#mayasonvico

I’ve always felt sure that nobody would ever want me.

I felt sure that nobody would want me because I nobody liked me.

I knew that nobody liked me because I overwhelmed them.

I knew that I overwhelmed them because I overwhelmed myself.

Ever since I was a tiny child I’ve felt like I was too turbulent,

too loud,

too big.

I felt like I was taking up too much room.

And, try as I might, I couldn’t contain myself.

I couldn’t help but occupy every silence and fill all the empty spaces.

I couldn’t help but take up all the air in the room until I suffocated everyone around me.

Until it became too much, and they couldn’t cope.

Until they had to leave.

So for years I tried to fold myself into something smaller - to curb my own excesses and to become something more palatable: someone easier to understand, and easier to love.

And, as I always knew would happen, eventually I was too much for you too.

And the longer we were apart the more I imagined who you wished I could be: calmer, quieter, smaller.

I imagined a version of myself who talked less, and exercised more.

A person who would always say the right thing, and never spoke too much.

A person who took up less space and asked for less of your time.

A person who would never laugh too loud or shine too brightly only to end up reflecting badly on you.

I started to think that if I was was quieter, you’d listen to me more.

I started to think that if I was smaller, I’d be easier to handle.

I started to think that maybe if there was less of me, then I would be easier to love,

I read once that you catch more flies with honey, so I chose vinegar every time to ensure I would never end up trapped. I read once that sugar was more addictive than cocaine, so I chose salt and bitterness and told myself I was staying safe. I read once that the most successful predators keep their claws hidden, luring their prey into a false sense of security before going in for the kill. So I surrounded myself with scorpions and snakes and learned to steel myself for the inevitable blow.

And then he came along and he seemed soft and sweet and safe, so I forgot my carefully crafted rules and I let my guard down. It was only once I was trapped that I realised all that sweetness hid a rotten core, and as much as he hurt me I couldn’t seem to give him up. And by the time his claws came out to deliver the final blow I had nowhere to run.

And now all my instincts are telling me that you are different: that your words will not one day turn into weapons to be wielded against me, and your affection is not an affectation to keep me compliant, and I want to believe that this time I’ve got it right.

I read once that you should trust your gut, but mine has proven to be a faulty compass so many times and I am scared of getting lost again. I read once that you should listen to your heart instead of your head, but mine is one break away from shattering and I am scared it won’t be able to be fixed again.

How can you love someone when you barely know them?

The first time he said he was better than you, You smiled. Because he said it was just a joke, And he held your hand and kissed your cheek, and all his friends were laughing. But then he said it a second time. And a third. And this time nobody was there to hear him. And before long you started to think it was true.

How can it be a joke when no-one is laughing?

The first time he said she was beautiful, You agreed. Because he said she wasn’t his type, And he held your hand as he smiled at her, And all your friends were watching. But then he said it a second time. And a third. And praised attributes that you would never have. And before long she became the benchmark by which you were measured.

How could you hope to win when you don’t have the means compete?

The first time he said you were too much, You started to shrink. Because he said you never stoped talking, And you held your tongue and apologised, And all his friends asked if you were okay. But then he said it a second time. And a third. And even when you were silent you took up too much space. And before long you became someone you barely recognised.

How much smaller could you make yourself before you’d start to disappear?

The first time he said he didn’t love you, You were confused. Because he said he’d never hurt you, And he still held your hand and you smiled in public, And your friends thought you were just fine. But then he said it a second time. And a third. And explained exactly why you weren’t worth his affection. And before long you became convinced that you were unlovable.

How could you ever hope to be loved when you don’t even love yourself?

The first time he said it was over, You begged him to stay. Because he said nobody else would want you, And you held out hope and promised to change, And all your friends said you should leave. But then he said it a second time. And a third. And although he didn’t leave, he was never really there. And before long leaving became a threat to keep you compliant.

How come “goodbye” still hurt when he’d been absent for months?

When he said he’d found someone new, You didn’t blame him. Because you always been “too much”, And you held on too tight, And all your friends were far more beautiful. And in your head you heard it a second time, And a third. And his disdain gazed back at you from the mirror, And before long you began to wish you could leave yourself behind as well.

How could you expect anyone to stay when you’ve been wanting to escape yourself all your life?

The first time you said you deserved better, You didn’t believe your own words. Because he said you deserved it, And you held onto his words and heard them before you slept, And all your friends promised that he was wrong. But then you said it a second time, And a third. And treated yourself with more kindness than he ever had, And before long his voice began to fade from your mind.

How can you move on when you refuse to let go?

The first time you said he had broken you, You thought you’d never heal. Because he said that he loved you. And you held on to your anger and swore to never love again, And all your friends said it was time to let go. But then you said it a second time. And a third. And you realised that you didn’t deserve a love that was more cruel than kind, And before long the pain had faded into nothing but an old scar.

This is not just sadness; This is crying behind the wheel on the way to work, and no longer bothering to brush away my tears. This is knowing that he would want me to be happy, but disappointing him yet again, because his vote no longer counts.

This is not just tiredness; This is needing two Nytols to get to sleep, and feeling more and more exhausted every day. This is having nightmares every night, but wishing I could stay asleep, because the world I wake up to feels like a dream.

