I’ve unlocked a memory,

and now everything I do

makes me think of you.

a flash,

and I’m recalling something old,

something new.

We speak of reflection,

but what if I do not like the mirror,

what if I cannot face

my face,

cannot do as you do.

It is easy to forget,

a suppressive kind of amnesia,

a selective enterprise to

silence that body too.

And it is all inside of me,

outside of you,

feeling blue.

My kind is impossible,

persistent in nature and

driven,

caring for the few.

I’ve recalled a memory,

and now everything I do

makes me think of you.

It cannot be love,

but my neck aches,

and your hands were there,

choking the calm from me,

fingers like glue.

A great song, for a start.

It’s become connected to a feeling of happiness for me lately, both in sentiment and association. I sang this song at my band’s second ever gig — Several People for those wondering. Imagine looking back on this when I’m famous.

Anywho, the reason I chose it is perhaps the reason for this essay. It is easy to say goodbye to someone in principle, to let them go and never see them again, but what if they linger? I have seen countless reels in which someone acts (through a comedic lens) like they are completely over someone before seeing them in person, and the feelings flood back. This is typical, and I certainly have experienced such a phenomenon.

I thought, even shocking myself, that I was “so over” my ex. I saw him occasionally, fleetingly, but any feelings would subside, if being heightened for a night. Nevertheless, it was a weekend away that really intensified the feelings I thought I had dampened. I felt this burning, this missing him, something that would skew my actions even if I tried to make it not. It made my mind run, because I thought I knew how I felt.

I’ve had something similar going on with other people before, whether the bludgeon to the skull that is seeing my first ex or the shock of seeing your one-night stand about town of a Tuesday. Sometimes they pop up in unexpected places; your favourite coffee shop, your workplace. Either way, the feelings flood back, even if it is disgust.

But worse is the yearning, the transportation to what you felt way back when. I tell myself to hold back, to not act on my impulse, but I can swing back easily, convincing myself to follow the feeling. Sometimes it works in my favour, openness being my latest philosophy. My last ex, the one on the weekend away, is a good man, and in my honesty he opened up too. It meant a lot to me to have these efforts reciprocated.

In other cases, I have tried to little avail. I reach out the metaphorical olive branch again and again, leaving it until they’re back in my sphere, and yet it never finds a hold. I’ll be slowly letting him go, days not seeing him no longer a problem, and then he comes back, and while I feel easier I still have an urge to communicate, for the uncertainty kills me.

Still, I do not want to come across insecure.

I could easily live without them, these men I need to let go, especially in the latter case. It simply becomes more difficult when they are constantly in my vicinity, when I do not know where I stand. Perhaps I should ask my therapist.

I’ve felt more confident today, brighter, comfortable in my skin. I could speak to everyone candidly, be open and unafraid of getting involved in group conversation. I walked down the lab like it was my catwalk (which it is FYI). This high energy buzz exhilarated me and even let me speak to those I usually wouldn’t be so candid around with ease. I felt like myself, but I’m still thinking about the text, how long I am away from where he is.

I wish I could read his mind.

After a few months, my ex and I have come to a good spot. We’ve spoken openly about our common past, about the thoughts we were having during our relationship and where we now stand. It didn’t come without its downs though; after a condensed weekend of time together, I felt my familiar feelings rise, the sadness associated with losing his company. But that is the very thing, since it was the company I missed, and not necessarily the relationship. When I look at him, I feel love, but it compares to that I feel with my closest friends, to hold but not to have. I think back and remember aspects of my dissatisfaction, what we never like to recall of our relationships. I did the right thing, and our friendship will be better for the separation.

So, candidness seems to be the way out of uncertainty. The book I am currently reading cites uncertainty and lack of control as key sources of bodily strain and anxiety, and hell, I believe it. An online test, yes, but a therapy tool gave me a positively outrageous score of 21 out of 21 on the anxiety scale. It is maybe something I should tackle, but who’s to say?

My therapist, perhaps.

My approach here is a two-sided coin. I am secure enough in myself and my character to know that I do not mind what other people may think of me. Gossip may be shared, assumed, but ultimately I cannot dwell on these things. Rather, I think I fear the result — I do not want to push him away by coming across any certain way. Which sounds a lot like caring what other people think…

Either way, I cannot keep going like this. This particular situation is at least for another year, and each day sitting in anxiety is not good for me. If I were unattached, it would be water off a duck’s back. I shouldn’t care, I should be the diva I profess to be and shun him, I should repel this man.

I’m a romantic.

And I don’t mean that I want to be with him. I truly and thoroughly don’t, and am rather more interested in feeling relaxed around him. I can tell, if he sees it or not, that he feels cagey around me. I’ve had enough of people hiding their feelings, and while I have to learn to be okay with not knowing, it is hard. Maybe I should do nothing, to let it go. Maybe I’m a fool for texting and speaking to him when he never initiates. But hey, maybe he’s scared.

I was told a short while ago that I come across as a confident and self-assured person. This is true in many ways. Today has felt a particularly confident day, largely because of a good night’s sleep. I will fight, I will defend my actions and beliefs, my friends. I know what I want and I am driven. I fear losing people.

These conflicting feelings make me sad, because they become confused. The song makes me think of it, because they emulated the feeling once; the acceptance, the love, the goodbye. It can be said in a passive way, but can also be expressed as a deep wound. I loved you once but fine, or I still love you, but I have to say goodbye.

It is a complex feeling.

What does he think?

Does he think I’m still in love,

that I’ll buy him flowers,

that I’m on my knees praying he’ll

come back.

Does he think I meant it,

the care I had,

the care I still have,

the way I’ll message and he won’t

respond.

Does he think of me,

or he is just as selfish

as he said,

just as cold,

just the bastard we expected.

Does he listen to the music I said

I liked,

and does he like my invites,

the way I keep bringing him in

my circle,

kicking up the dust.

Does he feel seen when I look at him,

or does he avoid me on purpose,

hovering near then

backing off,

speaking and not,

wanting and not.

Does he even care,

or am I reading into it,

giving him movement but he is

still,

giving him the benefit of the doubt

for the tenth time.

Did he care then,

or does he not know,

is he trying to hold back,

because he knows

what will happen,

or did he forget me as quickly

as he’ll move on,

gum to hold the sides together.

Does he fuck with it,

or should I fuck off,

protecting my sanity

for the beast of you.

We’ve all had a crush at one time or another. Whether it’s at school, work, out in the world, crushes are a normal part of human nature. By for its definition and the context it’s most commonly used in, crush is quite a “flimsy” term, denoting a light or even fickle liking for someone else. It is alarming how crush must turn to love, with little in between.

Someone asked me the other day whether I think we can truly be friends with a crush. It was an interesting point, since the very nature of the crush skews how we look at a person, and thus they cannot be “just” a friend. There are two angles to this: the friend who becomes a crush, and the crush we’d like to become a friend.

In the first instance, a relationship is changed, even from a one-sided perspective. If you are genuine friends, one would hope that the relationship is not affected, continuing as you were before, if with internal turmoil. Often this is not the case. We may start behaving differently once we acknowledge our feelings, finding cause to worry over what otherwise was normal.

