Hidden In Plain Sight

Life has such a wicked sense of humour. The Divine Comedy. That’s all I could think afterwards.

The irony that I had literally just told my sister that very morning that he and I had finally reached such a beautiful place in our friendship.

“I love you.”

“I want us to get back together.”

Two sentences. And just like that everything changes whether I wanted it to or not.

My stomach dropped.

I love him more than I ever have. But not in that way anymore. As I walked this morning I realised something… at this point in time, peace is more important to me than love. And relationships don’t bring me peace. Yes, it’s a cop out. It takes bravery to let someone close… bravery I just don’t have anymore. I’m tired of being brave. I just want… stillness. Not numbness. I want to revel in life without interruption or disruption. I want to watch sunrises in awe. I want to feel the breeze kiss my cheek. I want to marvel at the birds. I want to cherish the love I am surrounded by… without anything touching my wounds.

Maybe I’m crazy. I spent my whole life doing everything I could just to be in this very moment… ironically in both ways… searching for love and searching for peace. And I never expected to be here if I’m honest. And what’s even more surprising is my choice. I thought it would be love every time.

I remember when, I remember

I remember when I lost my mind

There was something so pleasant about that place

Even your emotions have an echo

Into so much space

And when you're out there

Without care

Yeah, I was out of touch

But it wasn't because I didn't know enough

I just knew too much

Does that make me crazy?

Does that make me crazy?

Does that make me crazy?

Possibly

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Come on now, who do you

Who do you, who do you

Who do you think you are?

Ha ha ha

Bless your soul

You really think you're in control?

I think you're crazy

I think you're crazy

And I think you're crazy

Just like me

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Ever since I was little

Ever since I was little and it looked like fun

And it's no coincidence I've come

And I can die when I'm done

Maybe I'm crazy

Maybe you're crazy

Maybe we're crazy

Probably

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Pa pa pa pe

Love. We talk about it a lot. Like, a lot. I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure it out, and get it. Trying to win it, trying to earn it. Almost as though it’s oxygen. A lifetime of forcing. Either twisting myself inside out to make someone love me, or by forcing myself to love them before I felt ready because it seemed expected. Performing our perfected dances to gain that thing we’ve been told tells us that we’re worthy. That we’re valuable. That we’re enough.

It always felt romantic to rush. To lose my head in all the amazing feels. To jump straight in and just hope we could somehow not drown. Yet ending up angry that our performances would eventually stop working.

All of my relationships have been like that. Frustration. Chaos. Struggle. Combined with enough good times to act as a dangling carrot to keep trying.

Why did I rush so much?

I realised today it’s because I believed love was finite. A strange paradox of trying to make someone stay, mixed with the belief that it had to be sealed and dealed before they had reason to leave. It’s truly exhausting trying to maintain a fear like that.

I don’t carry that belief anymore. It’s not intensity or time that determines the solidity of anything. Maybe it’s intention and mindfulness. Maybe it’s making choices. Maybe it’s something else.

What would it feel like to allow love to unfold as a curiosity, instead of trying to force it?

What if, instead of believing it’s finite, I allowed myself to believe that I could share in a love that could last a lifetime simply just because it didn’t have to look a certain way to be love?

What if I surrendered to the unknown in a way that finally didn’t include abandoning myself, or hoping the other would abandon themselves, to be there?

I’m tired of assessing feelings, monitoring thoughts, worrying about outcomes.

What if we could just look at each other and say, “I like you… let’s keep hanging out.” What if instead of asking “what do you want?” we asked “what makes you feel loved?” What if we saw our relationships through the lens of kintsugi, so often spoken about in these realms: finding beauty in imperfection, transience, and the wear of time. It signifies that breakage and repair are part of the history of an object, making it more beautiful and valuable. What if we became alchemists together?

I don’t want to bulldoze my way through life anymore, love included. I don’t want to try to force someone to love me. I don’t want to perform anymore. I don’t need that validation anymore. And I don’t want to feel forced to love another. I don’t want someone trying to prove to me that they’re worthy or loveable.

