I waited seven days. The majority of those hours, within those days, were spent in bed. Internetting, in bed. Netflixing, in bed. Texting, in bed. Anticipating the next move, in bed. Waiting to move but unable to lift up and out of, the bed.
Today will be a new day. This year will be a new year. I will be different, I will be better, I will be thinner, I will be wiser. I will publish. I will create. I will learn how to love better. I cannot be loved if I do not know how to love. Do I know how to love? I don’t think I really know how to love.
This is an issue. Because I believe I do. It’s all I think about, it’s all I talk about. So how can I claim to know love and yet admit I am a terrible lover? Is my craving for love really a craving for an obsession?
I am obsessed with myself. I am obsessed with the way others love me. I am obsessed with those who want to love me. This, I think, is not love. Maybe this is OCD. This is the opposite of love. This is about control. Love is not control. OCD is not love. Maybe I’m afraid of how boring love could be. The type of love that the experts say is the real love. The love you don’t see at the end of a poorly plotted movie. Do I find obsession sexy? What is sexy? People say these words and I don’t know what they mean.
They like to say I’m wishy-washy. I’m free-spirited. I’m a fly-by-the-seats type of gal. I’m an open book. Maybe I’m not, though. Is this a game I play? What if I was a double agent? Which side am I on? I keep multiple facades in order to have maximum control.
I control the image you want to have of me. It’s a bit. I’m playing a part. Who am I when I’m in this bed, alone? Why have a façade when I’m in a bed, alone? If I don’t know, how can somebody else know? How will I reach the boring stage of love if I can’t love myself to boredom? What is boredom? How do I tell the difference between laziness, boredom, nihilism, or depression? If I don’t know the differences between these how can I tell if my love is real love? What does real even mean?
This is bullshit. We’re all everything at some point, right? I am human. You are human. These moments mean I’m doing something right. This is called being human.
I’m out of bed. I’m in the snow. It is snowing. It was snowing and it is still snowing. Why is my body still trapped in August? This is not a fluke snowstorm in the middle of summer. I know this is winter because it’s time for bed at 3 pm. It’s dark all of the time. In the summer I worry about my hair, about how long it is, about how I let my bangs grow out so I can see clearly through the haze of sweat. But in the winter I also worry about my hair, about how long it is, about how I haven’t stopped growing out my bangs because I was in denial that August had come and gone. Who am I if not someone with bangs? I was loved as a person with bangs. Will I be loved as a person without bangs? I keep waiting for this feeling to arrive. I keep waiting to feel like something has concluded. How can I move on if it hasn’t ended? Maybe I need to trim my bangs.
I’m outside, in the snow, and I forgot my gloves because it is January and not August. It’s colder than I expected.
Dog, with leash hooked to collar, carries the leather strap in her mouth, rolls in the snow, never letting it exit her jaw. She wants me to tug, but she won’t let me close enough to grab hold. She makes all the rules out here. She’s in control. Does Dog love me? Does she need me to love her? Is this boring? Am I bored?
I throw snow at Dog and she jumps as if electrocuted. She leaps into the air trying to catch every loose snowflake. I want to jump and eat snow with her. I want someone to grab my leash. I want my human to gently tug and not leave me when they get bored. I want to stay long enough to see if I know how to love through the boredom.
We sit in the snow; white dust falls on our noses. It is just my voice out here, speaking to Dog. It is just us, and the snow. She wants to keep playing her tug game, but my hands are red and cold. Will she still love me once we go back inside?
I am alone, back in bed. Tomorrow will be different.
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#52essays2017
Essay #1