The second option is the dream pipeline. We start to crush on someone, to whatever degree, and have a yearning to be near them. In some cases, we may just ask them out, but brains cannot be so simple. Often, we try to culture a friendship with this person, however we may define it. The reality is that there is a motivation for this friendship, and therefore it does not come easily as a friendship should. It is not relaxed, there is an underlying tone to us if we notice or not. It is violence for the mind.

The word crush suggests a transient or even childish attachment to someone. It does not have to be a burden, it can be a silly little thing, but sometimes the lightness of the word does not match how we feel. Sometimes, our crushes are more than crushes.

To me, if I have a crush, it is largely without consequence. I might ask the person out or try to get to know them, but they do not feel like long-lasting attachments; I could easily get through the sadness of rejection or the fact of never seeing them again. There are some people, however, that stay with us. These are the people who abrupt the pipeline.

Returning, though, many people wish for the ever-famous friends to lovers pipeline. I do myself. It is comforting to think that (a) we may have already met our future partner and (b) that we are already comfortable around them. We do not have to foray into the hellscape that is dating, forcing an interaction with this strange knowledge that we want romantics. Rather, friends to lovers (ironically) seems easier. In reality, it might be the messiest.

Being around a crush all the time is only fuel to the fire, promoting our feelings rather than keeping them playful. There is nothing wrong with developing such feelings, of course, but there is a weight to them the more invested we become. When we think of the pipeline, we imagine a rosy moment of intimacy, a surprise kiss or hand touch, a slow-burn. While this certainly happens for people, in fact it happened for me and my ex, it is undoubtable that emotions affect a friendship, particularly if the liking is one-sided.

We must bring in the question of love. We feel comfort with our friends, especially our closest, because we love them. Sometimes we may confuse platonic and romantic love. Sometimes we may be clear on what we want. Sometimes we have no idea. Another thing my friend said to gauge this can we have friends we have crushes on question; what do you think when you imagine them naked? Now, bold as it may seem, there is a valid point in here. Do we cringe, do we look away, do we laugh, do we want them? This will not always track to real life, considering the complex nature of human interactions and the fleeting likelihood of your friend standing naked in front of you, but from my reaction I reckoned with a couple of ideas. Firstly, that if you want to sleep with them, it’s kind of hard to be relaxed. I have male friends that I’ll hug, I’ll touch their arm, I’ll do the “classic” gestures that people put on Reddit to say that the girl likes you. When it comes to someone I’m interested in, though, this ease will dissolve faster than the sugar in your tea. It’s hard to be chill when their touch means so much.

I could list off a few crushes I’ve had. Looking back at my Circle of Intimacy essay, I could probably rank them if I chose to. This very idea, in fact, emphasises how the pipeline can be modified. Take our previous example of people that defy time. There are boys I remember from high school that I liked at one time, but there is one that stands out every time. I suppose he was my first love. Not a lover, somewhat a friend, and more than a crush, he took the dream and escaped it for being real.

Now I’m older, I recognise how I still subscribe to the pipeline. I want to be closer to the people I develop a liking for, and if that closeness does not occur, we lapse into forgetting the crush. If we lapse into denial, however, we may be entering the murky realm of the crush-love bridge. My fantasy land forming about me, and I could place a couple of people here, more significant to me than a crush but less than a fully-fledged love or lover. In fact, I do wonder if these are the most easily forgotten, since they did not succeed at either feat.

I’ve been considering what love means to me, and largely it is indescribable. I think in part that is the very purpose, since when I have loved I struggle to know what to say to express the raw emotion. Within it, there are different types, different levels, and if I was to analyse it I would say that I have only loved one person, because one of the differences between a crush and love is that we must know the person to call it the latter.

We can love a crush, a friend, but it is different from the love we may feel for a lover. Another phrase my friend used is soulmate. When describing someone as a soulmate, I think largely in terms of fantasy. That is to say, the term has an air of magic about it, of destiny, of an intertwining that is more intricate than the day-to-day. Only one person can be our soulmate, making it a special term. We may mis-assign it, but at the end of our lives, we may look back and see that one person. They may not even be our current partner.

How we meet people has a large impact on whom they become to us. The context may shape our first conversation, the people around us, the dynamic. This may influence our ability to become their friend or their partner or nothing at all. This may influence how things go if it falls apart. We cannot determine where things will go; there is another person involved, other people, and situation is a funny thing.

The term friend, as discussed previously, is a wide-spanning word. It can mean many degrees of many dynamics, and therefore one’s perspective may be that they are friends with their crush. If we are to speak in strict terms of comparison, however, our crushes occupy at least a different style of friendship from our other friends, if we class them as friends at all.

Human relationships are not simple, and it is true that we cannot force a dynamic. If we focus on a pipeline, no matter what the progression is, we risk mutating what could otherwise be a natural relationship. Pressure, if only internal, is influential, making our dreams of a pipeline more of a nightmare.

My friends are wonderful

but a vacuum,

a space that guides my wants

in only two directions,

a way to live that isolates us,

frozen on an island and away from who

I have become

in this year.

It all begins to change,

and why a fearful thing,

a cosmic rewiring that is constantly

being challenged,

because I step in and out of the bubble,

hardened with the craft of early years,

of becoming,

of being one person and another,

myself and not.

I know who I love,

them all,

a different form of me and

wanting,

never quite right and yet

perfect,

unsure of the right stance.

When we are alone,

blocked off from the world,

you are the most perfect version,

everything I wanted.

Now here we are,

my story burst and onto a

different scene.

I regretted the change and yet the pain

could not measure up to how

I love you.

‘The intimate parts of Gatsby and Daisy’s relationship are never shown to us because it is not real. It can never be, so Fitzgerald will not indulge us in its fantasy. Rather, he keeps it mystical, a product of Gatsby’s dreams.’

25th March, 2021.

I wrote this as part of my A-level study, having read The Great Gatsby for the third time as my set text. American Literature, and it was a classic choice. The first time I read it, I must admit that I didn’t really enjoy it. Maybe I didn’t get it, maybe it was because it was a task and not an enjoyment read. Either way, it was after reading it again and analysing it, pencil marking in every margin, that I grew to love it.

It became one of my favourites. I allude to it in my own novel, and thematically it forms an important part of its sentiment. One of my characters has a vein of Jay Gatsby through him. Whenever it is referred to, I feel the warmth I remember from when I first read it, when I enter a bookshop and remember my love for reading.

I haven’t read it again for years, and part of me worries for how my thoughts of it may change. Gatsby becomes a blur in a memory, a sentimental story. This is how nostalgia goes, the brilliant feeling that reading and analysing brings me, attaching these strong emotions to a source of media, a place, a person. Upon return, these feelings may arise once again, but there is also fear that it won’t be the same.

A classic example for me is a restaurant. The first time eating at a new place, and we may love it, encouraging us to go back and experience it all over again. The thing is, often this has (for me and my mum primarily) led to disappointment. We return, it’s not as good, it ruins the memory. The place has gone downhill, and so the excitement to return has left. This is a benign example, but it represents how our history may be influential for so far as we do not experience it again.

