A Confessional

I read, “Unless it’s mad, passionate, extraordinary love, it’s a waste of your time. There are too many mediocre things in life; love shouldn’t be one of them.” I watch the finale of How I Met Your Mother again. In the third to last episode, Ted, the show’s protagonist says, “Because love is the best thing we do.” I cry for an hour and a half and I am still sitting in bed with a stuffed red nose.

Because love is the best thing we do. Because love should not be another mediocre part of our lives.

I am half sitting, half laying in bed. I am naked and I have a cup of my favourite peach chamomile tea with honey. I am trying not to cry again. I am not sure why I feel so emotional tonight, but I might cry again.

I went on a date today and it didn’t go so well. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t well. It wasn’t good or passionate or even intriguing. It was so boring and dull. Across from me sat someone who was nice, who was smart and sensible, not unattractive. I will never see him again. I didn’t think he was funny. I didn’t think he was interesting, or fun, or wild. I always thought to myself I needed my men to be reckless. He inspired nothing. There was nothing wrong or different about him, or the situation. He was well and good, but he inspired nothing. It was mediocrity.

The last couple of weeks, I’ve been revisiting older pieces of writing. Vivid writing about old memories, so vivid that the memories soothed by time now come back forcefully. I am thinking about the boy I so innocently liked in my first year. I am thinking about the way we hung out and talked about music and movies and politics. I am thinking about the hours and hours and hours we spent together but never kissed. I am thinking about the way our friends and acquittances always wondered about whether or not we were dating. I am thinking of sweet Dalton and sweet me. I am thinking about Richard, the last guy I really dated - almost two years ago. I am thinking about laying in his bed, over the bar crowds and the screaming party. I am thinking about the way he used to talk to me, the way he used to look at me. I am thinking about the way he once traced my body. I am thinking about the way I thought about how nothing was quite right, but I didn’t want to give up on the comfort of having someone, of being with someone. The hope of someone. And then I think about Phil. I think about Phil and the fucking nightmare of a mess he left me.

My heart is heavy. I am 23 and it feels like I’ve been dragged through the mud too many times. I am 23 and my body deteriorates far more quickly than my age suggests. I am 23 and my heart is shattered, too jagged and confused to know anymore. I am 23 and I’ve never been in a serious relationship. I am 23 and I am still so hopeful but I don’t know how to get the pitter-patter feeling anymore. I don’t know how to feel excited about someone anymore. I am 23 and wondering how to resuscitate myself.

Tonight in between crying and here, I try to find an older couple who used to photograph themselves. They’re gone. Recently, I have a conversation with someone whose photography I have long admired. So much has changed. So many people have left. So many relationships have changed. So many circumstances have changed. Life has changed. The world around us has changed.

I am struggling. I am doing better. I have a bit of a sense of direction again. I am going back to school in the fall, for a path that is a bit clearer than it has been in years. I have a few good friends who are supportive and encouraging and present. I have stopped fucking in an effort to forget or replace. But what has began to feel more solid and smooth, has stripped away the passion I once felt. I have left behind a lot of friends because I didn’t want to explain myself one more time. I have almost stopped dating completely. I don’t feel the same passion or drive towards the arts. I have become complacent and grow more and more tired. I grow less and less inspired by life, and the people and movement around me. I want to resuscitate myself but I do not know how.

I want love. I want good. I want passion and drive and spirit and adventure. I want something that makes me feel alive. I am 23 and I feel like I am wasting away.