This is the story of a nervous breakdown – kinda, not really, a bit…I think.
3 weeks ago, I came home from uni, it was 4:00 pm, I threw my bag on my bed, and then threw myself next to it. I flipped on my back, stared at the white ceiling, and my thoughts drifted. Before I knew it, I was remembering all of my almosts. I don’t have exes. I have almosts. Almosts are those people who I was okay with, either I had a crush on them or they did on me (rare, but it happens), almosts are fleeting but full, they’re the person you’d get to know at a party or through your best friend’s instagram, you’d start talking and you won’t quit for at least a couple of weeks, you know virtually nothing about them, but they excite you, because nothing is as exciting as two strangers getting to know one another, especially when they’re someone you’re attracted to. Almosts always fail within maximum a month, you never even get to the “we’re officially dating” stage, it’s always “it’s complicated”, I call them almosts because we always almost become something, but we never do.
Anyway, so here I am, thinking of my several almosts, knowing that nothing lasted because I always, well, grew bored – and they kinda always end up hating me. I’ve only had almosts, I can’t ever say I dated. Why? Because all of my relationships with other human beings are complicated. Again- Why? Because I’m complicated. I think I’ve always believed myself to be hard to love. I’ve always projected the wrong image. I’ve always tried to be something with them that wasn’t really me. I created so many faces, with so many stories, thinking they’d stay that way, they never did. Oh God, stay, what an ugly fucking word. I’ve thought that word so many times I think it’s etched in my skin, scarred forever in my bones, I’d scream it in my head sometimes when I fucked over with someone, it makes me feel broken, but I think it anyway. stay. please. and somewhere; a piece of my heart cracks.
By that point, I’ve gotten over my almosts and gotten to thoughts about my first love. This one still hurts. Not an open wound, more of a barely healed one, one that’s leaving an ugly red scar, tissue still sensitive, skin still irritated. I can’t really describe it, I’m over it, but it itches you know? Back to being hard to love. I genuinely think I am. Maybe not hard to love. But definitely hard to understand, to deal with, and to get through too. See, I’m very much opinionated, loud, outspoken, vicious, you name it, it’s a skill somewhere in my repertoire, I excel in hurting people, it’s a gift. I know many of you are thinking, “Fadila? Why do you think you’re hard to love?”
I’ve been told I’m not good enough. I’ve been told I’m too complicated. I’ve been told I’m too strange. I’ve been told I cannot ever be enough for anyone. For the longest time, I wallowed in my own self pity. I am hard to love. In every sense of the word. I’m not pretty enough. Not smart enough. Not loving enough. Not available enough. How can I make a man happy? How can anyone even want to look at me, let alone be with me? Happiness is not something I’m allowed. I’m too undeserving. I’m not worth anyone’s time. or energy. or effort. most certainly, not worth anyone’s love. Should I get a haircut? Maybe try this new weightloss regimen? 10 kilos in 2 weeks. Yes, yes, I should. Or maybe go shopping? I’ll look like a whale in anything though, I’m too big. Anything is better than my sweatpants and hoodie though, right? Should I wear less makeup? more? I think I’ll try a blue eyeliner, they say blue liner makes brown eyes look pretty. Should I go ask Mama to book a laser appointment for me? That’s actually a really good idea.
It was then that I felt the tears start, I could no longer hold in my sobs, I’ve held them in for so long, why am I not like everything I was taught I should be? Why am I not like my boss ass friend? Or my gorgeous bestie? Why am I not as enthralling as my mom was when she was younger. At this point, I’ve gotten up and started staring at myself in the mirror, my hair is a mess, my makeup is blotched, my skin is about to breakout, among many many many other things.
What I’m here to tell you is, I have these moments, you do too, actually, these happen to all of us, irrespective of sex, gender, sexuality, age, ethnicity, etc. What I don’t do is allow myself to roll around and get comfortable in that mindset, you see, it’s very comfortable, it slowly seduces you into the warmth of its victimization, and it feels so good to justify to yourself and to everyone around you why you’re not up there getting shit done, it’s all because you’re sad, so sad, forever sad. I got out, and delved into myself, the very essence of who I am. I think they were all wrong. So horribly wrong.
The truth is, I am too much. I am not like the sea, beautiful in all my dormant strength and outward allure. I’m more like fire, raging in all my volatile power and inner pain. I strive on emotions, I strive on the fire of passion, rage, and that all-consuming feeling that comes with deep soul bonds. I am not two dimensional. I am not a “type”. I’m not just an entrepreneur. I’m not just a family girl. I’m not just a writer. I’m not just a Virgo because people fucking judge on horoscopes. I am everything. I am too much. I intimidate. With all my rage and power. I’m independent. I’ve been for a while now. I’m not soft. I’m battle worn. I’m all sharp edges and witty retorts. My time is precious. My energy is precious. Mostly though, I’ve come to learn that my love is the most precious of all of my possessions.
That’s why I’m hard to love. Or that’s what you think. I am hard to love, just as you are hard to love, because we no longer know what love is. Love isn’t 3 am calls baby, it’s 3 pm calls too. It’s dates and nights in. It’s asking if your breath is okay and if your soul is at peace. It’s asking after your heart. Love isn’t about how alike or different two people are. It’s not about sharing the same music taste, or clothing style. Love is not about loving the same food, or the same color. It’s not about how you imagine your family together. Love is about mutual respect, respect for feelings, space, time, and energy. Love is about giving and taking in equal measures. Love is about compassion. It’s doing good together. It’s not about who you are. It’s about how you are. And until we all realize that what makes or breaks a love bond is how we treat it and each other, we’ll all believe we’re hard to love, regardless of whether we’re in a relationship or not.