There have been times where I have been walking around town and have seen people. This isn’t unusual, until I realise that there is no way the people can be there. My parents, old friends, I’ll convince myself that someone who isn’t them is them, if only for a second.

This is what Gatsby does. While Daisy is surely Daisy, she is not the same person as she once was when he knew her. He looks at her through a rosy lens, a product of [his] dreams. Their relationship is a story for us, a tale of the past, something only true in a fantasy. They cling onto each other, and even in rekindling it is not the same, because they are playing who they used to be.

Sometimes, we should leave the past in the past. Nostalgia is a strong agent, and it can make us act in ways to retrieve something rather than look at our present or to our future. We can become obsessed with reliving a perfect moment, finding that place, that person. If our relationship with someone shifts, it can be hard to forget how it used to be, if a moment or months or years. It hurts more when we consider the past.

Gatsby hurts himself by reminiscing on his time with Daisy, and then in trying to relive it. I hurt myself by doing the same thing. In this way, we see how Gatsby is not so absurd in his actions as one may think initially. Neither is Daisy. It is tragic and a reality, just like Gatsby’s fantasy.

We see people when we are thinking of them, even subconsciously. We see them when we wish to, when we have something to say, even subconsciously. We miss them, we hear a song, we visit a place. We struggle, because there are barriers between us and who we want to meet again.

If we do not dive all in as Gatsby does, we are left in this strangely seminal place, halfway between reconciliation and distance, between a text message and nothing at all. These people come in different forms, ex-friends, ex-lovers, family, but they generate the same feeling of just-not-quite-loss, and therefore we cannot grieve or process this separation.

Why the hesitation? Perhaps in some ways, some circumstances, it is the message or the meet-up, the approach that scares us, that will in the end make a difference. It certainly has for me, showing me that people are more open to reconnecting than we might think. Of course, this cannot be in all cases; some people are not ready, are not stable enough, have moved on. Maybe they do not think of me anymore, but part of me still hopes they do.

While Gatsby tries to imitate his past, we may look upon it and replenish it in a different way, catching up with those from a time ago, revisiting a place with the outlook of our older selves. We have to recognise that while things may not be the same, it does not necessarily make it worse, and certainly does not have to taint the original memory. In fact, it could make it even sweeter. We do not see the intimate parts of Gatsby and Daisy’s relationship, but unlike my past self, now I see that it may be less due to it being not real, and more due to its transience — it was a part of their history, their personal connections that we cannot see into much as we cannot see the thoughts of those about us. It is impossible to recreate our past, but we can hold onto it in a healthy way to guide a future relationship. This is where Gatsby and Daisy and many of us fall foul of time.

It is interesting to look at the essays I used to write, whether on here or for college. I don’t have access to many of them anymore, but I wish I could read them back and see how I have grown. My mentality has certainly shifted over the past few years since I was eighteen; I have experienced so much. Something that is nice to know — I still have a love for analysis and for the book that illustrated the value of it.

It’s good to know that parts of me are still the same.

Can we love multiple people at the same time?

Some may say ‘of course’, since our different kinds or definitions of love may co-exist easily. Our feelings for friends, for family, for lovers, they sit within us, as strong together as they would be alone.

But what about when it ‘shouldn’t’ be? When we fall in love (typically attributed to partners in its social definition) with more than one person and are self-proclaimed monogamous. It can become confusing, because we do not know what we want.

I have experienced this before as I experience it now. In my first ‘proper’ relationship, lasting around 18 months, it was about a year in that I developed feelings for someone I met through uni theatre. We were friendly enough, but it wasn’t simple attraction. It is normal to see people as attractive on the day-to-day, even when we are in a relationship — this is human nature. In contrast, from my perspective, it was when I started to imagine our dates, our dynamic, our first kiss, that I noticed more than a simple liking. It was a crush, and while these do not have to be acted on, I felt myself indulge in the feeling, the fantasy. It felt wrong, and nineteen-year-old me took herself to Google to ask whether this was ‘wrong’. If I love my boyfriend, how can I have these feelings for this other man?

Upon reflection, I can see how this was perhaps a sign of something. My relationship with this ex was not good; he was manipulative, controlling, and left me with trauma. I feel physically sick when I hear his voice or say his name. I feel tense when I pass through a place that we used to go. Thinking of someone else with such intensity was a way to escape, and yet I didn’t know that was what I wanted. It leads me to wonder: did I want him, or did I want out?

It is easy for me to say this was a sign of something, but my more recent experience is more complex. I began to worry that this was a problem with me, that I’m never satisfied, that I’m searching for the attention or affection of another man every moment. This, of course, is dramatic, however I have worried for how fickle I may be. Even so, I know deep down this is not true. People have been ‘interested’ in me in the past and I have not reciprocated, I have male friends that I do not feel attracted to sexually. It’s not a pathology, but it does not change the impact the feelings have made on me.

I both know and don’t know what I want. I love for memories, for reminiscence, for now, for comfort. I love for safety and for looks, for passion and affection. What do I do when I love two people at the same time, and how may we even define this love? What kinds of love are they, and is one more superficial than the other? Falling in love with someone new versus someone you have got to know inside-out is a conflicting feeling. While one feels safe with the latter person, the former is deeply intriguing, especially if you seem to have clicked from the get-go. I did the same thing again, imaging scenarios and writing poems, wanting to be near them. As before, these people occupied different spheres of my life, which maybe intensified the confusion, since it felt I could have them individually.

I was shown a possibility, a window into an alternative relationship that was glamorised in my mind, removing the worries I had in my current place. It, in this way, was so much less real than my actual relationship, because I was comparing an idealised man with an unadulterated one. And still, the thoughts ran around my mind, becoming so intense as to surface in small comments, in odd games, in more obvious ways than I’d intended. I told him, in the end, that I’d fallen in love with someone else, but when I look back I don’t think that was true.

What do we define as love? Can anything be love until we try it? Is it an idea or a fact? I’m an emotionally-led person, so my heart tends to proceed my head. At times, it has led me astray, but not in ways I regret. I think it is a wonderful thing, letting yourself feel something. It is in the moments of conflict that it feels a trial, where we do not know how we feel and yet need that certainty. When we’re guided by our emotions but they’re pulling us in different directions.

A version of this story is the search for excitement. I may be satisfied in the current relationship, safe and loved, but in this other I may see the prospect of something new, of experiences I haven’t had or the thrill of the start of things. They may show me attributes that I’m missing in the other person, or reflect them in some way. They may (by perception) fulfil an ideal I could not define if asked about.

Beneath this, it is difficult to know what the real feeling is. Maybe it is true that I loved them both, or maybe it was all an illusion in the first place. I spoke to my therapist recently about being “ready” for a relationship, and I’d always thought I’d know. Now, though, I am even more confused, because I know that perhaps there is never a “right time”, but a feeling. I would never wish to hurt someone, but I know that I have. There is a world of possibility within our choices, and it is only in acting on emotions that I may carve the path of my life.

