Your Name and My Notebook

Your name popped off a page in my notebook today as I flipped to find an old sheet of notes. My eyes burned at the sight of it, as if the pen that had so carefully doodled it was made from acid. I couldn’t help but giggle to myself in avoidance of the bubble forming in my throat…the bubble begging me to cry again. No, not today.

I feel compelled to write today. Apparently I feel compelled to write a lot of things, because at one point I felt like you deserved a place in my notebook. There was something about you that compelled me to do it…maybe it was because I was doing everything I could to grab a hold of something that was never mine to begin with. You were never mine, so I tattooed you onto the vague permanence of a piece of college-ruled notebook paper. That’s where you’ll stay, though, because you were never mine. Your name is in my notebook, but it’s on a distant, unmentioned page of previous somethings and current nothings, because that’s exactly what you were…that’s exactly what you are. Ouch. There’s a physical pain in my chest when I think about the amount of time I spent worrying about you and your opinion, but really, you had nothing to give to me. I tried to fill an ocean with water without anything to pour from my glass. You had plenty, in fact, you needed nothing more, yet in pure desperation I shook the ground of my desert in hopes I could find you a single ounce of nourishment. You punished my vulnerability by pouring salt into my wounds. You were too scared to be a man, or even a human, so you let me suffer at the hands of your pure and ever-present immaturity. I was the water to your garden, but you were the acid to my rain. So, I felt compelled to write today, not because you deserve to be a part of my life anymore, but because you hurt me and I praised you for it.

I have watched so many loved ones suffer at the hands of someone else’s opinion. You stand there naked, completely and emotionally bare, and you swallow your pride to  realize that getting half of someone just really isn’t enough. So you stand there naked, and no matter how hard you try, you blame yourself. You completely strip down, bare and vulnerable, heart beating out of your chest, only to be looked at as if you were the foreign object you were so afraid of becoming. The thoughts spiral into a tornado and wipe out anything worth saving. Oh but baby, we deserve so much more than that. It’s not you, and it never was, but we cannot ask someone to share if they do not have anything to give and we simply cannot add to a fountain that has already overflowed. We wear ourselves thin, and we cry, and we end up doodling their names into our notebooks and imprint them into the vague permanence of our pasts and hope that one day we can repair the damage of someone else’s half-assed effort. There will be a day that will prove every other painful moment to be insignificant and unimportant, but that day hasn’t come yet, so keep writing their name…wear your pen dry, but do not take their name any farther than the cheap paper that you’re writing it. Your body is too precious and your heart is to rare to let it be scarred by anything other than stinging excitement you feel in your heart when their presence vibrates the room you’ve been waiting so long for them to enter.

It was my honor…it was my honor to be hurt by you. Freely in both directions, right? No, not with you, but that’s okay because you showed me exactly how much I deserve without giving me anything at all. Heartache is a massive, (and arguably one of the most unbearable), strains in life but it is an absolutely essential part of self discovery. You don’t have to believe in fairytales, you don’t have to be a “believer,” but you absolutely have to have faith in yourself. You are so perfect all on your own and nothing will taint your magnificent radiance. There will be a day when he calls begging and pleading for your attention again and you will simply, gently whisper, “I left you on a previous page,” and it will feel amazing to know that their name is exactly where you last saw it…on a piece of college-ruled notebook paper of previous somethings and current nothings…because that’s what they were, and that’s what they will always be.

So, I felt compelled to write today, but mostly because I realized that I no longer wanted to be treated like a vacation, but a home. So, when your name popped off a page of my notebook, for the smallest second I thought I was going to care, but today I didn’t. My eyes didn’t burn and a bubble didn’t form in my throat, but instead a smile ran across my face. I traced my finger across the ink-formed ridges that had once praised and protested you and realized how fucking awesome I am without you, how much I have to offer and how little of that you’re going to get, and that I am so damn blessed to live this life. I’m no longer trying to fill oceans, but rather slowly collecting drops in my own glass…finally. I’m living my life, I feel good about it, and I’m so not sorry that you’re missing out:) So thank you, because of you I know that I have the capability to like…lust…reminisce…and move on.

But, for now, Happy Valentine’s Day to the lovers, lusters, and singles.

Inspiration for post: heartache, self-discovery, Valentine’s Day, recent “events”

Cue the music: (press to listen)

ºCapital Letters by Hailee Steinfeld and BloodPop

ºPotential by Danielle Bradbury (MUST LISTEN)

ºHeaven by Julia Michaels

ºFade Away by Susanne Sundfor

ºQuit by Ariana Grande and Sia

ºWorth It by Danielle Bradbery

ºDrunk Girl by Chris Janson




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