I simply want to unfold together.

To allow love to naturally seep into the spaces we create between us.

I know places we can go, babe
I know places we can go, babe
The high won't fade here, babe
No, the high won't hurt here, babe
I know places we can go, babe
I know places we can go, babe
Where the highs won't bring you down, babe
No, the highs won't hurt you there, babe
Don't ask me when, but ask me why
Don't ask me how, but ask me where
There is a road, there is a way
There is a place, there is a place
I know places we can go, babe
Coming home, come unfold, babe
And the high won't fade here, babe
No, the high won't hurt here, babe
So, come lay
And wait
Now won't you lay
And wait, wait on me?
I know places we can go, babe
Coming home, come unfold, babe
I know places we can go, babe
Coming home, come unfold, babe

I was watching two little boys with their father this morning. Well, one more particularly- the older one. He caught my attention because he was racing his younger brother. He won by a mile and yelled back “I won, Thomas!” But no one noticed. Thomas didn’t notice because he was turning around because his dad had called him because he was still so small that he needed to be kept an eye on. But even though the older boy was older, he was still so young that he wouldn’t understand a parent’s reasoning. I could see his sense of rejection. And I felt for him. He won’t understand for a very long time. I wanted to say, “I saw, buddy, well done.” But instead I watched on silently as the seed quietly planted itself.

I realised how easily so many of our childhood story wounds can come from the simple misunderstanding of having a child’s mind in an adult world. A mind not yet ready. Maybe that’s where all our story wounds come from.

*when I speak of “story wounds,” I don’t mean harm. I speak of the stories we create about ourselves based on perception. In the instance above for example, one small moment can create so many stories that we can potentially carry about ourselves for such a long time- “I’m invisible,” “I’m not important,” “winning creates loneliness or rejection,” “my father doesn’t care about me as much as my brother” etc etc. Of course, this is a gentle example of the story wounds we can carry about ourselves. They vary greatly obviously- especially if they are formed around harmful experiences.

As we navigate the world as children, everything is information, teaching us how to exist in this strange world. Up until it’s damaged enough and we stop trusting it, our only real guiding light is how we feel. That becomes our reality until our mind is ready enough to look back from a place of wisdom and understanding and see it with a slightly larger perspective. Obviously that doesn’t change the moment or the reality of the way we experienced it… but it is interesting to observe from the outside looking in.

Recently it has come to light just how much shame I carry around my last relationship. The fact that it failed. The feeling that I failed. Every time someone asks me “What were you thinking in being with him?” Every time someone asks me what happened, why it ended, how things were, why I am now the way I am. It all feels tinged with shame. And silence. I don’t want to speak of how it was- the nitty gritty details. Partly because I can’t gauge what was truth and what was simply my own experience based on my own wounds or ego. Also because I don’t want to speak badly of something I once believed in so devotedly. There’s also a part of me that feels like I won’t be believed- that I’ll simply be another “woman scorned.” Or maybe it’s that I might find out that it was indeed me- not enough, too much, egotistical, self-centred, self-focused, horrible person so far up her own ass that she’s completely oblivious and can only blame others. Maybe I don’t want to face that possibility. Or maybe that’s easier to believe. Why can’t I blame him? Why can’t I be angry at him? Why can’t I hate him? Why can’t I tell him how much he hurt me and that I hate that sometimes it feels like he ruined me? Why can’t I scream that it’s unfair that I’m the only one who has to carry this burden because he says he doesn’t even remember? 
Mostly though, it’s because it’s our story, and it belongs to us.

How do I explain that I can only share the part of the story that is mine to own?

There’s a loneliness in that.

A feeling of carrying the weight of, or even blame of, our mistakes, alone.

And how do I explain that despite, or perhaps because of, all of that, I love him more deeply. And am so grateful to him. Not in a way that makes me wish to still belong to him. But in a way that can only come from sharing in seeing the ugliest and most beautiful parts of each other. There’s a beauty in seeing someone so wholly. In seeing the humanness. The truth.