This does not change the conflict. Deep down, in my latest example, I think I knew what it meant; that it was going to bubble up if I didn’t face it. I tried to bury the feeling, and it created a situation all the worse. I admire him for how he handled it.

The feelings do not go away, and I do not think we should bury them. To just ‘carry on’, to set our emotions aside, it is harmful not only to our minds but our bodies, ultimately affecting those around us. If we park our thoughts, try to lock them away, they will thread into our subconscious until we face them. I am trying to be honest, and in it I am facing hard truths. Still, it is worth it to see the other person open up too.

Deep down, I think I know what I want to do. It is certain that I want answers, that I want to reach out and clarify, that these are sometimes things I cannot do. I want to tell people I value them and I want to spend time with them. I want to tell someone that I love him and have not stopped loving him, that I am all the more sorry for leaving him behind. That I know I will not forget these feelings but I cannot do it again, because I know what my fears will say. I told our friend as much.

I only make it worse in my confusion.

On the surface of my mind, I do not know, but deep down there is a spark of reality, the something I would like to be, and the knowledge that it won’t be. Perhaps it is this conflict that drives me to focus elsewhere, because being accepted in one place will balance out the pain of not being wanted.

But I do not know this.

How can we discern our emotions? I write mine down, explore them in my poems or my articles, unpick my dreams. I’ll convince myself of something in order to manufacture my certainty or distract myself from the truth, and I feel guilt for seeing these men like this. When I think more about my values, I know that I want them all in my life, and I fear a ruined friendship. A lot of this, then, may come from this fear.

The way I feel when someone walks into a room has been a focus of mine. With some, there is this sentimental sadness, this loss and forgiveness, a closeness and deep understanding that feels stilted now. With others, there is a joy, a leaping-into-their-arms hug and comfort, a warmth they give me. There are those that are fixed in a memory, a clear print on my eyes, an uncertainty of their thoughts and whom I am allowed to see.

I will run to one of them.

And yet here is the certainty, knowing differently and my choice changing.

I will run to one of them.

He feels everything

and nothing,

all co-occurring and vivid,

the thoughts in his mind.

It will take a week to process it,

to realise the reality of

what terrifies him,

closing off and an open book.

He seems so secret,

so distant,

so unknown to everyone that

tries

to care.

He is loving in his own way,

a good friend once he is given

his space

to feel.

He is meek but passionate,

brooding but kind,

scared and loving the world.

He appears the victor but,

my boy,

he is the sweetness.

What would they cry at me in a movie?

When the audience is watching, for what is the world but a stage, how would they look upon my actions and what would they urge me do? They may pronounce me a fool, to not pursue something my heart wants. They could flip it, pulling a head or a tail, deciding what to do when I am lost as I am.

There is an instant thought, somewhere in the backwater, the backseat of a mind’s eye. I have been told before to try it, but how can I when I do not hear the audience’s cries?

It comes from fear, the uncertainty of how someone will react, the apprehension of what the truth is. I mentioned this to someone the other day, and they asked what am I afraid of? I could not tell them.

It feels counterintuitive to retain my own uncertainty when it is this very phenomenon that makes me feel on edge. This led me to think that maybe it isn’t the not-knowing itself but rather the change that comes along with openness. I can live doubting but in ignorant bliss, or I can learn the truth and have to deal with the consequences. It is easier to sustain a fantasy when no one has disputed it.

The thing is, you can never truly know either way. The outcome is determined by the other person, and we cannot know what they are thinking. There have been a few moments recently where I have elected for openness, and it still continues to surprise me how this allows the other person to open up too. It’s a constant lesson, but I’m still afraid.

I could retreat into what I already know, but I see the audience, see my own cries of no!. Half of my heart wants one thing, and I do not deny that it is a warming feeling to think of it, but this time my head is setting the boundary, something that is best for both of us. My heart let me tell him, and now my head is letting him go.

The way I have acted and the things I have said bother me for how I have hurt people, how I continue to suggest in that direction even when I have reckoned with how I am. I’m ashamed of it, of being self-indulgent, of neglecting those that care for me, of not being honest. I’m tired of being tired, afraid of missing out on the good of life by consequence of this detachedness. It is hard to live when it feels so distant.

Still, I know the audience would be telling me to slowdown. They would be seeing my heart and how it manifests in recklessness. They would tell me that he is not worth my time, that I should tell him how I feel. They might otherwise tell me to focus on myself, but the audience is so vast they may differ in their opinions. Who can I trust?

This is where I wonder. Letting my oldest friends into my present has been a scary thing, something I have detached myself from not for them but for me, because I did not want to ruin what interpretation they have of me. But every time I have told them, how I have recently opened up more, once again I feel the closeness and ease I once felt. It has never been perfect, but perhaps this advice is the nearest I’ll get to hearing the audience’s words.

He wished me happiness, and for a long time I thought I would find it with him. I realise now the pattern I am recreating, that he has been affected by such before, and while I sadden for how things went, I have followed the audience in the past couple of days, telling him my feelings in their rawest (if not fairest) terms. Things have been forgiven and sentiment shared, and even though it stings I know I will be fine — this is only the beginning of the healing.

What would they cry at me in a movie?

They’d tell me to appreciate what I have more, to focus on the now and not the could-be, to liberate myself of doubt by facing the problem. They would tell me to spend my time in places and with people that deserve it. They would dislike my actions, tell me I let something good go, but they would also show forgiveness, for one must follow their heart.

I hope I can be open to forgiving myself.

I wonder if he just happened to show interest. That he was just the option given to me, searching for a lover at all times. That he gave me a release from my thoughts, that he made the work interesting.

And I started to worry that I’m still clinging to that. That I was a fool and I did not want him, that I’ve let myself fall because I forced it, because my other options were slim or missing or already gone with the wind.

Maybe I’ve decided to miss him, that I have to cling to something else to forget the pain.

But even within the swathe of it, when everyone else was around, my eyes lead me to you.

My hand hovers above it, the button that would make me call you.

His name feels so important now, a slip of the tongue made a memory. It is painful to know so, to remember him, thinking what we once were. There was such promise, a ring on my finger, our talk of a family I hadn’t before considered.

And I have since considered so much.

A recent conversation, as in multiple cases, inspired me to write this piece. It has dawned on me, somewhat through having a mirror held up, that I have historically used the term ‘friend’ liberally. This has shifted with time, with maturity in a sense, but it is interesting to consider how culture plays into this.

Indeed, in Britain and the English language more globally, we have only two terms for the people we know outside of our families. ‘Acquaintances’ may represent those we have only known for a short time or we have had one conversation with. They may also be people we see every day but fleetingly, such as a worker at a shop or cafe we visit regularly. But what if we start to get closer? What if we know them better? Well, then surely they become a ‘friend’.

The thing is that the term ‘friend’ can be used to describe a vast array of people that we know to varying levels. Emotional intimacy plays a role in this, however even in my revised opinion of this simple word, I recognise how my closest and those I know a little but enough could be described using ‘friend’. It makes conversation easier; rather than ‘that person at the coffee shop that I speak to often and know intimate details about but speak to nowhere else’, we call them a ‘friend’ to others.

