X. It’s Not What You Think
This is one of those, “coming-of-age” tales- but not the one where the guy gets the girl in the end. Certainly not the type that makes one realize you can better yourself if you truly set your mind to it. Definitely not the kind where true love prevails all obstacles. And surely not a heart-warming account where good triumphs over evil.
It is the type of story that resembles, and is best described as, the type of boy your mother warned you about in your adolescence. It is the type where all good things must come to an end. It is the type of tale where there really is no happy ending, because all is fair in love and war.
Well, this is war.
I. A Lover’s Plea
As I spend time by myself, I find I possess internal conflict that lasts for years. The sound of my sadness is muffled and unheard of until it is amplified. I drive recklessly because I’m 20-something, Asian, and female. I am short, my clothes are ill fitting, and I am a bit egotistical. I feed off the compliments I receive on a daily basis, yet I remain hungry and unfulfilled. I am a self-medicating drug addict, sex junkie, a sadist, and smiling about it. I speak low of myself so you will speak highly of me; this is my twisted idea of modesty.
And in my silence I review all the characteristics of, not who, but what I have become:
The less food I eat, the more tired I am.
The more weight I dangerously drop, the less I care.
The more they worry, a bigger burden I become.
I tell my companions about him, him, and him, and I can tell they worry about me. From the bottom of my heart, I assure them I am under control, but my actions suggest otherwise. My behavior has evolved into a vicious circle I thought would end before someone gets hurt, and of course being the weak female plagued with overwhelming emotions; that someone would be me.
So I promise to stop, but my corrupted conscience says, “No you won’t. You’re addicted to attention.”
And she’s right.
“You’re addicted to vanity,”
And she’s right.
“You’re addicted to hurting yourself,”
And she’s right.
Because I ask to be spoken to like a tramp, (right boys?).
I basically have, “Easy” tattooed on my forehead, (right boys?).
The worst thing about it is whatever he thinks of me; I attempt to fit the mold. Why? I am constantly set to self-destructive mode.
Most importantly, I am addicted to the feeling one gets when they are in “love.” What people do not realize is that they are not in love with their significant other, but the feeling of being “in love.” Why else do you think humans can move on? Of course you care for the person: you miss their presence and all the other theatrics of falling in love, but this feeling is an intoxicating poison that we cannot live without once we’ve tasted. The bodies, names, and faces are just temporary and offered in over-abundance across the universe. But this feeling is forever and different for everyone. We continue to search for the one who won’t take this feeling away from you, like many others have.
But I digress.
I do not know how to stop this beautiful monster I have become. I do not know the person they think I am supposed to be. They can tell me who she is, but I do not think she never existed. For I am the magnificent liar: Producing deception so eloquently, even I almost believe it. I was able to love so strongly before, that even a stranger had the capacity to break my heart. As a result, I have trained myself to be a wise girl that may kiss but does not love. I listen, but do not believe. Most of all, I flee before I am left. I live my life by this… So if this isn’t who I am supposed to be, then can someone show me how to live?
II. Love as a Science
I grew wary of the X’s on my calendar, indicating the amount of days past from my last infatuation. So, I took it upon myself to learn how to live. Love has been my greatest motivation and passion in life thus far. It is a many splendor thing, but what is it? I have spent my entire life trying to find out, yet according to society; I am still too young to know. So why don’t you tell me?
I strut around telling any beautiful stranger I love them. Some say the feeling is mutual, so I ask why? Unable to answer, I move on.
I continue searching for this strong four-letter word in human form. I believe it is a myth, so I listen to love songs, read romance novels, and watch a variety of films; all of which consist of heartbreak. So I keep my heart heavily guarded, for love is a fight I do not want to take part in ever again. And the time it takes to piece the heart back together is an amount I do not wish to endure once more.
I advise that lovers stray from the following:
- 1. Listening to intuition:
If Lover1 follows their intuition (assuming that Lover2 feels the same), rather than just asking, then Lover1 is in for a rude awakening.
- 2. Miscommunications of mutual feelings.
