Of Love and Healing
My first kiss was with a boy I thought I loved. I remember the incident with the same intensity with which I wish to forget it. It tasted like regret and broken promises, with an undertone of the warnings I ignored coming back to haunt me. And in a whirlwind of unseemly limbs and heavy discomfort, it was over.
It went against every notion I had in my mind, everything I read about and hoped for – gone in a matter of seconds. It was anything but gentle, anything but special. I felt more like a piece of clay moulded according to his will than a person with emotions. A marionette finessed into completion, designed solely to follow his orders.
I didn’t realise I could resist; I didn’t realise that “no” was an option. I was naive, innocent, and generally misguided back then, and looking back on it with a few years of wisdom in tow, I realise that I wouldn’t have ever gotten what I hoped for.
I cried when I got home that day, trying to scrub away the feeling of hands on my body, trying to forget the phantom traces of fingers against my face. I told myself — over and over again — that I was supposed to like it. That I should ignore the way his voice grated against my nerves, that I shouldn’t fixate on the way he barely asked me for consent before he pushed me into a corner.
And as always, when I woke up the next day, I pretended it didn’t happen. I joked about it, with a friend, with him. All the while trying to repress the bile trying to crawl its way out of my throat.
I should’ve known that this was a pattern that would continue, that I’d retreat into my shell further because a boy I thought I loved dictated my emotional well-being. As much as I would love to blame love and the blind faith that was often expected to accompany the feeling, it would suffice to say that I was dumb. I wanted a fairy tale when I didn’t know I was living a nightmare.
Soon enough, I was forced to make a home for myself in the little space between the showerhead and the wall opposite it in my bathroom. It was perfect. No one could hear me cry. No one knew that I was out of bed staining my hands red, or that my salty tears drove my leaky faucet to shame.
I broke down most days forcing myself to do things he wanted, only to scratch my arms raw trying to erase the wretched disgust that rose after. My limbs were littered with bruises and wounds I inflicted on myself. Ugly jagged lines of nails pressed deep into my skin. Anything to divert attention from the fact that I was barely more than a plaything.
I knew everything about him, or so I thought. I knew his mood swings, and the way his voice sounded out his disapproval when I did things he didn’t like. I knew that he didn’t like the way I dressed, nor the company I kept. Everything was either too much. Or not enough. Though I tried to find the middle ground that would satisfy him, I never did. I stopped talking about myself after a while. I listened. Quietly. Like I was supposed to. Like I was meant to.
For almost two years, I spent every night questioning whether it was worth it, whether I deserved more, or anything at all. Until one day he decided that I wasn’t, in fact, worth it. And I was free, even though it didn’t seem so at the time. I was devastated. I didn’t know what to do when I spent the better part of two years at the mercy of a boy who only cared about himself. I never told anyone how drained the relationship left me, or how lonely and miserable I was throughout.
It took me years to realise that I was manipulated, that I trapped myself in a web that I helped weave. And it was only after scouring through all the memories I suppressed after the end of the ordeal did I really understand…
I wasn’t in a relationship at all. I was kidding myself when I said it was love; when I spent my nights dreaming about better days.
Even though it’s taken me a long while to come to terms with it, I hope I am on the steady incline towards recovery. I’m learning to forgive myself for my mistakes, for taking decisions that I knew would leave me in pain, and for not looking after myself when I should have.
I get frustrated at the pace of healing often – wanting to skip ahead to the part where I’m a self-assured, independent woman. And many times, I find myself cursing at my 18-year-old self for not thinking ahead and jumping headfirst off a cliff with no parachute.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You bleed and you heal. In that order. There’s no other way around it.
I can blame my past self all I want, but it won’t make a difference.
However, I can. Right now. I can choose to learn from the experience and leave it all behind. I can choose to move past my mistakes and hope to make better well-informed ones. And while this whole experience has left me jaded and more sceptical than I ever was, I do not condemn love.
Love isn’t the answer nor the question. It just is. And in this case, it wasn’t. And that’s fine.
I might not have all the answers, but I do know this. For now, I’m happy curling up by myself on my bed covered by more blankets than necessary, listening to the sound of thunder crackling in the distance. (I’m here, I’m content, and I have two seasons left of the show I’m bingeing.)