During my time at school, I called most people in my class ‘friends’. I didn’t often go out or spend time outside of school with anyone, so my peers were largely confined to the school day or clubs. While I look back and see true friendships, gravitating towards certain people at lunchtimes and seeing each other in the summer, my use of the term ‘friends’ was liberal. Partly, I believe this is down to a feeling of loneliness. I think I was searching for approval more often than feeling relaxed around people, and that is not necessarily their fault. Rather, I was figuring out who I was, as many are in high school. If I went back now, I might not even have the same ‘friends’.

It becomes even more complex when we reach adulthood, with friendships maintained over long distance or forming and dissolving quickly. It is harder to keep ‘friendships’ when we are not guaranteed to see someone every day like at school, however this also adds an element of choice to whom we keep in our inner circle. There is an idea known as the Circle of Intimacy, in which we can classify our relationships into our Inner Circle (Intimacy), our Allies (Friendships), our Associates (Participation), and Professionals (Exchange). ‘Friendship’, of course, falls into this spectrum by default of describing many a relationship, however the closeness which it represents perhaps marks a clearer definition. In other languages and cultures, such as Polish, there is a term to bridge the gap between ‘friends’ and ‘acquaintances’. This gives the term ‘friend’ a much more special meaning, only being given to people whom we might call a ‘best friend’. At least we have this, but I wonder where ‘best’ starts and ‘friend’ ends.

Especially when I was younger, influenced by the awkwardness and “popularity” competitions of high school, everyone called everyone their best friend, or venomously called someone else their best friend in front of you. In adulthood though, because of our generalised use, often the term ‘friend’ and even ‘best friend’ may not feel strong enough. There are people I know whom I feel deeply connected to on an emotional level that feel closer than people I’d call my ‘best friends’. This is where we sidestep into the terms of family, calling peers ‘brothers’ or ‘sisters’.

Where someone sits in our circles is largely determined by how emotionally close we feel to them. I’ve considered off and on making a ranked list of the people I know, for mental clarity more than making a burn book, but the more I think of it the more mixed up it seems to become. I’m afraid of missing people out, of how long the list may be, of how wide I should go. I think of where I would place people whom I do not see often but feel emotionally linked to, or vice versa.

“Negative” relationships are not represented on the circle, even if someone may take up much of our headspace and us theirs. Enemies, the dreaded frenemies, emotionally we are not as safe or comfortable with these people, and there is certainly merit in prioritising our positive relationships. Still, it is important to recognise how the Circle of Intimacy does not reflect these complex relationship dynamics or levels that we must reckon with on the day-to-day.

People may also shift levels. When we date someone, we spend a lot of our free time with them or thinking of them. There is also a greater level of emotional and physical intimacy engaged in these relationships. Depending on the origin, we may move from being friends to partners, or strangers to partners, but either way the dynamic shift propels someone into a closer circle. The term ‘friend’, while an integral part, no longer applies, and so someone has surmounted the minefield of complicated labels. Language is a great reflection of culture, and in the primarily English speaking world, we see a great prioritisation of partnership, with everyone else filling the gaps, making a homogenous mass of ‘friends’. Now, I do not think of friends this way at all, and there are certainly differing levels of closeness clear to me in my own life and in others, however it is also interesting to consider how time with friends can be exchanged with a partner easily and willingly. ‘Exes’, then, sit in this odd space all to their own, and even then that is simplifying. They may become friends again, especially if things began there and events are handled well. Someone may become our mortal enemy (xoxo you know who you are). Friendships can also dissolve in the same way. No matter the breakdown, there is a feeling of loss associated with losing intimacy. Further, someone may skip places for a set amount of time, whether that be an evening we’d rather forget or a work trip. People, as the terms we create, are complex beings, and feelings are guaranteed to be messy. Importantly, we must reckon with the fact that our circles are shifting all the time.

On the subject of work, perhaps our closest term in English to the bridge described in other languages is ‘colleague’. While confined to one setting, we see these people virtually every day, getting to know them fairly well depending on how open they are or how much we talk to them. ‘Colleagues’ may go for drinks, have lunches, make each other laugh, but where does work end and friendship begin? What if someone does not have many people outside of work? What if there is the dreaded ‘work crush’? Professionalism is hard to uphold when people consider each other in different lights. Further, the term ‘colleague’ does not solve the issue of everyone else who falls somewhere between ‘friend’ and ‘colleague’, and British politeness will not allow anyone to be called an ‘acquaintance’; we’d much rather call them ‘the one with the curly hair that goes to the gym and we get a coffee before class’.

There are also those we have never spoken to but may have great influence in our lives. A couple of examples I can think of are ‘idols’ and ‘crushes’. While the former describes someone we often have no direct connection to (although idols may be someone we know), ‘crushes’ may be closer to our reality but still across the room. Acknowledging the fact that these can be complex and varied, both an ‘idol’ and a ‘crush’ generate feelings of closeness through our frequency of thought. The complexity, therefore, comes when these feelings are not reciprocated, for then where do they sit on our intimacy circles, especially if we have never spoken to them.

Perhaps I will do my ranking system, afterall. There is certainly clarity to be gained from it, if discomfort on some level. Those who do not quite fit may be the toughest to place, calling them a ‘friend’ but not quite right, calling them an ‘ex’ but not quite either. In spite of the confusion, I am sure of whom I am emotionally close to, and I feel that no matter the frequency with which I see these people, we remain close. This may be a sign; that distance or time does not seem to mar anything when we come back together. These may be the best kinds of friends.

I thought that was it,

when he said he didn’t want them

and so we matched,

my opinions solidified in his

declaration.

I thought that was it,

when he confirmed my past

bias,

when he nodded at me at the right time,

when we aligned on a single

option.

I thought that was it,

as I’d thought it before,

never reckoning with what my heart

might tell me

in time,

that another could inspire such

difference

in someone so sure.

I thought that was it,

but it felt like a strain,

a stretch,

juxtaposing my months past,

my desire to conduct a solo life.

I thought that was it,

but then how could it be

when I didn’t believe you

when you said

you wanted to be alone?

I thought that was it,

and it doesn’t make a relationship,

only part of me wanted it to

push me into your hands,

me and you and the world.

I thought I knew,

and now I’ve felt something new

I must reckon with the light,

how I was not meant to be just

me,

or just you,

or just us,

but looking into different eyes I see the

grouped us,

the family I feared for when

I had no chance of making it.

I thought I knew back then

that I wanted it,

words of my mother and frightened of

fertility,

and so I combat community for

it is easier to live in

bliss.

I knew back then that it was not time,

not yet,

not ever maybe and that would be fine.

I knew I wanted my time,

my body,

my fear replaced.

I knew as I met him that

we could be,

a change in my epithet and

shift in thought,

an altered view of my future.

It came upon me without

mention,

yet I see us with

more,

a different person and a different

way.

I thought that was it,

you and your reckless traumas,

you and your loneliness,

you and your sadness,

but just as the you in these

poems

can change,

so can my mind of a family.