This is not just comparing myself to him; This is thinking about everything that he planned to achieve, and knowing I can never live up to who he would have been. This is realising I may live twice as long as he did, but feeling like there’s no point, because I will never be half the person he was.

This is not just reckless behaviour; This is speeding up as the lights turn yellow, and hoping for an “accident”, so I can’t be blamed. This is drinking too much and eating too little, but not caring enough to stop, because dying young is in my DNA.

I have a book in which my exes slumber and slither.

A book filled with echoes of past “loves” and past tears.

Testaments to every mistake and heartbreak I survived.

You, my love, are not in there.

I have a book filled with beautiful words.

Words that I imbued with all of my passion, and all of my pain.

Beautiful words I once wielded to weave stories of hideous moments, and unremarkable people.

You, my love, are not in there.

You are not there because, as hard as I have tried, I can’t write you poetry.

As hard as I try, my poet’s brain cannot seem to create for you.

This is not because you don’t inspire me.

It is not because we lack the passion I once felt for those mediocre muses.

It is not because I don’t love you.

(If it were simply a case of love, I would be able to write sonnets and epics -

I would wax lyrical for hours, never resorting stereotypes or cliche.

I would be Shakespeare and Homer reincarnate.)

I can’t write you poetry,

because it is easier to tell tales of the Hurricane Chasers -

those who claimed to love the thrill of the storm, but ran the moment the clear-up began. I

It is easier to tell tales of the Lion Tamers -

those who longed to hear my fearsome roar,

but loathed the subdued whimper that eventually emerged.

It is easier to tell tales of the boys whose sandpaper hands sought to shape me into something smaller,

than to talk of how you are the one man who steadfastly stood alongside me and encouraged me to grow.

I can’t write you poetry, because I was taught that to love meant to be hurt, not to be healed.

Because I believed that love was a battlefield, not a place of peace.

Because I learnt that everyone who loved me leaves.

But you have stayed.

I can’t write you poetry.

But.

If I wrote you a poem, I would write about anchors - steadiness and stability.

I would write about safe havens, and secure bases, and how for once it doesn’t feel scary to feel attached.

I would write about how when the world spins out of control, your eyes are all I need to keep me centred.

I can’t write you poetry.

But.

If I wrote you a poem, I would say that “forever” no longer feels like a lonely life sentence, but a promise.

A blessing.

An adventure.

I can’t write you poetry.

Guidelines for loving someone that death has destroyed.

Part I: The right words.

They did not “slip away”. They have not “passed on”. They have not “gone to a better place”. There is no better place for them than here. Where they belong.   I sure as hell was not careless enough to have “lost” them. They died. Stop seeking to soften the situation with subtle synonyms,   as if the word “death” itself can make the reality worse.

“At least they knew you loved them.” “At least you had them for as long as you did.” “At least it was quick.”   “At least you have so many good memories; memories that will haunt you,   memories that will assail you at random moments, memories that you will come to treasure, and hate, in equal measures.” At least they never have to hurt this much. At least they don’t have to listen as people try to find positives,   to find reasons to be thankful, when nothing about this is good, or fair, or lucky.   When nothing can make the fact they’re dead seem any less horrific.  

You need to know that when I say I am broken I am not being dramatic. I am not being poetic.   When I say I am broken what I mean is:   most nights I am too scared to sleep because I know they will be waiting in my dreams, and I won’t ever want to wake up. What I mean is: sometimes I feel guilty just for breathing, and there’s a crack in my chest that aches even when I am laughing. What I mean is: nothing has tasted sweet since the day that we found out, and I’m scared everything is fading to grey.

Part II: What to do.

Say their name. Say it out loud. Scream each syllable. Say it ten times. Say it softly, like a prayer.   Like it’s something sacred. Say their name until it no longer sounds as though you are speaking about a stranger you are scared will steal me away. 

Ask questions. Ask questions that will make me smile. Ask questions that will make me laugh. Ask even though answering might make me fall apart. Ask until you feel like you know them as well as I did. Ask questions, but never think that knowing the answers is the same as knowing them.

Accept that you don’t need to look after me;   that there are too few of us left as it is, and I could never ask them to carry on without me too. Accept that you can’t cure me;   that sadness isn’t a sickness I will recover from but a chronic condition I am still learning to live with. Accept that you can’t save me;   but that doesn’t mean that I don’t need you.

Part III: What to expect.

There will be days – birthdays, Christmases, anniversaries – where grief is greeted as a familiar face.There will be days for toasts,   for shared memories, for gatherings where the guest of honour is the only one who cannot make it. There will be days when, no matter how much I steel myself for the blow, the shock of how quickly time has passed still stings. There will be moments – a summer evening, a train ride home, a Friday night – where grief appears unannounced. There will be moments for silent tears,   for in-jokes and secrets,   for countless questions that can only be answered by the one who cannot reply. There will be moments when, caught unawares, the full force of all that I no longer have hits like a punch to the gut.

I cannot believe you when you promise to love me forever. I cannot believe that this will all end happily ever after because, after so much sorrow, happiness seems an alien concept. And, anyway, endings are never happy.   I cannot help but count down the days until you are taken from me too. I cannot believe your “forever”,   because sometimes I lie awake, terrified that there’s something about me that makes everyone I love leave. I cannot believe you when you say you’ll love me forever,   because once-upon-a-time they swore that they would never leave me,   and then death turned their promises into lies.