I'm looking at Beyonce's "Why Don't You Love Me?" and it got me thinking? Why doesn't he love me?
Let's look at this for a minute.
1) I love him. Isn't that something amazing in and of itself? I mean. I love him. How many people on this entire Earth love him? Even including family, I'm going to go out on a limb and say it's the lesser of 20 people. But I suppose that doesn't make me any competition with her. Because she loves him and she's loved him for longer.
2) I like sex. Isn't that what men look for? Maybe I'm a little too horny. If I had it my way, we'd be doing it twice a day every day. And yeah - I get it if you're tired and you have to push me off sometimes. But he seems to genuinely annoyed by it. Which is really ironic because before, when it was just foreplay, he wanted it all the time, and I didn't want it half as much. a) going off of this - apparently I'm pretty good at blowjobs. At the very least the best he's had. I mean. That's gotta count for something too, right?
3) I pay for things. I mean. I'm going broke paying for things. Or my parents are going broke. Let's not go into the ethics of this. I'm a terrible daughter, yes. And yeah, maybe he did pay for that one $40 thing for me. But I was broke and I needed it. And he knows, or he should know that I have spent SO much more on him than $40. If he asks for something, or mentions something that he wants/likes I get it for him.
4) I change for him. I changed a lot of things. I changed what music I listen to, what foods I like to eat, what movies I like to see, I change the way I act, the way I drive. The only thing I haven't been able to do is change the way I drink too much. And that's because that's my only outlet for when I'm very depressed over him.
It's very clear that I'm just sex. A body. A body to use and to have. To toss to the side like a used plaything. Not a thing to love. And I will always be that way. No one will ever find attractive a broken toy. After all we paint happy faces on our dolls, not wretched broken hearts and distorted frowns.
People tell me to fix myself. To make myself attractive. Perhaps I am too lazy too. Perhaps I don't know how. Perhaps I can't. But one thing I know is that I won't. That it will not happen. Because I need someone to fix me. I need someone to take me on as a project. Tell me every day that I'm the loveliest thing even if I'm not. Pull me into their embrace and breathe in my scent, stroke my hair and tell me they love me. Fall to one knee and ask for my hand. Make love to me. Put their hand on my rounded belly and smile up at me in awe. Raise mini genetic distortions of us with me. And sit by my side when they are all gone.
And after all that has happened. I will finally have the courage to look back at him whole. Not pieces of a jigsaw but a whole painting. And I will owe it all to them.
But that is not what will happen.
It will go on like this. Until he decides he doesn't need me anymore. I will be alone again. I will be more broken than I was before. I will fall into a pit of darkness. And maybe a year or two later when I'm about to be fixed... or as fixed as I could possibly be, I will once again fall into the same trap.
This will go on and on, I know. Until one day I will receive an invitation. An invitation to a day that I want to have, but will never be for me. I will make sure I sit in the very back. Near the aisle so that quick escapes can be made. He will greet me with his arm around her. And this time I won't even have a sliver of a right to say no.
And as they're standing up there, looking into each other's eyes, I will start to feel them. The tears. The tears of everything coming back up. And when I hear the words silence will fall inside my mind, and my heart will take control. BUMP BA DUMP. BUMP BA DUMP. All I can hear is the rushing of my blood, air will fill my lungs but I will not be able to breathe. Someone will call my name.
And of course in my idiocy I will knock that wooden chair over. And everyone will turn to stare at me instead of the happy couple. And I will look back in horror through tear stained eyes and I will find him. And the look on his. Oh the look on his face.
The look on his face would kill me. Because there will be nothing in his eyes.
This thing between us has become so twisted and convoluted. And when I look back on this in twenty years, if I look back on this in twenty years, if I'm even here in twenty years, I think that I will have a great urge to slap myself.
The recent To This Day campaign makes me remember. That no matter how much I joke and fake being happy I will never be happy. Even if in that moment that I am smiling I believe I am alright. There is always this underlying terror and horror and despair. The scars made from not being beautiful to my own parents. They run deeper than any blade could ever hope to. I feel alone in this hole. Because everyone else wasn't bullied or hides it too. So yes it has less to do with pain. And more to do with beauty.