Is it so awful of me to think this way?

I hear the songs that made me think of you, bright and such a good light, a tune steeped in love, and I’m recalling the feeling, letting it grow in my chest and holding onto it, dragging it to the surface because I miss it, our earliest days.

But is it so awful for me to have floated from it, waiting for the next thing and seeing you beside me like a tether, the eyes of those about us.

Now you are one of us, introduced to my friends and so there is no letting go. Our situation is tricky, and so I cannot give in so easily, both for our sake and what they would think of it.

What she might say.

The song is building to its end, and already I feel the sadness set in, nostalgic for a past that we lived not too long ago. I have been told how you look at me, that your eyes are bright with it, big and round and loving. The hugs you give me, and how they look on it as perfect, being a beautiful iteration of a good and true friendship.

But I struggle to feel it.

That’s the thing.

Something being said and suddenly it is meaningless, thrown about like confetti. Love of my life, and it makes you feel nothing anymore when it used to mean so much; when it was wordless and wanted, craving confirmation.

He became a boy in my eyes, uncertain of what he would become, asked constantly the same question.

It used to be easy when it was unspoken, something new to aim for and hurting, but at least it gave me something to cling to.

I suppose I am never happy.

Tell me, am I really happy?

Here they are.

The never-be-mines, the random day in July, the lipstick stains on pieces of paper, parts of their lives. I hope, selfishly perhaps, that I form such a mark on them as they do on me, generating my immortality in a look or a song. The feelings are roused every so often, higher for one man and then the other, so fickle and so potent.

I harm in my poetry, for it is another form of torture, another way I betray each of them at the same time. My foot-tapping longing is toxic, needing all of them and as what?

Where is the line, creating a friend or a partner, settling into what we have because it is a steady state, a safety net, an expectation. I cannot fail any of them, cannot fail him and my commitment, the me I used to be.

If I lined them up, sets of eyes before me, where would mine fall?

If I tried it, a relationship with each of them, where would I feel the safest?

Would there even be a difference?

Chance has aligned so faithlessly, giving me options in which I curse myself.

It is easier to be alone.

I have been blocking out my core traumas, skirting the surface of a greater issue. Perhaps this stress is necessary for survival, preparing me for defence in the case of a bad thing. I am strong-willed, and while an asset, it can be a hindrance, focusing me on trying to make something right. I focus on a happening and pray for its truth.

I have identified a pattern. My brain is bouncing between issues, addictions, one being ‘resolved’ and another to take its place. My exercise addiction and co-occurring eating disorder, treated primarily for its physical attributes, was not unpicked enough to expel the originating behaviours. Instead, my addictive nature latched onto academics, suddenly making what had seemed so simple greatly stressful. My anxiety towards grades sky-rocketed and remained throughout my university life, finally dispelling when I had finished university and found purpose in other things, my personality broader than a mark on a page.

So now, the focus has shifted.

Lately, this stress has transferred to relationships, whether platonic or romantic. I invest in these strong emotions, chasing the thrill that loops around to melancholy, loops around to thrill, and caught in a cycle. I am choked in the hold of men; the space I have granted in my mind for it must be filled. One situation, as it seems to be resolving, is simply replaced as my focus flits to another possibility. This crushing, this loving, this confusion, sends me into anxiety. I am afraid, because it is starting to invade a space I used to find safe, in fact the one place at a time I felt the happiest. It seems I cannot live without the panic.

This is not to belittle my feelings. I do feel how I feel, and accepting that is the first step to reckoning. Rather, I think it comes down to a fear of change, of uncertainty, and while I believe that things will work out as they should, I am frustrated at how my impulse has begun to cloud what once was a place of comfort.

The real solution is to talk. After a conversation with a friend, in which I confessed what previously I was speaking in half-truths, hoping that someone would ask about it, I felt a deep sense of relief. Someone asked me about it a week or so before, and while at the time it did not feel significant, perhaps it was this moment that made me consider the truth of my feelings, showing me a mirror. It is, then, honesty that guides me to a more peaceful mind, but it is also the scariest thing. My fear of what I do not know has flared, assuming based on what I see but led by my emotions, filling in blanks and afraid. I cannot face the loss again.

My mind is running rings about itself, but there is still a part of me that holds onto peace. I know it is okay, and while my emotions can be what they are, I can be comfortable in my knowledge that I am okay. There is much out there that brings me a feeling of safety, of goodness, and I am holding onto these things. I have started writing down activities that make me feel relaxed, even happy, and it is certainly making a difference.

Honesty is something I wish I had more confidence in. Perhaps it is more internal than I realise; accepting how I feel may allow me to be more straight with others. Confusion has guided my feelings and the security in my actions for a time, exhaustion influencing my mood and how easy I find socialising. Even so, I speak to others with ease, feeling completely comfortable in their presence. There have been moments where I’ve wished for physical comfort, a head on the shoulder or to be held, but it feels almost invasive to ask for. Still I remind myself: we do not know the thoughts of others until we ask. I wish we could all be honest.

What would I say? How much relief would it bring and how much hardship? Would one outweigh the other? I know the first to some extent, and while there may be no productive change or outcome, there is the possibility of relief. It has happened enough recently to give me faith in the action.

I would say that I loved you, fell for an idea, saw you in a song. I’d ask you what you felt, whether there was anything, whether it was all a lie. I’d tell you how you hurt me, how it was unfair, uncalled for, your being fickle and destroying goodness. I’d consider your interest, care for you, saddened by the truth of it. I’d tell you how angry I have been, how up-and-down, how you have chosen your path and I’ve been weak for trying. I would curse your delusions and my wishes for a better way.

My heart tells me to care, and my head warns me. These can co-exist, and the knowledge can guide the emotion, allowing myself to feel while benefitting from the safety of logic. I have not yet chosen when I will face it, but I must to feel a sense of peace.

Otherwise, I am not sure how I feel. I cannot tell whether it is the hyper-focus that is swaying my emotions and therefore what I want to do, whether it is fuelling the anxiety and so the confusion. Perhaps it is a fleeting feeling, and soon it will be gone, but the distress I feel right now is all too visceral. Again, and it is the music that identifies my mood, creating a feeling I fear, I love for its strength.

I do not know whether I feel something for him or if I am latching on to the next lover, assuming based on his actions and what I’ve wanted to feel, what I’ve lost, whether I crave the closeness. I do not know whether I feel for him or if I need someone to fill the space in my heart.

For the friendship is a special thing, something I want to preserve, to leave unmarked and unscathed by my hapless emotions. I want to be safe. I have thought more about how things were, how I was searching for the next thing, how I pushed away someone I loved by my need to make him jealous, to make him act out and fight for me when I knew then and I know now that it was cruel, that I was damaging my friendships by running from my past. I spoke badly of what I used to know, spoke too much of the new, or in the wrong ways. I made him afraid of what I wanted rather than just being honest, removing the chance to try again. The loss is both filled with and absent of regret.

