Pray, tell, ask (On getting the love (you think) you deserve)

I am an extremely curious person; some might even call me nosy.  As a result, I do a good job at gathering information when I am determined to. Call it what you want, I think it is only putting two and two together with the resources that have been made available to one (of course, without actually actively invading people's privacy). I believe, depending on your perspective, you might even look at me as somewhat resourceful. If only I had more, oh the things I could do. The things I would do. The things that only hurt me when I do. The things I really should stop doing. Let me explain.

These last few months have been some of my darkest days. I lost someone I considered one of my best friends in the world. This person, for whom I could metaphorically have gone to war, had looked me in the eyes, and chosen someone else without blinking. My goodness, what that can do to a person. The after-math of this got extremely dirty, especially on my end. Things got ugly, and bitter words were exchanged. 

At the end, this person left me with some audacious words, telling me to "rate myself", and let me tell you, this sh*t stung like a b*tch. Given the way the situation had occurred, I naturally had to find out more about their new situation. I am still not sure it was the wisest decision, but I do not hate that I did it. Sometimes you need reality to slap you in the face, before you wake up, but it is also important to know when to stop focusing on one side of reality, and shift your gaze to kinder, more fulfilling realities, but I digress.

Now, due to my meticulous research, I knew I had gathered some information that I could use for retaliation, in response to this person's statement. Due to the fact that I had access to some things I knew could strike at his self-esteem, once I presented it in the way it needed to be presented for maximum effect, my first instinct when I received that email was to bite back. 

But I held back from doing that because I knew the only reason why I said and did any of the things that earned me that statement in the first place was that I was fighting for my dignity. This method did not seem to be getting it back. Also, quite strangely enough, in a different world, I could like this other woman in question; I could actually be good friends with the kind of person she seemed to present as. She seemed like she had her head on straight. I almost hoped he'd be kind to her. Almost, because a massive impediment to my healing is in wanting the failure of that situation, because it seems very unfair that he could be happy after all he did, while I struggled to make sense of everything. And we all know that misery loves company. In wanting that failure, that part of me knows it would not be kind to her, but then my musings, thoughts and hopes do not change reality. Que sera sera. But again, I digress.

So instead of responding immediately, I wrote to myself:

 It is always dark before dawn.

Today I had a breakthrough. It's very exciting. I accepted defeat. There is true freedom in doing that; the only way from there is up. I believe that all this while, every thought, every paragraph, every bit of pain I had, was because I was trying to fight this idea that I was not wrong; I was too special to be treated a certain way, and so I was trying to make sense of every picture, so that I would not feel stupid. I was angry and looking for a way to regain my pride because I thought it kinda took away from who I was, that I let this thing play out the way it did...

The way I picture myself, I'm in a boxing ring, and all this while, I've been beat up and bloodied, but I still somehow believed I could win the match, instead of throwing in the towel, and leaving to heal, and get better.  I thought it said something of me, simply accepting my naivety in this situation, and trying to do better. So, even at the very last minute, when my opponent was no longer interested in fighting, I was still screaming at them to come at me, to see what I was capable of showing them. I refused to believe it was me (a whole me) who had lost.

Today, I have thrown in the towel. I'm waiting for myself to step out of the ring. I'll give her some water, take out her mouth guard, put some alcohol on her wounds, wrap her forehead in bandages and ask her to get some rest.

She lives to fight another day.  It didn't make her a laughable opponent. Just one who fought very hard, very blindly, and lost. She is still a worthy opponent. She'll carry herself gracefully, and she'll go do some work. One day, years down the line, when she's dressed differently, she'll go back to that ring, and she'll stand, watching that younger version of her, striving to change the narrative. She'll say to her, this is you. I'm here because of you, because you chose to bow out, so that I can be born. This is your rebirth.

There was a catharsis that came with accepting I had lost. There was no part of this story, in which there was any positive for me. There were only losses. There was nothing I could take from the journey, as compensation that it was worth it, and that displeased me greatly. However, fighting to change that fact, simply meant accruing more losses in the present.  After my unravelling, I started to think (more than I usually do).

I thought about how, ultimately, no one else is responsible for our self-care but us. We can hope that people would find it in their hearts to do good to us, to be good to us; we can hope that we only receive the goodness that we pour into others, but if they fail at reciprocating, it is not their responsibility to take themselves away from that situation because we will only receive the kind of love we give room for. This other woman talks a good game about being the kind of person who is quick to deal with anything that makes her feel like she is less than who she thinks she is. I truly hope that if it ever comes to it, she can put her money where her mouth is. But again, it might never come to it, because she might never experience the version of the person I experienced, either because he chooses not to present her with that version, or because she has made it crystal clear that she is not to be presented with such.