Sometimes we have to be careful what we wish for. I got exactly what I asked for. Truth. Authenticity. And at times it was bliss. And at times it hurt. And mostly, it did damage. It cut places that were too soft, and left wounds that are still being revealed. Maybe that’s the thing about truth. It delivers in ways we can’t anticipate. And sometimes we’re left with the repercussions of that. There’s a beauty in that also. That’s why there can’t be any blame.

Sometimes it can feel harsh to be forced out of a rut. I may be miserable, but sometimes there’s a familiarity in being stuck that can feel like comfort somehow. And then I am forced into action. Having to face the decisions I’ve been slowly hiding from.

I resist and get angry and hate the world.

And if I’m lucky, I then reflect and see the greater picture. I’m so thankful when those moments happen.

Yet again I find myself back in my family home, licking wounds. But this time is different. This time it’s not falling into a pit, it’s climbing out of one. During the drive here I couldn’t help but smile as the thought crossed my mind: “here’s to the end of the making bad decisions era, and here’s to stepping into the era of finally making good decisions for myself.”

Because that’s what it feels like. It feels like the last period of time has just been one bad decision after the next. And in a weird way I can see how I was making those choices on purpose. A last ditch attempt at not growing up. A final hurrah. Kind of like a little kid running around the candy store trying to shove as much candy in their mouth before they knew it was time to leave the store.

Because I saw leaving the store as missing out.

But what I’ve realised is I’ve actually reached a place where I no longer want the candy. And that’s a huge shift in perception. I now understand that candy makes me sick, and I don’t want to feel sick anymore.

I want to live with ease- not just in wording, but in action. I want the peace of not being constantly at war with myself. And I finally feel ready to be there. It’s scary. It’s a place I’ve never been. It doesn’t feel like adventure. It feels boring and mundane and unfamiliar. And maybe that’s what peace is. I wouldn’t know.

Maybe after a lifetime of chaos, it takes a little adjusting to understand that just maybe, actually feeling good isn’t boring, and isn’t the same as being stuck, and doesn’t equal being trapped, or doesn’t equal death.

Maybe it equals choosing life. Maybe it means that I can stop proving to myself that I can survive, and realising that that’s no longer the goal. Because survival isn’t a goal, it’s an emergency response- not a way of life. It’s time to stop being that rat, pushing the red button to get my quick-fix pellets to drop. There is no emergency anymore, and I need to stop creating situations to feel like there is. It’s an artificial high.

I want the real deal. And finally I’m ready to do the real work. 

He’s back in town for a few days. I had cut contact (don’t leave me again, baby). But I had a day of weakness, and it started the way all bad ideas start… “hey.”

He’s the most perverted person I know. And I hate that we’re compatible in that way. What’s worse is he’s actually a really nice guy who’s quite romantic. I hate that too.

When we fuck I always have the urge to tell him how disgusting he is. It’s so weird. I’ve never had those thoughts with anyone else before. But in a twisted way it’s because I find him safe. He accepts all of me- even my ugliness. That’s what I hate. That’s why I want to tell him he’s disgusting. Because it’s not him I’m really saying it to. I’m saying it to the parts of me he allows to creep to the surface. The deep, hidden parts I don’t show anyone, barely even myself. We fuck and I hate him. And he calls me baby. And I love it. And when we finish we cuddle, and I trace his tattoos with my fingers as we lay intertwined, and I feel his soft, smooth skin (how can skin be so soft?).

As the sun comes up, I roll out from under his arms and quietly whisper, “I’m making coffee, do you want one? Or would you rather sleep some more?” (he’s tired from his travelling). “Sleep some more,” he replies. “But don’t leave without waking me.”

“I won’t,” I say, knowing he needs that promise.

Someone said to me recently, “I've a feeling it takes a strong man to calm your soul.”

To which I replied, “I don’t need someone to calm my soul. I just need someone who can stand in their own space so that my soul can feel calm around them.”

