Recently, I experienced an unpredictable connection with someone I briefly crossed paths with, and maybe it had to do with the excitement of being back in a city where my emotions are heightened across skyscrapers of electric currents & greased tapas-style dishes, or maybe I’ve had it inside of my mind that we would vibe if ever got the chance. No matter the reason, I left feeling stunned and mystified inside my emotions. The buzzing of sharing space with someone again. The desire for someone to understand me intimately again. The knowing of feeling something deep again. After leaving the city, I spent six hours on a plane rewriting a journal entry on how I was feeling. As I stated previously, I have never fallen into such mystification, elucent from the reality of it all. I could have stayed in that bed for eternity if it didn’t stray me from what I am trying to create here, in this plane of existence, away from the magic & allure of the city.
During my self-love and accountability journey; love, sex, and intimacy have taken a well-needed back seat in my immersive need to find myself. I grew up being extremely codependent, traveling between the beds of my sister and mom & dad or forcing my sweet family dog into the covers with me. It must have been my mother’s nightmare as I woke her up in dead slumber with a jab to the side of the ribs, only alarm clock digits illuminating my pale, exercised face. The codependency attitude caused me to struggle when it came to leaving emotive, abusive situations because I wanted to stay and please. I thought my position on this earth was to be female insinuating she must be a people pleaser, she must be the yes man, she must moan out of excitement it’s the female thing to do.
So I spent my early twenties in tumultuous affairs trying to perform exposure therapy on my hatred for men — to clarify I do not hate men (anymore) even though they have brought me extreme pain, I hate the patriarchy we reside under that curates the story of women’s issues being only women’s issues, not being human rights issues or racism and oppression issues. Several mainstream media outlets have categorized the Me Too movement as a witch hunt, except this time the necessary men are being "wrongly" accused, resulting in unfair jail time, poorly lit courtroom hearings, and blah blah blah. It’s amusing as I see this comparison as complete trash; to me, witch hunts were more a historical, global mass genocide. As Federici states, “Witch hunting in Europe was an attack on women's resistance to the spread of capitalist relations and the power that women had gained by virtue of their sexuality, their control over reproduction, and their ability to heal.” The only comparison between the Me Too movement and any form of a witch hunt is that women’s search for power was coded as witchcraft similar to women’s right to voice (she said) coded as false storytelling (he said). “For the witch hunt destroyed a whole world of female practices, collective relations, and systems of knowledge that had been the foundation of women's power in pre-capitalist Europe”1
This is all to say, I have outgrown my codependency tendencies with a lot of trauma therapy, counsel therapy (S/O Nicole), and breathwork therapy (S/O Cal). I have tendered from anxious attachment to secure attachment, which has been a thrilling achievement of mine. I have grown to enjoy my own company. I know what I need from this world and how to get it. I do not look to put anyone on a pedestal or find someone to complete me considering I am already fucking whole, thank you very much. I have learned to Be. Be me. In all honesty, I am chilling every minute of every day just being me, and getting a real kick out of it.
My fear comes from the looming blackness inside me, waiting to love and be loved. She, inside me, is a beast; her ghostly essence of pure tenderness and amour. I detest her romanticization of every word someone tells her, how she sits and waits for her true love to come skipping through the meadows. She is cute yet psycho beyond repair. A classic, baroque siren, drifting in and out of maladaptive consciousness. Let’s refer to her as M, M who is incredibly annoying, fuels her life purpose on the want/need to be loved and desired by someone else, and Mar, a self-starter, fuels her life purpose on things like her craft, intimate friendships, and herself. It’s been like this throughout my growing years, wanting to put my full love into someone yet wanting to put my full life into something else (career, legacy, art). I haven’t quite built the pathway between the two, yet. I find that I believe I can only have one— an extremist mindset for such a common fate to humans. We all have love in our lives and careers to build, and selves to take care of, so why does it scare me to mix it all into my perfect blend? Why does meeting someone I found a deep connection with trigger an urge of disturbance in me? Is there an unspoken choice between independence and love that I have to make? “If any female feels she needs anything beyond herself to legitimate and validate her existence, she is already giving away her power to be self-defining.” How do I stay (a) self-defined but (b) open to love?2
I don’t get crushes often (and maybe this is a crush). It makes me hesitant to share this side of me inside 444, a newsletter I deem true to my spirit, because oversharing makes me cringe. I used to share so much more and post real-life updates, but I learned it came from this hollowing need to be perceived. If I didn’t let everything out online then I would become gas floating, nothing holding it down, and I would drift into oblivion. poof, her identity, gone! Forgotten in a society that labeled how being observed, not to confuse with being seen, was of the utmost importance. I continue to share at my own speed with my friends, but I take extended time on my own these days. I am a switch, internalizing just as much as I externalize, M could never.