If Lover1 and Lover2 say they love each other, then will this “love” be on the same level?
So, I assume Lover2 feels the same, but I am the fool in the end. Also, I test the feeling’s level of mutuality, and of course my level was much higher than Lover2’s.
Thus, my conclusion is to maintain composure. Do not play the foolish game of love, because it is not a game. Be upfront and straightforward: simply say what you mean, and mean what you say. Leave no room for interpretation. Please do not rely on intuition; because chances are they are not in love with you. If they are, they will tell you. Live life by concrete detail.
Presenting my findings to colleagues, they believe my outlook to be unhealthy.
“You are going about this all wrong,” A colleague said, “You can’t look for love. It comes to you.”
She left me to ponder for it is such a clever approach.
So I waited and hoped love would find me. The only question that remained was, “How long will I be waiting for?”
III. Real Eyes Realize
Unfortunately, there are suitors that may be disguised in love’s fashion, so how is one supposed to know when it actually arrives?
“Just leave the door open,” my colleague said.
How I would know how love feels?
“You won’t know, until it arrives. Try keeping it unlocked. Love will knock before entering, anyway.”
Over time, she grew tired of my inquiries, and decided to shed light on my disaster.
“The percentage of your notions is derived from the media’s portrayal of this sensibility. I’m realizing your impression of love has been misconstrued.
“You have turned yourself into an emotionless wreck. I do want to see you happy because I tire of seeing you keeping yourself heavily guarded, but the only way you can feel what love is, is through experiencing it yourself. Allow yourself to feel something beyond this bubble. You might overanalyze the situation, and let it pass you by,” she said.
I nodded as if I fully understood.
“You try to take control of your emotions, but you need to tear down this wall and set yourself free. Only then will you be able to find what you’re looking for, because you are searching for what you feel is love. I can’t tell you what love is, because you are the only one who decides that. Love isn’t limited to one definition,”
And I move on.
I sulked in the words my colleague, and grasped the error of my ways. I decided to spend time alone rather than continuing with this charade. Without tests, hypotheses, and experiments I have come to the conclusion that I must work on myself before allowing anyone in, because who will love me if I don’t even love myself?
I used this time productively and positively, shying away from destruction I once embraced. I realized I was not really looking for love, but trying to dispute its existence. The real goal was to hurt and not be hurt, but the trick to love is taking the risk. Who knows if the next person will be like the last, or if you will be hurt again? Instead, I learned not confine myself to a mundane, loveless everyday routine, or dwell on the misfortune I was once subjected to. So the best solution is heal, and love again. Thus, I vow to give myself whole-heartedly, leaving behind bitterness and spite from previous relationships.
Cue: Love.
In the days we were once upon, he arrived, and he knocked with such gentleness I almost did not hear. What a concept! He speaks to me just to speak to me, and he calls me just to ask how I am doing. Not to mention, after few words exchanged, he has decided that I am phenomenal. This is where I display true modesty, for I fear the pedestal he has placed me on will come crumbling down. Normally, I avoid that possibility by ruining the relationships before it begins. Usually, I would save myself the trouble of falling in love and avoid his extending hand with his heart on his sleeve. Yet, I could not bring myself to escape; not this time. Rather, I seize the romance and hit the ground running. I reach great heights, and I don’t think I’ll ever come back down. Now, the hopeless romantic surfaces and I am fully engulfed in this sensational dilemma. For the words I dare not say aloud, I take the pen to paper and I write.
IV. Something Shy of a Love Letter
To whom it May Concern: This concerns you,
This is my conclusion of Love, so please pardon my poetic tendencies for you seem to bring out the best in me. As this may be in between flattery and unconventional, it is all with good intentions to make you feel in my high regards because, darling, you are.
I compare you to the feeling lovers forget once they have been together for so long: the anticipation and excitement, accompanied with sleepless nights that turn into bright mornings. Thus I rub the sleep from my eyes and wake to find all the photographs and evidence of your existence, yet you remain unattainable just like a dream. You are like the breath of fresh air; the sensation of a new exciting development I have been waiting for my whole life. The kind that makes me speak to any lending ear, compelled to blurt out each excruciating detail, almost in a boastful way, because I am so overstocked with joy that I will burst if I am not properly vented. And I find any justifiable reason to utter my darling’s name, as if I possess proper ownership.