This pretty much sums up most of my interactions. Men wanting to save me. And then realising I don’t want them to. What I want is for them to save themselves so that I can feel safe around them to soften and unfold. Does that require a strong man? Absolutely. The strongest.

Sometimes it takes a while to find that moment of grace, to finally find closure on a chapter. And sometimes it simply pops up unexpectedly in something articulated so beautifully that you go “ah, yes… that’s it”:

*(not my writing)*

he wasn’t a bad person.

he just didn’t know how to hold a heart like mine.

i think he tried.
in the ways he knew how.
in the spaces he was capable of reaching.

but it always felt like
we were speaking different languages.
standing in the same room
and still missing each other.

it wasn’t that he didn’t care.
it was that the way i needed to be loved,
the way i needed to be understood,
wasn’t something he could give without losing himself.

and that’s okay.

there were moments we understood each other.
in small ways.
in smiles across the room.
in quiet tears we didn’t explain.
in hello.
in goodbye.

i think he did love me.

just not in the way my heart was asking for.
not in the way i needed to feel safe.
not in the way that stayed.

he loved me in fragments.
in effort when he remembered.
in presence when he could manage it.
in silence when he didn’t know what to say.

and I loved him, too.
with questions.
with patience.
with hope that maybe one day
we’d finally speak the same language.

some days we felt close.
some days we felt like strangers
sharing the same air.

i don’t think either of us was wrong.
i just think we wanted different kinds of love
and didn’t know how to stop hurting each other
while trying to give it.

i think we cared in different volumes,
i think timing asked more of us
than we knew how to give.

for what it’s worth,
i think what we had was real.
i think we did try.

he wasn’t a bad person.
i believe that.

and I don’t think i was either.

~Ria Olita~

It can become an addiction in and of itself. The desire to be seen. After a lifetime of hiding and feeling invisible, when we experience feeling seen for the first time it’s like finally breathing air we knew we had once breathed, but couldn’t quite remember. We come to life. We shout it from the rooftops. And we want more. More. More. More.

We do whatever it takes to get that fix again.

Kneel, beg, Demand, fight. Information-dump. We know the price. It requires some form of “connection.” So we rush the connection to get the goodies. Reaching a point of simply lugging around our suitcase of stuff and dumping it into the lap of anyone who glances our way. “Sort through this as quickly as possible because I want my next fix, NOW!”

I did this. I so desperately needed to feel seen. And yet it also felt unsafe, but I never knew why. Now I know. I was forcing it to get the outcome. I was forcing myself and the other. It was artificial connection. But I’ve started wondering, what’s the rush? Why do I need to share everything as quickly as possible? Why don’t we unwrap each other slowly? I’ve realised I want to do that nowadays. I want to take the time to learn someone, and have them learn me. No rush. No desperation. Just curiosity.

The successful, fit, smart, confident, skinny, fashionable, perfect girlfriend… all the things society tells us we should be.

I am all things opposite- curvy, languid, emotional, messy, lost… all the things seen as weakness.

Him. The super fit, hot, sporty, successful, has-his-shit-together, guy. Cheat. Who crawls into my arms just so he can breathe.

No one would suspect it.

When I run my hands over his body, I can’t believe it’s real. Abs like that only exist in magazines. There are moments in between where shame creeps in. About everything. What we’re doing, the enormity of this secret, the potential devastation.

And then he pours himself into those cracks and fills them. Touches me… and I forget. Everything.

Teasing. Taunting. Electric. With a purpose that I don’t think even he is aware of.
Our bodies speak a language that our tongues are not privy to.
Devouring me like a man starved. And I, him. Sometimes he stares at me like a creature he has never seen. Something magnificent. And I wonder what it is that he’s missing, that he comes searching for in me. Enticing a self I always knew was there but could never reach, to the surface, so he can possess her if only for that moment. Is that it?

I’m not looking for love or validation.
He will never be mine, nor I, his.

Maybe that’s what makes him so safe.