With my morning coffee in hand, I spend my mornings on Substack listening to my peers and their words. I have observed many of my female aspirations sharing outrageously vulnerable things on here and I want to challenge myself to nudge that boundary of mine. When I find something I haven't yet figured out, my intrigue runs wild, and let me tell you, I am running wild. I mean, let’s face it, love is nuanced. No one fully understands all its angles and sides. I am ready to learn some of the edges on my own, and sharing it is a good start for me. Speak it into existence:
Intimacy scares me!
Love feels like a privilege!
I don’t know how to view myself through the lens of companionship!
So when I recently met someone that catalyzed these primordial feelings of excitement and bashfulness, I left the situation in awe. I barely even left, for that matter. I changed my flight just to bask in the glory for an extra day that’s how much I was stunned into complete wonder. I didn’t want to leave it. What if I only got to experience it once in this lifetime? Except for a few fun stories I tell during dinner parties, I was dissatisfied with my romantic experiences in the city. I left all those situations quickly with an immense understanding of myself. No pain, just lessons. Since I moved to New York, I dreamed of having a whirlwind moment that consisted of two bodies perusing down city streets, arms intertwined, chuckling between sentences, and sneaking in kisses on both sides of the face. I thought I would have gotten it when my ex-partner came to visit, but our night ended with me dragging them along like dead weight as they drunkenly dilly-dallied along Knickerbocker Ave. I remained hyperaware of their California-soaked skin resulting in frostbite and tried to tactfully lure them into my apartment— a sheepdog and his cattle.
Finally, I got a taste of this dream. It came late, even though the Universe would argue differently, as I do not reside full-time in the city, but it did happen. All the subtle excitement bubbled up and boiled over, creating a steamy, hot oasis for me to play in. When I left our first date, after stating I don’t hook up on the first date, then kissing him goodbye and wanting to change my answer, I walked back to Morgan’s apartment, beaming. Beaming!! I pranced my little ass home at 1 am on a Sunday, beaming!! Feeling relieved that I, Self Discovery Through Sterling Isolation Queen, felt something.
This last year I have experimented a lot with dating, not in a serious manner that I have done before, but to open myself up to possibilities with people that interested me. I learned a lot about myself— I shouldn’t take back exes and if someone reminds me of my mom, it’s my ultimate turn-off. Through all lessons, I didn’t feel an intense connection to carry me into eternal hope. I was starting to second-guess my clear nature. To worry I was broken or that I was too comfortable with myself, making external love feel more like work than a treasured discovery. I put love on the back burner because I was satisfied in my other realms of relationships and relationship with myself. I know it would take a strong, secure connection to waver the thick, massive tree I planted years prior.
Like bell hooks praised in Women Artists: The Creative Process, "I am a girl who dreams of leisure, always have. Reverie has always been necessary to my existence. I have needed long hours where I am stretched out, wearing silks, satins, and cashmere, just alone with myself, embraced by the beauty around me. I have always been a girl for fibers, for textiles, and for the feel of comforting cloth against my skin. When I have adorned myself just so, I am ready for the awesome task of just lingering, spending uninterrupted time with my thoughts, dreams, and intense yearnings, often the kind that, like unrequited love, go unfulfilled. Lately, in the midst of that solitude, I find myself writing, spinning words together in my head so as not to lose or forget the insights, the sharp moments of clarity that come during this quiet time, that surface amid the luxurious smells of expensive French lemon verbena soap and fruity perfume, a book in my hand.3
To my grander surprise, we fell into friends first, lovers second. It wasn’t just our physical need to absorb into each other but our talk. We bantered around silly phenomena and systematic patterns and music collaterals. We drank silly cocktails and listened to silly jazz music while layering conversation on top of drum shifts and violoncello frequencies. To debate into the abyss with no end in sight. Oh, god is that hot. I enjoy a person who lets me talk. Let me get passionate and take up a little more space. Let me talk in circles until I grow tired of hearing my own voice. I like someone who encourages critique and analysis; discusses and questions just as much as me. Not just seeing that the sky is the color blue but asking how do we even define the color blue. What if we all perceive blue in different hues and saturation? That’s what I want to know. That’s how you get me. That’s how I fall in love. I am both a feeler and a thinker.
