findings

Lately I've been thinking. This town, it's so different. And people here, they live life at a different rate than I'm used to. It's made me think back through some areas. And I got to thinking about how we do relationships and what we call love and what it is that makes it worth while. I've listened to so many stories and heard so many endings. And I've had all of these ideas and thoughts and memories swirling around in my head for years. I decided to give them a shot. To go there. I think it helps sometimes. To go to the hard, unknown places and stay there for a while. To think about what it is that we give away. To strangers on the street. To people we hardly know. And then to people we get to know. People we spend a lot of time with. To all of those silly little crushes and all of those serious relationships. There are pieces of us all over. It's what we do. I feel like I've been trying to say this ever since I started to notice Them, but I've finally pinned it down. And after I wrote it, I read it aloud to myself a few times. And by the third time, I felt like I understood a little. What it means to be a girl, a woman.



When is that moment? The moment when you finally remember to forget. When you no longer look for his car on the road or hear his voice in the crowd or see his face in every man you meet. You don’t think his thoughts anymore or listen for his laugh or see his favorite foods at the store. You finally stop dressing like you’re going to see him that day. You stop buying things in his favorite color. You don’t wonder what he’s doing and how he is and if he’s thinking of you too. That moment when you stop picking up your phone to call. When you stop checking your email every five minutes. That moment when you’re strong enough to be without him.

How does that moment happen? How do you arrive at that time when you’re finally ok on your own? You realize that you can go about this thing called life without him there holding your hand. You no longer check the driver of every car. You don’t look for missed calls and messages. His face and voice fade from the crowds. His thoughts slip away and he’s no longer inside your head, your heart, your soul.

When you think of him, there isn’t a sharp pain. Your stomach is settled and your pulse goes on beating at a normal rate. He becomes another chapter in your life. A closed chapter. One that you might revisit from time to time. But not one that defines you, not one that writes your ending.

And how do you do the in between moments? The moments when life is not ok. When you can’t stop thinking about every little thing. Dissecting every conversation. Remembering every kiss. The way he looked, the way he walked, the way he threw his head back when he laughed. The way he liked to make you laugh. How do you learn to slowly let them go? You resolve to. And then the next thing you know you’re at it again. Remembering. Dreaming. Of different endings and new beginnings.

How do you make your heart understand? That he’s not supposed to be there anymore. Inside of you. How do you tell it that he never was meant to be forever. That you were wrong. That he was wrong. That you have to stop feeling him. How do you make a heart forget?

And your mind. Your one ally. How do you keep it from betraying you? How do you lock those memories up tight. Block them off with walls and distractions. It’s easier in the day. But at night, your dreams betray you. And you wake up not sure what reality is. Or why you chose it. You wake up wishing you could go on sleeping forever.

When you’re little, you dream of who you’ll be when you’re older. And who you’ll be with. What your wedding will be like and what you’ll name your kids. Where you’ll live and how long your hair will be. And then when you do finally begin to grow up, you realize that your dreams were flat. That they were missing life’s depth. The really important parts. Like how you have this internal craving to be home for someone. To be strong and brave and beautiful for someone. Special and mysterious and exciting. And how scary it is to be you. How scary the unknown can be, how you don’t know how to go about deciding the yes’s and the no’s.

How you wish someone would give you a list. Something to check off. Or directions or rules or guidelines. A hint. Someone to tell you, “No, don’t go there.” Or, “He’s a good one, he’s safe.” Someone to push you in the right direction and keep you from the wrong one.

Someone to interpret your feelings into words. And to tell you why you have butterflies and if, after the mystery wears off, if then they’ll still be flying around. Someone to tell you if butterflies are really that important or if it’s being at ease that is really the thing to catch.

Beginnings. That’s when you need the most help. Filtering through the conversations. Sifting through the words. Interpreting looks and touches and tones. Deciding if he’s just that way or if he’s going out of his normal way to be who he is with you now. Figuring out what he wants with you.

Keeping your mind from imagining what it would be like to be with him. How life would pan out. Because that’s when it gets dangerous. That’s when your heart and mind start latching on, running away with him and leaving you behind. Wondering is not safe.

Beginnings are exciting. The getting dressed up and smelling extra good. The laughing and smiling and bantering. The late nights and long phone calls.

Beginnings are exhausting. The attempt to be more charming and mysterious than you are. The hiding the boring, plain parts of you. Covering up all of the flaws. Worrying about saying the wrong things, or even saying the right things, but in the wrong way. Because even if you know he’s not for you, you still want him to think you’re for him. You want him to feel lucky to have you. You want him to be crazy for you.

And then you get past the beginning beauty and you move into the middles. Where things slowly slip. Your hair isn’t quite as fabulous, your make up doesn’t always get done. You no longer brush your teeth as often or use as much lotion. You don’t go out of your way to do impressive things. You get comfortable with each other. You trust him to like you regardless of how you act. You trust him to like you for you.

And instead of talking about all the great things you’ve done or the deep thoughts you’ve had, you talk about the silly insignificances. What you had for lunch and how you slept and if you found a good parking space. How traffic was and how you hate Mondays and what you need to get from the store.

So you slow down. You stay in more. You go out less. You know where he is at all times. You know his schedule better than you know yours. There aren’t many surprises left. Just expectations now. There’s less patience, less delight. You become a read book. An old story. A worn conversation. And part of that feels safe. Because you know who you are in that story. Who you’re supposed to be. You understand your character and your role.

But part of you feels forgotten. The part of you that wants to be mysterious. Reckless. Wild. You’ve become tame. And in doing that, you’ve lost that sliver of being a woman. The part of being a woman where you realize that you have the power to hold someone’s attention. That you have the potential to be captivating. The heady realization that you could make someone fall. That you could make someone want. That you could make someone need.

It’s an intoxicating power. It’s easy to get drunk on it. To give in to it. There’s a balance that you have to find. A balance between controlling it completely and letting it run loose. And when you lose that. When you lose it. Then you feel like you’ve lost. Period. But maybe. Maybe you find that someone who loves that part of you as much as you do. And then maybe the middles become even more exciting than the beginning.

And eventually you get to the part of your story where you have to decide on the ending. And which characters will still be around in the final pages. You have decide if you can be home for that person. And if he can be home for you. If you’re willing to fight for him; for you. If you’re willing to cry for him, to love him, to be mad and happy and sad and lovely and there.

And once you’ve made that decision. Then you’re at another beginning. A beginning with him. Or a beginning with yourself. And you have to fight even harder in that instance. You have to dig deeper and search farther and question more. I think you have to do that to be sure. To finally know what it is that you want. And then to be ok with your decision. Happy with it even.

The thing is, all relationships end together or apart. And at the beginning, you have to be willing to risk being alone in the end. Willing to give yourself to someone. Your soul and heart and thoughts. Understanding the whole time that you might never get it all back. And that you might have to find it all again in the end. The things that make you, you. Because you’ll have moved past whom you were. And you’ll have forgotten some of yourself. You’ll rediscover your loves, your passions. You relearn how to live. Alone. And that might be the hardest and best thing that happens.

And eventually you’ll be ok. You’ll start to feel whole again. You’ll get your confidence back and you’ll be willing to risk again. After a while. You’ll remember the things that he taught you. The things you taught each other. And you’ll be grateful. You’ll move past the hurt, past the resentment. You’ll see that even though the ending was different, it was still good. And that his chapter in your life led you closer towards your ending. It enabled you to move along in the process of finding your way. Your way towards who you were meant to be. Before you find who you are meant to be with. I think that’s the most important discovery we’re supposed to make. The discovery of ourselves.