It upsets me that I was such a way with them, that the comments I made in wanting a reaction created a poor kind of space, distancing me from people who had made me feel belonging. I wish I had been more honest, for then I would have created the space for them to say the same. It is done now, water under the bridge, but it is good to remember in order to be different.

I fear that I have fallen for him, because it shows me to be fickle, to have a want on the surface that is becoming insatiable, that flickers too much. I worry that I cannot commit to an idea, that I’m so wayward because I do not know myself, that I am trying to escape deep down but keep mistaking on the surface, running into the arms of another lover. I curse myself for my actions, but there is no worth in deprecation.

I feel a fool for what I have done, for what I let go, for how I continue to suggest a thought rather than saying it. I have to tell, because then it will not weigh on my mind. I have learnt by now that keeping thoughts in will not be beneficial for anyone, my own mind and the comfort of those around me. I cannot put someone else in the same place as I did before, timing or not to be considered.

I have considered so much.

My mind is focusing on love, platonic or romantic, confusing the feeling. It is skewing my concern for others, warping my logic. I can feel myself pulling up the other side, my eyes seeing the truth of it, and I only hope this continues as I invest more in my honesty, creating an environment easier for myself and the others I have inflicted or am at risk of inflicting.

It is untrue to say that it is all my fault, that I have become this way out of spite or wish to hurt people. It is likewise untrue to say that I haven’t been hurt, that I have forgiven, that I have a skewed perception of others based on the through of our parallel lives. How can I know what they are thinking unless I am frank? For my honesty in the past has led to others feeling confident enough to share their own.

Of course, this is easier said than done. As someone said to me though, the short-term discomfort will help to dispel any long-term hurt. Maybe it is simply what I have to do.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the choices I’ve been making this year so far, about how I acted in the months before, the person I became in moments. I am sad to know that I upset people, that I was harming myself in pursuit of the next thing, running from or confused about the way I was feeling. I am in a better place now with those I hurt the most, and for their forgiveness I am grateful.

I fear I am repeating it all again.

What do I do when I hate you

but I love you,

want you but

despise you,

call you but push you

away.

Is it through,

or are we still hovering in

our old place,

uncertain of how the other feels,

dismissing what I thought I saw.

And I knew it from the start,

the look in your eyes,

your fickle eyes,

doubting whether what you felt was

true.

Did you leave because you

wanted to,

needing to escape

another girl?

Did you ever feel any love,

or was it lust,

the same look I see now,

the neglect for the human.

Are you ready yet,

making up your treasure

for appearances,

pretending the knight and a

slice in the armour,

far from who you are.

I suffer for the person

you used to be,

I thought you were,

the version I crush on.

You showed me yourself and I

hate the truth,

but I still sadden for myself;

the girl who fell in love.

I remember the repulsion. A joke, a simple joke, and looking back I realise what it indicated. He drew a picture of himself, a stick man of all things, and I did not want it in my locket, no matter how hard he tried to place himself there. And maybe that was it, the deep-seated trauma that did not surface in my mind but fused through my body, begging me to stay away, to not be connected.

There have been too many moments such as this, many I have reflected upon but not written down, things brought to my attention in a split second of deja vu. Memory is a fascinating thing, moments being pushed down and forgotten or resurrected only once they are deemed significant. The meeting of a to-be best friend, the time we first hear a song, they are given prevalence by our minds because we deem the emotions connected to them as important, even if they are retrospective. This also seems to work in reverse, with our traumatic or negative emotions creating a blockage, a barricade. There is much I have come to reckon with recently, searching for the core of my current feelings. While strong memories - as visceral as being relived - my negative thoughts have not been replaying like the good. My body and my mind have been protecting themselves.

And I can still feel it. The ECG, the wires firing from my body and the stillness, always wanting to fidget when you have to freeze. The thermometer gun in my ear when I was trying to sleep, the hardness of it, the fear of being alone. The mirror in the shower, the shower room itself, the sterile nature of it and the way I couldn’t cry. I had no emotions anymore, felt it but did not feel it, this terrifying numbness. Congratulated on things that weren’t the problem, dismissed for who I was, what I could say, a few years later and dismissed once again. Years in which I spoke horribly to those I professed to love, in which I became consumed by something all the more frightening because it was coming from inside of me. A pathology and a number, an unnecessary comment that I still remember, something engrained in the shield of my skull but always underneath, rattling like a marble in a jar full of air. For how can we reckon with it when it is weighed to the bottom?

I am unearthing it now. Starting therapy will be a good thing, I think, because whenever I have simply sat and spoken on how I feel I can sense the relaxation, the weightlessness in my body. What a disconnection I have made, and yet I hug myself and say it is fine. There is so much in my head that it consumes. It is all very poetic, a wonder to make a novel from, but really it is suffocating. Every day I am exhausted or sad, my mood up and down, scared of the good days for how they pass. But there is always hope, an optimism I live by. I should not fear the good days, because they show me that there is good in the first place.

A diagnosis does not make anything easier. It does not make anything more concrete, either. It still feels foreign to me, “anorexia”, because it never seemed to really fit. Outwardly, yes, but if everything were to be assumed based on a look, we would be a very short-sighted population. Of course, it was beneficial to get me help, and that I am grateful for. Nevertheless, it felt as if there was some inherent misunderstanding of my case, of who I was, because anorexia as a diagnosis is attached to a single passage of events with little variation. This, then, was the box I was listed in.

I had an article written about me. I was at sixth form, seventeen going on eighteen, a success story because my “exercise addiction” had been my great conquering and now I’d gotten a place at Oxford University. It’s still out there, here in fact. It’s sensationalised, which isn’t surprising, and I hold nothing against the journalists or the intent behind the piece. I say that I’m ‘“in a much better place”’, which was true in some parts, but I look back now and think through the memories, my lunchtimes in a toilet cubicle, my ‘jogging’, whatever it may be. I remember the relief when I could finally stop, feel it now in my chest and behind my eyes because the body remembers.

It was my acutest trauma.

Oxford was not the end. In fact, it became the beginning of my person, the ways I changed to become who I am. The experiences I have gathered in the past five years have felt like a lifetime, and it is shocking sometimes to think that I’d had eighteen years before that. That is the nature of life, of adulthood, of growing up.

When I think of trauma, of formative memories, I think of my first “proper” relationship. I don’t know what made me think of the stick man, that stupid image that makes me realise now how much he repulsed me. His presence was a burden, a convenience, a man who showed interest. I did not know what a relationship should be, and so I know now, never wanting to go back and change it.

Yet, even though I wouldn’t change the circumstance, the lessons I learnt, there are actions he took that no woman or girl deserves. My inexperience left me vulnerable to his guidance, formulating my view of sex and who I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to serve. He led me to terrify sex for I only associated it with pain, with his desire, with routine. It became a distraction from feelings, a way for him to be his true self then blame me for the negatives, cloaking his words in the daytime. And it was in the sunlight when they stung the most, the wrong things I did, the confinement I made him feel, needing to be the girlfriend he wanted, mouldable at nineteen. The nice guy but it was all a rouse, an older man with a cushioned outlook on the world.

