13th February 2018
Don’t
expect anything. I think that’s been one of the most important
lessons my Dad has ever taught me. Don’t expect anything within reason, of
course: I think it’s fair to expect of someone to not spit at you, or call you
falsely mean names; so when they do, you can hold them accountable (like, duh).
But when it comes to people’s feelings, and how they respond to the things
you’ve said or done: you can’t put unrealistic expectations upon them to be who
you want them to be. For example: I could say to someone who has an ice cream, “I would love to eat your ice cream,” but
it would be dumb for me to expect of them to just give me their ice cream. It
would also be dumb to expect for them to give me their ice cream after they’ve
specifically said, “Um, no, this is my
Golden Gaytime. Go get your own.”
The lesson has held me in good stead over the years;
what with rejection, and bad results, and a body that just won’t do what
healthy bodies are supposed to do. I think it’s fair to say that I’m used to
things not going to an idealistic T. But even when I do prepare myself for the
inevitable, the inevitable still stings.
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a poem about a very
dear friend of mine. Unsure of whether or not I wanted to give her the poem; I
transcribed the text from my phone to some paper, put it in an envelope with
her name on it, and had it sitting in my handbag waiting for me to make up my
flakey mind as to whether or not she should ever see it.
You see; every time I’ve seen her, my whole being has
felt beamy; and I could feel whatever’s in the core of my chest swell to
tenfold; and I don’t know what the colour yellow feels like, but if colours
were tangible I’m pretty sure this would be a solid yellow.
The yellow has come and gone over the years. Suppressed
by my own guilt, and reasoning, and long periods of time spent apart. But it
always comes back; and I’m always left dealing with the skip in my heart when I
see her, and the late night thoughts rendering me sleepless for hours. These
are the kinds of feelings my Mum and my Grandmother have told me to cherish.
They’ve told me, “you don’t even need to
act on them; but to know what it’s like to be young, to feel anything at all,
is this marvelous part of life that reminds us of how alive we truly are.”
Which is so true. But it also gets annoying after seven years, and I needed
this shit sorted.
I am a decidedly very upfront person. Maybe not
with everyone, but it’s something I strive to; and honesty is a tool I use to
solve every single one of my personal problems. It’s honestly the best. And
it’s not even a matter of not lying; it’s more to do with unearthing, and
accepting, whatever the situation is as a means to moving on with other, more
important, things. And this deal I had with this friend of mine, needed
unearthing.
I decided to give her the poem without any agenda.
And I thought to myself that it wouldn’t take that much of an emotional toll on
me, because I already knew her response. I knew, by no deficiency of her own,
that she wouldn’t be able to offer me the same kind of love I’d so readily give
to her; and I’d already accepted the situation for what it was. I knew she
would be gracious about the whole thing, and we’re both grown-up enough to
still be friends. And I have a good feeling we’ll be friends for ages. But when
I did hear her response, you can bet your arse I was surprised to feel my heart
hurt.
There are definitely better ways to put it, but the
best way I’m going to put it is this: the whole me telling her how I felt was a
bit like throwing up. You over indulge in all of the sweetness that is a crush;
then you sit with this uncomfortable nausea for what feels like forever,
anticipating the grossness that is vomiting, doing everything in your power
to avoid it; until you responsibly buck up, and decide to stick a finger down
your throat. All of my pent-up emotions (and you all know very well how many of
those I have) needed a good purge; and I thought I was ready for a well planned
clear out with my rational mind at the ready. But it turns out professing love isn’t
something to be tamed or controlled. Once it comes up, there’s no turning back;
and you’re left with this spacious cavity wishing it had never been emptied. And
even though I was able to say, “Ah yeah,
it’s fair of her to say that,” my poor body has been a little slow on the
uptake.
What we should keep in mind is that no matter how
mentally prepared we are for the things that we are (or are not) expecting, is
that when it comes to hardcore sentiments like attraction and affection: we’re
going to feel uneasy when the upheaval of all the yellow we’ve been holding
onto for so long takes place. And our hearts will hurt, as much as we are sure
that they won’t.
But the good news is that it can be totally fine. Because
eventually we’re going to feel much better, and the sickliness will wear off,
and we can move on to all of the other good things that life has in store. And though,
like throwing up, we may wish that we would never have to go through something
like that ever again: we undoubtedly will. And that will be fine too. Just as
messy, but still fine. Because we have wise family members to tell us things
like: it’s these marvelously tricky
feelings, and expectations (or the supposed lack thereof), that make up the
parts of life that remind us of how alive we truly are. Or something like that.