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The Time That Had Passed

Wow, how long has it been?

I just reread some of the old posts here on my blog, and shit you not, I have been cringing the whole time. I still am! I can’t believe how angry I was before. Not to mention dramatic and did I say angry??

I would love to blame it on teenage hormones and whatnot, but the fact still remains, I wrote all those. Intentionally, and it’s not like my ABCs got autocorrected into writing with angst and hatred. So yes, I fully accept the responsibility and embarrassment that comes with it.

Now let’s make a an agreement not to go back to that hormone driven adolescent that writes sad and angry drama, and start becoming an adult who writes about how good life is and how bad things end eventually. Okay?

Okay.

After All

So, after all the stress and heartaches, things worked out pretty well. And because of this, I have decided to make a “Thankful for..” Journal-ish. I just want to acknowledge or recognize all the things I’m thankful for inspite of all the struggles and challenges that come my way. I guess this is my way of seeing things on a different note.

Today, I am thankful I’m having a baby 🙂 I’m 5 months along the way and according to the doctors, my baby alive and healthy. I don’t think I have more to thank for than that as of this time.

Added bonus: It’s a bouncing baby boy!! He’s gonna be a mama’s boy for sure! And I don’t know about you guys, but i think I have the potential to embarass my little kiddo in the future because I’m pretty sure I’ll be too clingy. Hehehe.

So I was just told that no one can love me better than that and that I’ve only been “pinagtitiisan”. Great. There goes my self-esteem.

So, recently, people have nothing to say about me except for me being useless and unreliable and incompetent and lazy and nothing but a pain in the ass. What’s worse is that those people tell you they love you and that they care for you. Way to go, people. You’ve made one pregnant lady want to run away from all of you and live alone with her baby.

Nobody wants to cry herself to sleep, no one wants to feel stressed and exhausted especially when she’s pregnant. It’s hard enough adjusting to all the changes in the body, it’s even harder having to face people who will never understand you and your condition.

I wanna disappear.

Love Is When… | Thought Catalog

Love Is When… | Thought Catalog.

I guess love is when I’m super cranky because I’ve got my period, and I’m sitting on the bed when you get home from work and even though I’m so relieved to see you, I scowl at you and complain that my belly hurts. I won’t cuddle you when you come and sit on the edge of the bed, even though all I really want to do is crawl inside you and wear your skin as a coat and your guts as a scarf, because love is gross and creepy like that. I have my period and my tummy hurts and I love you so much I want to slap you in the face.

I’ll grunt at you instead of answering your questions and I’ll be relieved when you leave the room and shut the door behind you, because I love you so much, and you should never have to receive me when I’m like this. When I’m like this I should be shackled to a wall and fed gruel that’s been slopped on the ground in front of me, and my hands should be tied behind my back so that I have to lap it up from the dirty floor with my tongue.

I guess love is when you come back, 15 minutes later, and you’ve been down to the off license and bought me my favorite biscuits, you know, the Weston’s Digestives with the chocolate on one side, even though it’s cold in the street and we’re poor and have no money to pay our rent. The way you come back to me, with the packet of biscuits in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, the way you come so silently and put these things next to me, the way you walk across the room without even displacing the air you’re moving through, makes me ashamed that you have to love someone that can be such a horrible little troll.

But still, I love you so much I am too embarrassed to apologise, and I continue to sit there with my arms crossed and my bottom lip out. I won’t even turn my head to face you, but I can see the biscuits laying on the bed between us, as you take up your position next to me, leaning against the brick wall because I’ve got all the pillows and I’m too stubborn and surly to take one. I think I love you more as we sit there, me obstinate and you so calm, a ringmaster waltzing boldly into a lion’s den.

And then without warning, my eyes lap with waves and I’m ready to look at you and say I’m sorry for being such a brat, it’s just that I feel so horrible, and I hate it here sometimes, in this tiny mouse infested apartment, their little droppings sometimes between the sheets of our mattress that lives on the floor. I hate that my tummy hurts, I hate that we don’t have a living room in our flat, that we can’t afford to go to a restaurant. I hate everything as much as I love you.

So you squeeze my hand and you say, I know, and you say we can just watch Paris Hilton’s British Best Friend and you’ll bitch about all the contestants with me and even pretend like you care. I start to cry because you are the best, and I tell you I didn’t mean it, that I love our tiny mouse infested apartment, I love it here, I love it here with you and did I mention that I love you? You say we’re going to miss the start of the program and you smile at me.

We watch Paris Hilton’s British Best Friend and you have an opinion on everything, and we complain about all the contestants like they’re friends we dislike and we’re driving back from a dinner party we just had with them, and we eat the whole packet of biscuits and drink tea until my tummy doesn’t hurt anymore and we’re holding hands. When the show is over, we go to the bathroom together and brush our teeth standing side by side in front of the mirror, like we do every night since we moved here. You poke me with the frothy tip of your brush, I pretend like I think it’s gross because I know you think the face I pull when I do that is cute, and then we have an argument about whether or not we can cross swords and you swear if I sit on the toilet you can aim your wee so it gets right between my legs and none will go on me. And like every night before, and every night after, we don’t cross swords.

Before we go to bed you lay on your tummy with your shirt off and I lay on your back squeezing your blackheads, and we talk about what happened today at work. So I guess love is when we eventually lay together in the darkness, and have our ten minutes of cuddles, then both roll to our own side of the bed because neither of us can sleep while cuddling unless we’re drunk or sad and right now we’re sober and happy. You touch your big toe against mine under the sheets and we fall asleep just like this; far enough apart to fall into dreams, but pressing together regardless.

The Lover | Thought Catalog

The Lover | Thought Catalog.

The lover loves the object. This object can be anything. A pretty girl, an antique book with crumbling binding, even a cat. Anything, really.

The lover pours his love into the object.

The lover has selected the object from the world, but in loving it, he has changed it. By pouring his love into the object, he has changed the object. He has changed the pretty girl, he has changed the cat; he has changed the antique book, with his fingerprints all over the pages, with his annotations in the dusty margins.

He has changed the object and made it mutable.

And by changing it, it is no longer the object that he originally selected. But can he put it back? How can you just put a thing back in the world? …Revolving around senseless streets, he finds the used bookstore where he originally purchased the book. It is still there. He even finds the spot where the book once lay in the shelves — the bookstore is quiet and still; no one even enters it very often. He sees the spot where the book lay on the shelf for years; its image still marked by a reverse pattern of dust, the dust outlining where the book used to be.

…But to just put the book back?

The elderly bookseller peers at him from over the frames of the glasses. What is the lover doing? He looks suspicious, standing there. He has the book in his backpack. But it does not look like he is returning anything. He is standing there, acting secretive and afraid. The bookseller scowls. It does not look like he is returning; he looks like he is stealing. He looks like a criminal, a common thief, standing there in the bookstore for no reason like that.

The lover leaves the store, with this book still in his backpack. He goes back to his apartment, where the girl is, and the cat is. He removes the book from his backpack and puts the book on the table. The girl is there. The cat is there.

He frowns at the book.

Now he realizes this thing that he should have realized all along. He cannot just put the book back, cannot return it to the store. That would be cheating — and anyway, it didn’t look like he was returning; it looked like he was stealing.

Now he realizes this: the book has changed and cannot go back to where it was. Also, he cannot just put the girl back. The girl has changed and cannot go back to where she once was. And also — a terrifying thought — the lover himself cannot go back. He has changed. He cannot go back to where he was before.