I have flashes of moments when I think on him, when I see him in town. He is a phantom that walks, the sound of his voice making me feel physically sick. He is drowning another girl in his boredom and I fear for her. Perhaps he has changed, but he seems the same, spouting the same opinions and flattening anyone else’s. These feelings do not leave because they were the beginning of a fork in my path.

I met a man that reminded me of him not too long ago. While they were similar in a split second, a like-face and voice, he is completely different. Still, a few months and I still felt this disconnect, a reason I couldn’t get to know him. And perhaps that is because, at the back of my mind, I was protecting myself, putting a guard up because he was the man who caused me so much pain.

Now, I’m getting to know him more. It’s a lovely thing, and even so I do feel this uncertainty sometimes. I hope it passes, these nerves, because it always curbs my enjoyment. A day that is supposed to be fun, and I feel myself descend into this clouded stress, a disconnect between me and reality. I act in odd ways, and then I overanalyse, creating another roundabout of anxiety. But I know it is all okay, that people have outward lives, that no one is thinking about me not knowing what each dial on my guitar does (although now they are of course).

In that article when I was eighteen, I say “I want to see if I can be a part of creating something that will cure people in the future.” In that context, I’m talking about biochemistry, my degree, and while framed in the backdrop of the pandemic (in full throttle at the time, whatever gets views I guess), it’s not any less true now. I’m writing this, and I hope in some ways it tackles the same statement from a different angle. Through writing, I am conveying a message, sharing a story that maybe people can relate to. I’ve been doing the same thing since I was sixteen and writing poetry, telling others of my personal traumas and struggles because I wanted to let other people feel safe to share theirs. I may have changed a lot over these last few years, and there’s still reflection ahead of me, but those core values are still the same.

I have always been me.

It’s meant to be so normal, a told thing, something so usual it becomes absurd. We know that we remember, our thoughts reminding us of events long past or right in front of us, drifting between real life and our memories.

At the moment, especially in the last few days, I’ve felt relentlessly detached from reality. It makes me sad, sometimes, because it makes me cling on tighter to everything around me. I want to stay with people longer because once they are gone they were a dream, dragging me into sleeplessness as time is want to do. This numbness, then, leads me to chasing strong feelings, thriving in emotion that allows me to forget what otherwise is a walk like death.

There are flashes. A liveliness and a joy, a thrill I’ll appreciate for its tangibility. And I’ve been enjoying things more recently, because I’ve found more comfort in knowing myself. It’s strange, as sometimes detachment reduces my anxieties.

Or sometimes it heightens them, making my mind run and fixate on certain issues, second-guessing myself and tricking me into silence. There is much I want to say but fear, because then nothing will ever be the same.

The body remembers too, and one of the things recently that has attached me to the world is my body. Having a sense of separation between our bodies and our minds is a normal thing, since we live through our minds. I’ve had periods where I feel more detached from my body, whether that is in how I treat it or perceive it, for protection, or for exhaustion. The more dejected, the more blurry the body becomes.

There have been a few moments so far this year that have caused a bodily reaction. A lot of it comes in music, a spark in the mind that travels through my body. The most pertinent feelings tend to come, however, in more negative waves, being pushed upon me when I see someone from my past or am struck with a situation’s reality.

Finding myself in these positions is not something I dislike, seeing the thrill or goodness of it in the way it makes me really feel something. There are the feelings of love, a full body laugh and the comfort of closeness, the way your heart can skip a beat. There are the feelings of excitement — something I cling to all too closely, searching for the next thing. There are the feelings of dread, bumping into someone I used to love, placed in their walls.

There is the uncertainty of not knowing what I feel.

I see it most acutely in the small things, neglecting little tasks or the songs I sing, triggering something in my chest. The flip of my stomach or the swimming in my head, the way my face falls or eyes fill with water. It is forever an emotional time.

It strikes me at the most random moments. If we think of the bright side, I’ve had circumstances where I think of a time, something nice, a person, and I feel this flip of my heart, a pressure in my chest that feels warm and loving. Sometimes it manifests in a smile, something giddy and silly on a Sunday afternoon. It reminds me of the goodness there to greet me, even if it does look a little dark overhead.

Thoughts like this, especially in my experience when targeted towards someone, can also lapse into anxiety. I’ve realised with time that liking someone, or rather feeling some need to impress someone, creates an awkwardness that I feel all too keenly. I’ve also discovered that moving past this, whether in speaking to someone and getting to know them or other interventions, creates a wonderful sense of ease.

Emotions can exhaust us. I have been facing this a lot in the past few months, finding myself constantly tired despite a good sleep or rest, alla my previous essay. The stress or build-up of a situation leads to overwhelm, and we’re left unknowing how to get out the other side. For me, there have been a lot of compounding issues that have started to feel like they’re drowning me silently, a subconscious kind of submission.

My logic and my emotions have been in combat. When sensibly I know one thing, emotionally I might lean in the other direction. There is nothing wrong with this, and in fact this balance is perhaps the best way to exist. Still, especially when in a certain place that my body remembers or in seeing a person, the emotions come flooding back, latched somewhere in my head ready to be tempted to the surface. When away, the logic can takeover, because I’m no longer submerged in the emotion of a situation. Time is a wonderful thing, and every experience is formative, not guiding me to want to change anything. Instead, they are fixed for a time but eventually move on, becoming further detached the longer stretches between them.

Even with time, though, emotions can linger. Recently, I saw someone that caused a lot of emotion for me at one time. Just bumping into them on the street, and I felt my entire body tense up, the feeling passing once they’d gone. It made an impression on me though, so much to make me write about it now. It made me acknowledge how much might actually be going on in my head that I don’t reckon with on the day-to-day.

This, then, is where I feel the exhaustion comes in. Being mentally clogged with multi-layered thoughts and situations, my mind cannot switch off, taking a toll on my body by leading me into exhaustion. Places, people, and I gain an association. When I’m in my hometown, this pressure releases, making me feel awake once more. It is difficult to diagnose the core of an issue, and so the battle continues in diagnosing the source of my emotional exhaustion.

Talking about it, whatever ‘it’ is at the time, has been helpful during this period. For this reason, I’ve been tempted more and more in the direction of therapy, since a lot of the time I am trying to find the core of why I feel overwhelmed. Moments recently where I’ve felt relaxed have been times where my mind switches off or focuses on something else besides my winding thoughts, and it makes me treasure more and more these ways to truly switch off. While the tone of this piece has been pessimistic in part, I am ever the optimist, and I know that this is not forever.

I don’t know what this is.

A constant turning of the biological clock, a need for satisfaction but it is not my need, my core belief, instead wrought with dense emotions of comfort and love. On the edge of something, a perhaps-even-maybe, and my body and mind are at odds, knowing my values and distorting my faith.

I am a programme torn in one direction, succumbing to the simplicity of sex. I am tired, seeking a feeling, craving a thrill that I find in others and how they may please me, how I can cover the hurt.

Perhaps that is how I love; for it opposes pain, always coming as an alternative to hell and its waters. I am spaced, oblivious, dizzied from the thickness of life, and I search for freedom.