Love.
It meant romance. The prettiest of frills and feeling beautiful and worthy. The glitter, the sparkles, the fireworks. The glass shoe that fit, being chosen. It meant a Disney prince making my existence matter, making me beautiful, fulfilling my life. It meant an end goal, something to strive for, something to change myself accordingly to.
It meant friendship. The laughter, finding someone alike, staying up for hours playing games and making our dolls come alive, gossiping and talking shit and making jokes and jumping on a trampoline and off the bed and laughing so hard you run out of breath. It meant the drama and the anxiety attacks when lost. It meant shaping who I now am. It meant lessons learnt and new connections made. It meant facing myself.
It meant me. It didn’t exist. Trying to find it, desperately trying to believe in it, to keep looking for it. Feeling like a fraud, it not existing. It meant crying, pain, hate, starving, yelling, screaming, scratching, ripping. It meant an endless pit of hate, it meant pure fucking hate. There was no love. It was hurt. It meant being lost and not believing in a way out.
It meant loss. The laughter, the joy, the home that they were being gone. Being dead. It meant finding love in death, swimming in black tar so thick you’d rather follow them and end it. It meant crying, screaming, pain, loss, swollen eyes and headaches. It meant learning to live beyond them.
It meant confusion. The hope, the despair, the what if, the feeling of losing yourself to maybe please someone else but it never working, them not caring and not thinking or remembering you but you still holding on, the endless months running after the soft and slow cloud of being drunk only to end up crying in a taxi. Wondering why I am not enough, what I’ve done wrong. Not seeing any future or hope. It meant heartbreak.
It meant a break. Flowing, existing, unlearning, cherishing, laughing, warmth. Healing myself from the past, taking the time for me to find me, to find friendship. To not look for romance, to not run from the loss and confusion. It meant the warmth of my bed, being safe, treating my wounds, going back to old memories long forgotten, studying them. It meant healing.
It meant family. No matter what, through thick and thin, through fire and blood. Or so I was told. It meant learning, forgiving, fighting, betrayal, better and worse. It meant learning to actually know each other, and not being sure how we feel about us. About who we really are. It meant learning, growing up and together. It meant becoming an adult. It meant divorce.
It meant you. Through all of this, I found you. I found us. I found the warmth of your breath, the safety of your arms, the comfort of your heartbeat. It is steady, normal, you by my side. The stuffy breathing of our furry babies cuddled up against us, rubbing their soft toes in the night. Finding who you are and who I am and what that means. Finding every freckle on your body, touching every millimetre, the gasps and heat and spit and connecting. It meant home.
It meant finding solace in romance, friendship, me, loss, confusion, healing, family and you. It meant reconnecting. It meant letting go and acceptance. It was finding love in pain, growth, finding love where I couldn’t see it. Love meant learning what it really is, and not what I thought it was.
