Monday, 26 June 2017

Questions of Love trilogy - Part Two: When You Love Until it Hurts

by Holly White

 ‘If it doesn't break your heart, it isn't love.’  - Anonymous

To pinpoint love down to words that fit grammatically into a sentence is possibly an insult to the feeling itself. 

Of course we all attempt to do just that because it's a reassuringly pleasant way we can refer back constantly, and feel that needed sense of unity - that how we process that our feelings of attraction aren't completely insane and there's a reason why we want to be around that person and touch them, or just watch them go about their day to day business and see complete perfection in actions that possess no deliberate meaning to create attraction. 

To refer back to to explain why you're drawn to them across the room and spend hours of your time contemplating whether they think about you as much as you think about them. And it's the agonising pain that takes an innocent crush of the purest form to the dark, blood-red, futile side of love when you are put into a situation that removes any whisper of kindness, patience and desire to even look at that person; disapproval of their doings reaches a level of being completely incomprehensible as to why they did what they did.

You remove yourself from their company and sit on your bed looking at everything and nothing, or at a desk failing to do work you know you're suppose to be doing and you run through the series of events that have just unfolded for you to arrive at this emotional destination of disbelief and hurt. The concoction of thought processes that follow are too elaborate to go through and as someone only beginning to live their life I'm sure I'd miss out important factors I am yet to experience first hand. But hurting because of the ones we love is something we all have experience in from a young age, regardless of it being romantic love or family love; hurt is unavoidable - maybe explaining why we can feel it at the sweet, tender age we are.

You swallow hard, restraining the tears, I think - or don't you cry? Because it's easier to pretend the feelings aren't there even when you've lost the want to eat, because those feelings are too busy eating at you already. Right? You don't want to commit to anything other than lying down; you sleep to forget and curse when you wake up to that ceiling you spent the last three hours looking at. But that part of you who has watched so many films and read the books and seen the inspirational YouTube videos knows this isn't the right way to cope. So you peel yourself from the sweaty, damp-from-those-tears-you-refuse-to-believe-you’ve-shed pillows and covers and make your way to the shower.

But what a dangerous place the shower is. Admittedly, there's something rather magnificent in the biblical connotations surrounding it; the cleansing of the water as it washes away the thoughts and sin to soothe your body with its pure and crystal clear form. Though I'm sure, for most, it’s also the place where over-thinking happens and the only place you can really pour your heart out only for it all to be washed down the complex of drains beneath you. Where you can keep pretending you're not crying for them.

And so you step out, reborn, the steam around you purifying the air and removing any last traces of pity and hopelessness that may taint you. A phoenix coming out the fire, with an action so simple you already feel better and even though you aren't yet smiling you know that inside you'll be okay. With your new found strength you dress and eat, and enjoy it this time, making a mental list of tasks to complete.

You do that work you couldn't bring yourself to do yesterday; you clean up those plates and cups that have adorned numerous places around your room; you play some music loud enough to feel the beat through you, lyrics that make you feel good giving you energy with each word they force out; you interact with people and you genuinely laugh at the things they say and even make a few humorous comments yourself. The day draws to a close and you unwind from your productive and empowering last seven or so hours. TV keeps your mind ticking comfortably over and you freely offer your own commentary about the content, basking in the artificial glow it covers you in. And now it's getting late so you dismiss yourself to your room, the sounds of the television becoming nothing more than a faraway muffle.

A hand on the wall or a nearby dresser you use your big toe to hook round the sock on your opposing foot flicking it off where it lands on the floor, probably not to be disturbed for a few days yet, joining the rest of your clothes that look like the carcass of yourself there on the floor. Your bare feet pad softly on the floor, changing from carpet to tiles as you enter the bathroom. Teeth roughly brushed, avoiding eye contact with the mirror and ignoring the blood in your spit. The cord is yanked roughly, swinging left to right as you leave it behind in darkness.

And now you're in bed. You’re uncomfortable but do nothing to fix it, even the TV can't be heard anymore. Back to staring at everything and nothing, you blink into that nothingness and let out a shaky breath. And finally you cry. Oh how you cry. Face down in the pillow to keep the sounds of hurting to yourself, it's hard to breathe but that doesn't even matter anymore. You cry because you never did get to finish that work, the plates and cups never got cleaned, the music was about broken hearts not growing stronger, and all your smiles and laughs hurt to fake. You thought about them all day and you cry because finally, here alone, you can admit how much it hurts when you love somebody this much.

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