Thursday, January 25, 2018


and now I taste like all those frozen strawberries
I used to chill your bruising knees

I spent time with my best friend last night, wherein she said sometimes I say things that reek of skinny privilege, like “I look good in everything” when we discussed bridesmaid dresses last week. It’s not like I’m unaware that the fashion industry is completely ridiculous in always sizing down outfits and making more of the smaller sizes so that society is pressured to conform and fit in, I also follow body-positive bloggers and think they are gorgeous whatever size they are, and still, sometimes I say stupid shit like “I look good in everything” and forget to acknowledge that it is because the industry is catered to skinny-ass, curveless people like me.

The Road Less Travelled is indeed my favourite book and one of the things on my bucketlist would be to get everyone I know to read it at least once. There is a section that talks about how love is not a feeling but wilful action, and perhaps 28 is a little late to learn it, perhaps it is just the right time, but every word I read in the book resonates strongly with me.

I have had boyfriends and dates and lovers, for whom I might have had the loving feeling for, and for whom I would have or did make effort to love. I fought fiercely with my family about them, or I reflected upon myself again and again, wondering whether I did something wrong to upset them, or I re-thought my life plan and tried to speed things up to accommodate someone else’s needs, or you get the gist.

With each of these people, I wanted to be loved, and they might have had the loving feeling for me, they may have enjoyed being mutually attracted to me, the endless conversations about TV, or music, or social justice and politics, or cats, or teaching me to drive, or showing me their workplace, or you get the gist. But none of them actually loved me in the sense that they were willing to put in effort into loving me. When love becomes work, none of them wanted it, and according to the book, which I cannot deny, it is because I didn’t put in attention towards myself.

I love people, and I’m always talking about other people, but I haven’t put in the same effort into loving myself and improving myself and making myself the best version of me I can be. People love people who are passionate about things, and it is a weird request to get one man to start loving a girl whose passion has empirically always been other men.

For some reason, yesterday I thought of what my real dad said when I miscarried. He said “I didn’t think you liked kids that much, that always seemed to be Lyssa” and perhaps it was not his intention but what I heard was “you’re better off without it, anyway.” It’s funny how my own parent would assume certain things about me although they had not lived with me and put in no effort into raising me as a person for two entire decades. It is no wonder I don’t know how to choose love for myself, I have not had concrete examples of proper loving relationships from my role models. I am starting from ground zero, but I guess 28 is not too late.