I compare you to the sentiment of a fond memory of departure: such a bittersweet concept, yet knowing the next visit will be sweeter than the last keeps me content. Furthermore, my overall over analysis, and overwhelming plague of female emotions overpowers my lack of logic and sense of dignity. My perfect practiced posture and poise is stricken with a flash that loosens bolts and screws that have held my composure together, unsteadily in my solitary confinement. Ultimately, leaving me at a loss of wits. So I exist as a literary giant through the passion of love upon discovering my muse, and I must thank you for this. For love causes commotion, emotion, despair, thrill, shame, agony, drama, inspiration, and unconditional devotion. It induces the brightest, most cunning genius to become an amorous, stumbling fool. It evokes the selfish introvert to give the cosmos and universe to the one they deem worthy. Though it has caused the hopeless romantic to turn into a devouring monster in attempt to remain safe from feeling the pain it can emit. Love is such a fickle sensation because it holds the capacity to heal the lovers that it once brutally wounded.
And so here I stand in my revival. I pledge my allegiance to the theatrics of love: embracing the tears, fears, and humiliation just to have the opportunity to find something absolute. I hope you do not find me to be impetuous to release such a strong infatuation, so perhaps I shall continue to bite my tongue. I am afraid to let you know how deep I have plummeted, because you are high, head above water and I have sunk six-feet under. The worst thing you can do is allow me to fall with no intentions of catching me. We produce these pretty words posing as promises accompanied by apparent assurance that we may not intend to keep. So is it possible to promise this feeling will last forever?
That romance will not fade away after years to come? That passion will not vanish as time elapses? That you will continue to use those terms of endearment that sends my heart into a hurricane of warmth, security, and satisfaction? That I will promise to patiently wait for your call? That I will continue to write endless romantic words in your favor? That our distance would not cause us to look elsewhere for affection because we tire of loneliness? That our eyes will remain on each other, peering from 3,000 miles away?
Just as I disregard these foreign feelings, you prove yourself to be as amazing as I perceive you to be. My faith triumphs, my sense of zeal dismisses my cynicism, and I reject my pessimistic outlook that once overtook my entire being. Each day, I dispute my skepticism to the best of my abilities because, though I dread appearing to you as an injudicious fool, the one thing I fear above all is losing you.
So is this love? Have I finally found it? Is it the small things said that mean the most? The feeling in the pit of my stomach I’ve never felt before? Are those butterflies? Is it normal to have the urge to list all the things I am fond of relating to you?
I adore the sound of your voice, especially the soft tone it shifts to when you say goodnight, as if you are whispering and lulling me to sleep.
I love your smile, the way you gaze at me, the way you make me feel secure in my own skin.
I could go on forever talking to you, and we would not need to say one word because I am perfectly content with just knowing you are on the other end.
I love when you told me, “Your life can’t be that bad, because I’m in it,” because you are completely right but darling, you do not know the half of it…
Though I once opposed this term of endearment, I love when you call me, “Baby.”
I love that you allow me to refer to you and I as us, and you allow me to call you mine, because you know I am all yours.
I adore your sincerity and your ability to be honest with me.
I love everything that you put out, and in the midst of this long list of wondrous dreams: among them, my favorite is especially you.
I bid farewell to the monster I once was, I train myself to un-train the atrocious behavior I once displayed to avoid love…
This has turned into the typical “coming-of-age” tale, where the girl is in love with the guy in the end. Certainly, I have bettered myself because I set my mind to it. I hope true love will prevail over our 3,000-miles worth of an obstacle. I am pleased that my good has triumphed over my evil. For he isn’t the type of guy my mother warned me about in my adolescence. All things may come to an end, but I tell him he is too good to be true.
This has turned into the type of tale where there is a happy ending, and all is fair in love and war.
Well, this is love.
