The boy who tugged me into love has gone elsewhere, finding loves and anchoring with an abundance of riches. He has so many people who love and cherish him, and I can't grudge him that, but I'm jealous anyway. I don't miss him, really, but the warmth...yes.
The woman I love as the dearest friend hasn't gone anywhere, but it feels like I have. She finds love like wildflowers, accepting it with grace when it comes, and shares things easily with her people; when she's happiest, I'm on the fringes a little, which isn't wrong but makes me a little grey all the same.
I look at their lives and mine and run through knowing so many things at once: that people don't earn love like merit badges, that I already have so many great friends, that jealousy will solve nothing, that I can be patient. That Lewis was right.
“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”
But the man I have touched doesn't seem to want me as keenly as I want him, and may move away in a year or two. He is the fire itself when he laughs, only with me in little moments, the life beneath the contained surface. Making him smile feels so good that it hurts, and it's stupid that no one's reached him before. And when he went into an antisocial week without telling me, I walked around, methodically scraping and singing and bruising the sensation there, because mooning over him this way is pathetic. Even if the sincerity in his compliments is unmistakeable. And I refuse.
This week I started watching my food intake closely again. Breakfast, a banana, lunch, dinner. Small snacks of peanuts or lipids when I'm hungry so I can concentrate on my to-do list, or get to sleep. Stop eating when I'm still approaching full instead of past it, cut out the mindless carbs and sugars. Skip group meals with grease in them, claim stomach flutters, having something smaller later. Find small squares of chocolate for sweetness instead of mounds of dessert. Walk around with that edge of high ringing in the ears, wait five more minutes until lunch, win the battle of wills with the body. Exercise more. It's not an eating disorder. But it's a thing that the people I care for would sit me down and talk to me about if they knew. I've dropped enough little hints already from the part of me that wants to be stopped, and now I just...don't. I can do this, ride my stomach instead of the mood swings. It's not a little luxury, but maybe it's a hobby.
Maybe it's enough to get through the fucking dead feeling I have right now. All I want is to be held and warm and loved, to just be not alone right now so I'm not bare to the mental elements this way, but it's not happening. I hate this.