Same thing applied to this man in question. How did he manage to be with such (seemingly) sensible women, one after the other? Women who for all intents and purposes, seem(ed) like they were worth it, and seem(ed) like they adored him, even where he did not adore himself. For all his faults, I could applaud him for actually choosing the type of situations he thought would most serve him. This man was incredibly selfish, and in that selfishness, there was self-preservation. It is the only thing I envy about him. Even though I strongly believe that a part of him hates himself, there is self-love in the actions he takes to cocoon himself. Maybe because of the cruelty he knows he is capable of unleashing, he is ever ready to shield himself from the cruelties of this world by choosing himself, and by choosing people who are willing to choose a little more than just themselves. This was a man who once told me about a potential romantic interest, "it would not work with her, she is just like me, she's selfish, and I have seen what my selfishness did to you." A man who knew what he wanted, or at least what he did not want, and who went out of his way to achieve that.

In these my dark days, I have told stories about him to those closest to me. Some stories I told before, some others I did not previously tell because I wanted to protect what they thought about him, or because I was so steeped in that situation that those scenarios became acceptable to me. Stories which every single time I told them, people interrupted me, simply to say "That man did not like you." And I mean, every single time. It was genuinely mind-blowing every time this happened to me.  This was the consensus by different people who did not know each other, in different countries, from different cultures, of different age groups, of different genders, in different languages. It always hurt a little to hear the same thing over and over, especially because I did not embellish the stories.

But the thing is, I genuinely believed he loved me, or at least liked me. So, why was my perception so skewed? I never really believed in fairy tales, but what type of love story did I believe in? A script, after which, when read, the outcome is always the same- this is not what love is; there is no evidence that there was love. How was I the only one who failed for years on end to come to a conclusion so clear that it was everyone's instinctive opinion? How did I think myself so different, that I insisted on being wilfully blind to the internet mantra "if he wanted to, he would"?

So when I saw him tweeting just a few weeks after he tossed me to the side, that he would soon be getting married to the love of his life, I could only laugh at myself. When I deduced, without certainty (and I mean truly, this was a loose deduction) that he might have gotten her flowers, I only had myself to blame because if that were the case, then it was my fault because I had made it known that I did not care for flowers, and we had both laughed about how we did not get what all the craze was about (let's all forget that there are other ways to show intentionality besides flowers). When I thought that he might have gone to visit her in a country not too far away, I placated myself with the fact that it was me who chose to understand when I was in a similar situation, every single time he recited to me his tales of financial anxiety, as a reason for his unwillingness to participate, and his lack of intentionality in the relationship; it was me who went out of my way to try and show him that it was easy, exciting even, to get on a flight that is no more than 2 hours long, to see the person you wanted to be with; it was me who tried to find low-cost solutions that would enable him perform the barest minimum, and he still managed to fail. It was me, me, me. I did that sh*t to myself.

I chose to accept the scrappiest and crappiest versions of love. The type of love that when you inadvertently step on, flies follow you for a short distance after. I embraced this "love" with both arms, and I tried to coat it in icing sugar. I thought, well, the end justifies the means. In the end, it'll all be worth it. But in waiting for a magical end to happen, I failed to realize that in the process, I was presenting an image, to someone, to myself, about what is acceptable behaviour, about how I want to be treated. I was lowering the bar, time and time again, and I was learning to do the limbo, as a result. I was throwing punches at myself, and I was also receiving them from someone else. I was trading in my self-respect by forgetting that all around me there were and are people ready, willing, and happy to show me that I am deserving of love, in its true form.

So I am praying, as everyone does in the end, for the new woman that I hope to be, that I never make such a mistake again, that I have truly learned to choose better, to do better. I am telling her to insist on getting the type of love she knows she deserves- from herself, and from the world around her. I am asking her to promise me that she'll truly take care of herself through her actions, that she will raise the bar for herself, and keep it high enough. Most of all, I am pleading with her each passing day to remember to be kind to herself as she goes through this worthwhile transformation, to treat herself with the tenderness that the wounded deserve, and to give grace to herself, in the same way she has found to give to others. That, also is the type of love she deserves.