#41

On friends and lovers

Why is it me?
You give all this love to
Why is it me?
You give all this love to

I wade through the weeds, reader - heart-heavy-weeping - and feel and know the hollow dark.

Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday (1953) dir. William Wyler.

Epiphanies occur in threes, as I remind myself with urgency that I shall make it through. July has been a month of joy and in recent days, angel, latent sorrow. As I forge mine path forward, the freedom I sought has struck me as a tidal wave, babe. I find myself frozen, transfixed, as that rush of saltwater blankets my wounds. To be in the arms of a lover, safe and true, is unbeknownst to me - alien. I feel deep hurt for the Dead Self, the girl I’ve shed, for ordinary experiences which she was robbed of.

Roses for no reason, hugs-just-because, a prolonged flicker in deepest darkness, warm and wet.

I look to the row of birthday cards lining my bookshelf, framed by vintage Barbie dolls. Each card, distinct in their design, is made all the more unique by the varying handwriting hidden within their interior. At the centre stands a card with a single rose, backed by an unfurling sprig of fir, and lined by gold trim with exquisite lettering. Within it, words I need never share. The ‘H’ of ‘Happy Birthday’ is beautiful - embellished with floral swathes and swashes, excessive in its design. I think about the gesture to create the ‘H’. The patience, tenderness, attention to detail. The love.

Earlier this month, baby-angel, I was fortunate enough to be at Central Saint Martins, London, to study a short course in Typography. To keep me company, two texts: The Celtic Myths: A Guide to the Ancient Gods and Legends by Miranda Aldhouse-Green, and, gorgeously, The London Review of Books personal ads: a reader, edited by David Rose. I cannot stop thinking about loneliness. I allow my lids to hang heavy in the train carriage, and eventually drift off.

In London, I am anxious. In the days and weeks leading, reader, I repeatedly tell those around me “I’ve never been alone for a week before,” They stare into my eyes, each person more perplexed than the last. I arrive at the apartment and possess an overwhelming urge not to cry. I reflect on how far I’ve come, and remember that change is a thing to be embraced. What began as a week imbued by fear, babe - stomach swirling with imagined sickness - became one of the best decisions I have ever made.

Episode 2 of Nana (2006) dir. Shigetaka Ikeda.

I came to realise throughout that week that I had, unsurprisingly, underestimated my own intelligence; My experience and abilities, and the knowledge that I had to offer to the room. Fearful I’d be out of my depth, I came away from that week feeling I could lead the course.

My time in London was lovingly book-ended by seeing old friends. Friends close to my heart who, for reasons unneeded, I had not seen. Eyes welling, I feel deeply warmed in the knowledge that I am held and, in turn, that I can hold them, too. I recall January - back-of-the-head smashed in - when, in a state of mania, I felt a desperate need to see someone every day, for there was no other way. I bought a diary, red-leather-bound - which I still possess - with gold-embossed lettering reading ‘2025’. A miniature mechanical pencil sits neatly in its pocket. I did not know how to be alone, reader, for my entire life was led in servitude to another.

Now, I look back to that time and feel grateful, endlessly, for those friends who honoured my neuroses and allowed me to spill all of those feelings - torturous, ugly, pungent - onto the soft, living-room carpet. I wipe the inner-corner of mine mouth, and apologise.

Wherever I go I feel supported, heard and understood, and take great comfort in knowing that those around me - friends, loved ones and even readers - only wish me well. I feel well, angel, for now there is light ahead of me. Sat to dinner, warm and full with my oldest friends, I look to my love and feel protected. His eyes, a clear, open window on the warmest of Summer eves, are glassy and golden-brown, lifted by the earnest grin which frames his angelic complexion.

With flushed, red cheeks and a pang in my heart, I tell him I love him.

As I delight in mine twenty-ninth year - Cancer Sun, Libra Moon, Cancer Rising - I feel proud of my progress in spite of it all. Brian de Palma’s Carrie (1976) presents a proposition: “One day, Leah, you’ll be able to shrug your shoulders.” I await that day with fervent glee. Until August.