Somedays, it feels like I’m being strangled and I’ve no-one to call for help. I can’t help the way I feel and I cannot go on pretending that I’m content with all that we are. It’s the wrong way to live and to love.
If I were to meet the younger me, I would tell her that it’s okay to love multiple people at one time. I’d pat her head and tell her that it was okay not to choose, that it was brave to love this many people at once when there was no guarantee of love returned. I’d abolish the idea that it was reckless, for reckless implied it was bad, and explain in stead that it demonstrated great charity to want to share the heart. I’d encourage her to love fully. I’d tell her to dive right in and never come up for air. Sink into love.
I’d tell her that it’s okay to wake up at three in the morning with a man, naked to the waist, and still feel overcome with loneliness. I’d tell her to revel in it, get used to it. You’ll feel this way again. I’d tell her not to be afraid when she washes up in an empty alley late at night, tired and weary to the bone. I’d tell her to ditch the whiskey just shy of the motorway and not to be persuaded to sit at a steering wheel until at least sunrise. I’d tell her not to smoke that joint, even if the boy with the grey eyes dares her to. I’d tell her not to sleep with the boy with the grey eyes, especially not if his shirt is torn and there’s a cut on his lip that makes her knees quiver. I’d make sure she squashed it. There will always be others.
Alternatively, I’d tell her to get wasted, practice the pipe, sleep with the grey-eyed boy. I’d tell her to make sure she drowns.
She’ll do it either way.