It’s almost gory to realise that to most people, love or the act of loving and relating is like a living simulation they stick to on many levels. A space that only exists to fulfill their childhood fantasies and a refusal to see reality for what it is. And their lovers? Often, washed off copies of the previous ones.
In this magical way, I have been loved many, many times. And I guess, I still get to be loved that way, because surely I cannot control other people’s feelings toward me. Younger and less experienced, I used to believe I had to play the part. Be what – I believed – the other wanted to see in me. Isn’t that what we are taught? To temporarily repress our own nature, and fool other people into loving us? Aren’t most (contemporary – wasn’t alive before to check) courting occasions in settings where we are not in our usual display and behavior? So I did that. I let myself become a cadaver of my lovers’ projections. I ceased to exist and became a skilled actor in a play where, often, only one protagonist gets to be themselves. I did that until I couldn’t.
The more I grew into my femininity, the less I could bear to play that role. I had, painstakingly, forgiven my parents for being humans and stopped seeing the world as a child. And I took responsibility for my inner world. I rephrased the interpretations that had been frozen in childhood and saw them through the lens of an adult. No matter how shit they were, I couldn’t make the past any different than what it had been. If it sucked then, why would I sadomasochistically recreate it, and now get myself whipped willingly? Realising this, and as by magic, I instantaneously lost all attraction for such types and stopped recruiting actors for my grand play of a fool’s love. When men were now trying to recruit me to their childhood replay, I could see through this, and with trials and tribulations, I have come to a point where I don’t even entertain it, not even for the gratification. There is nothing gratifying in being adulated for something you are not, knowing all too well that this ends in disappointment and severe heartache.
My current strength does not lie in having questionable and porous gates, as I later learned. The perfume I now emanate is perhaps succulent, yet it is terrifying at the same time, and not for all to stomach and wear. And I’ve come to accept and embody this. I have to, because this is my current evolution. And if I don’t, I will definitely regret passing up this season of my life.
Najois 