child in the middle of a custody agreement. I’m prepared to feed myself fantasies until it doesn’t hurt to walk, until my eyes dry up, until I’m okay.

Fuck.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

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