Love on Toast

i like this

I curl up in the empty bed. I can’t get warm. When I don’t write, the warmth trickles out little by little. My body keeps the score when it comes to it. “Have you expressed yourself lately?” it asks. I sigh. I can’t write; what am I supposed to do? My heart is elsewhere, and I don’t always know how to bring it back home.

I was told there is a hardness to my eyes where there once used to be light. I curl into my shell like a snail. The words hurt then, and hurt now. I remember the way I felt those days – desperate not to be the girl with the soft eyes and the even softer heart, ashamed that I was – and I just want to melt back into them. But the trouble now is that I can’t. One summer there was no girl left in me. Whatever has grown back since simply doesn’t feel the same.

There are exceptions to every rule, of course. Every now and then I wake up from a deep sleep and I feel her. Still golden, still glowing, still radiating a heartfulness that permeates everything she does and everybody she connects to. I think that I will never be this me again, and that’s the hardest pill to swallow. I can’t get in there, and I can’t get her out here. We keep missing each other. The rule remains the rule.

I wonder who I could have been by now if I was loved right. If things were as beautiful as they could have been. If I’d have had the energy to nourish all that magic bubbling up inside me. Imagine being loved the way you love. Imagine what that would do to you. Just take a mental photograph of it, close your eyes tight and wait for it to develop. I do. A little love goes a long way, even when it’s a little made up.

I wish I could make enough to store in jars, spread on toast, and stuff my face with it when I’m love-starved. Imagine that, too. Imagine all the things that no one, not even you, can give you to keep yourself fully alive and sparkling. Imagine still having the sun in you, and the softness, and the clarity. Imagine having so much, you can even share some with others. Does it start a fire in you, until it’s wild in your eyes and the red starts pouring out? It does that to me, too.

Something I’ve always been aware of (but struggle to make the heart-mind connection) is how difficult, irascible and quick-tempered I get when I don’t feel loved. I put my walls up, and if you come knock them down with anything other than safe love I start breathing fire in your direction. I surround myself with things I love to be reminded of what warmth feels like, and if you ask me to come away from them to join you, but keep me in the cold, I will snap and reject and resent you.

I recently read The 5 Love Languages. One key takeaway is that all of us have an emotional love tank. When the love tank is full and we genuinely feel loved, we tend to have positive, growing relationships. When the love tank is empty and we do not feel loved, we tend to view each other in a negative light, barriers develop and we can become hostile. I read it and felt loved – because being heard, being known, being understood are all so close to being loved that sometimes the heart can’t differentiate.

I also beat myself up for the apprehension, for not being excited to create, for having so much and not finding it to be enough. But it takes an overwhelming amount of vulnerability to feel, express and journal lately chores I’ve become good at avoiding. Exploring my darkness isn’t always poetic, sometimes it’s just plain awful and I’d rather not go there at all. My love for writing never left, but has been quietened by the departure of love. I don’t know how to write from here.

But the feeling that my toes just skim the surface of my reality when I don’t is such an intrinsic part of me that sometimes I still miss diving deep. The warmth returns in waves when I do, even before I put pen to paper. Time begins to feel slippery. Peace is the new default. Words flow like honey, slow and smooth, drip-dropping like the sugary goodness that I still am, that I still can savour, that is still worth fighting for. It’s a terrific outlet for mental restlessness.

The yearning for experience and connection is still unsettled deep down, too. I know, because I keep writing the people I once loved into my characters. Human situations are writers’ food, after all. All the energy I put into them can’t just disappear, it has to be redirected. My stories contain them because it’s the only way to say, Thank you for letting me do life with you for a while. You’re so much good. Thank you for helping me live with my entire heart. There was no other way to be around you, and I loved everything about loving. Thank you for spending time in my world.

No, the yearning is alive and things happened there. You happened there, I happened there and I will happen there again and who knows who else? I know the same yearning dulls all other aspects of life, and I’m not ready to do that to myself again. To walk myself through another door marked “forever, for now”. So I keep myself here, between whats ifs and what is. But I can’t help the curiosity; and it’s a pulse, isn’t it?

As I keep going the words start pouring out from the deepest, bloodiest part of my heart, and I want to get good again. I want to be close. I want to reach out and give love like white flags of surrender. Then I’m triggered and I take it back and I’m strangers with everyone again. A lot of the mind is not amenable to hard-headed logic. In an ancestral part I still operate with a sense of danger and a need for control. But when I write, it doesn’t have to be that way. And when I loved – and maybe, when I love again – it doesn’t have to be that way.

Once, not so long ago, after the explosive feelings of aliveness, magnificent and exhausting at the same time, left me in pieces I feared I was condemned to numbness. Afraid I’d already felt too much and could never feel so much again – and could never want to feel so much again. But lately, I catch myself learning how to feel again.

It’s happening when I don’t pay attention to staying strong. It’s happening when I feel the intensity of another human being upon me so very deeply. It’s happening when I find myself wondering, is this a moment, or is this a moment worth keeping? It’s happening when I choose to connect instead of withdraw. It’s happening when the world doesn’t seem drained of wonder. It’s happening when I speak human again instead of I’m fine.

They are all glimpses, openings, opportunities to remember how to feel – and as I see them, I’m forgetting how to fear. My cravings always win. This is beyond simple logic, it’s visceral. Feeling feels like healing. It makes me want to take care of my creative health again. It drives me wild with want and need and I like it, it’s been so long since I’ve been anything but safe. It amuses me how my resistance doesn’t only serve to release energy. It’s also the way to reset love.

It’s taking time, patience and practice, but it’s happening. The high is rushing back. I feel my heart growing to allow room for all the love I still have, for all the love I can still grow. Suddenly I want to write and I want to speak and I want to show you that I am just like you, really. I feel warm and real and loving and hopeful. Most importantly, I feel. The gap between me and the world closes again. Love fills in the cracks, and I don’t always know how to stop it from bringing me back home.

You are the way to hope. You are my ride home. Please, please do not give up, she whispers, and I know what this is, even if I can’t keep my eyes wide open yet. I missed the fuck out of you, I smile.

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