To carry on the dream, we met up the next day, and the next, and the next— to rephrase, we didn’t leave each other’s side after the second date except for a brief two hours so I could shower at Morgan’s and catch her up. The only way she was able to confirm that I wasn't seriously MIA at the time was by monitoring my find my friends. We continued our time and it was chill and easy. It felt too easy. Probably plays into the shock factor considering my past relationships have not been anything close to a walk in the park. But it was, it was actually easy. It was a good reminder when learning what I believe I deserve. I deserve easy. I can discuss my self-confidence journey all day with y’all. You’d catch me saying I am very confident within myself, and that’s true, but I still struggle to rewire trauma behaviors within me, that’s also true, like holding onto the belief I am not deserving enough, this is also true. I’m still a female that grew up in a female-shaming society. I still get myself into some tough situations, but I am more aware of the signs than I was before. I know when to leave. I know when to walk away. I know what a happy life should feel like and I’m happy to remove anything that isn’t serving the same mission. Something I take pride in doing for my matriline; returning the karma they all deserved before me.
Society indoctrinated my mothers into a systematic, gender theology where they were taught housewife is the only noun they can relate to. Proselytizing cruel beliefs into prayers, subliminal messaging, and cookware ads. My mothers were stuck the moment they were introduced to the world. Castrated into quicksand where they were tested, sink or swim. And we wonder why classic literature results in women drowning themselves because we are used to suffocating. It’s a home for us. We have grown fond of it. Our convulsion has been so loud it grew silent, no one to hear our trapped echoing. We retreat into what we know; the bog of submission. And don’t get me started about how we were taught to love: Give it all away! The money and the virginity and the identity. Bye-bye independence! Hello, endless engrossment of purgatorial suppression!
I have performed a rewiring of what my predetermined gender role has asked of me. The world can be my goddamn oyster too. This is where I start. Reminding me that love is not something I can take but instead harness. It’s in my core. I can choose to let it out. I told my therapist once, I wanted to fall in love. And Nicole responded, “So fall in love today. Fall in love with the trees you see along your hike. Fall in love with the sun gifting you light. Fall in love with the stranger that handed your coffee to you. You choose love. It’s that easy.”
I think of Dante’s Inferno, when Paolo and Francesca meet in the circle and feverishly state, “questi, che mai da me non fia diviso” [this one, who never shall be parted from me]. The words dripping in resentment with love, with anxiety, with adoration, with jealousy.4 It is an example of toxic romance storytelling - possessing someone and possessing love. But, Mr. Dante, what you got wrong was that love cannot be seized. We all have infinite measures of love but we were told to only give it away on occasion. This is where I start. Detach from love being a tangible thing to earn and see it for what it is, a virtue to uphold, and an action to send out. My love for others is just that. The love I get from others is just that. I can desire but I will not yearn for more. I have more. "This one, who never shall be parted from me", Dante should have written that about love and its host. To love, never shall be parted from me. Someone else's love isn't ever mine to take and cannot fuel my intentions in life.
So I continue to work on this, share my milestones, and hope for more lessons from the world. And to my date (who I desperately hope does not stumble upon this), you were great. Thanks for being nice to me. And to my friends. I love you. My love for you is a string with no end. My first love has been all of you. Each of your souls lay gently on my chest at night, protecting me from it all.
In simpler words, love ya bitch!
xx Mar
bell hooks, Feminism is for Everybody
forbidden love, my weakness
we love the goss