learningtocount-blog

[learningtocount-blog]

i thought this was a fucking sims screenshot

apparently it's not

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[learningtocount-blog]

Eight

I

Wear

Your

Old

Sweater

Every

Single

Night

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Seven: The Number Of Times You Almost Said The 'L' Word

The first time, the words slip from your lips easily and effortlessly. It feels like breathing, and then it feels like drowning. He doesn't hear, and you whisper silent prayers of thanks to God and every watching deity. He looks at you with furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips when you stop laughing and fall into silence. His smile falters and he asks you if you're okay. You feel your heart skip a beat and you laugh and change the subject; because that's what you're good at, deflecting from the obvious.

That moment falls into a long train of past memories and soon, you almost forget about it. Almost. You don't remember until the next time the words almost spill out of your mouth like verbal diarrhoea. At the last minute you stop yourself. You manage to keep silent. Barely. You haven't even set your bags down when he's there. When he hugs you, you breathe in his scent and commit it to memory. It's freezing and you're completely under-dressed for the weather, but he holds you close and you can stop thinking about how cold it is and instead you focus on how warm he feels against you. The second time you almost tell him, you shove your mouth into the crook of his neck; press your lips against his pulse and let the beat of his heart silence the ever present need to speak. He spends the time whispering how much he missed you. You spend time wishing he'd stop.

The third time it happens, it does not catch you by surprise. It is an innocuous moment when the notion makes you pause. For once the words are not trying to burst from your mouth in agitation. Instead, a thought trickles into the recesses of your subconscious and slowly makes itself more apparent. The rising sun and slowly brightening light outside almost makes it feel like a metaphor for your train of thought. You nudge him with your foot and he wakes up with a start; all tussled hair and sleepy eyes. You have never been happier.

Unlike the others, the fourth time around you are intoxicated beyond belief and, thankfully, both of you are in different cities; separated by an ocean of water and a bottle of wine. You drink too much, party too hard and when you crash and burn, it is on an epic proportion. You lose your phone in the process of the night and somewhere along the way, your mind as well. You think that maybe you should call him, text him, tell him about these words that keep rattling around that pretty little head of yours. You don't. Mainly because you lose phone; but also because our friends refuse to let you drunk dial. The morning after, you spend your waking moment simultaneously cursing and praising heavy alcohol and good friends.

You remember your last date because of a single slip of the tongue. You're heading home, he's holding your hand and when he makes a(nother) stupid joke, you laugh so hard it leaves you breathless. You try to stifle your laughter and as you rush to fill your aching lungs with precious air, the words wheeze down your throat and spring past your lips in a moment of silence. It is the fifth time and it is an accident. He startles at the sound of the words, the gravity of them, and you wave a hand in irritation. You pretend that you are still trying to catch your breath. You carry on the sentence.This is the sixth time and it is not an accident. You tell him that you love his sense of humour, love the way he can make even the simplest thing funny, you love his laugh. You do not tell him the truth because even you can see the palpable relief in his eyes when you laugh and turn away.

When he leaves, he takes a part of you with him. It isn't until a few weeks later that you almost say it for the last time. It's a Wednesday and it's raining.

You find yourself staring at your phone in contemplation. You dial his number twice. Hang up before he picks up, twice. He doesn't call back because this time around, you remember to block your number. You try a final time and hang up when he answers the phone. He sounds happy, fine; he sounds like he's already moved on. You stare at your phone in contemplation and before you can even reconsider you have already texted the words into a blank message addressed to him. You find strength in typing down the words that you have been so afraid to say, to have heard. You save the message into your drafts. You do not send it. 

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Six: The Number Of Minutes It Takes To Realize That It Isn't Real

When you wake up, finally, you are disoriented. Your mind lays elsewhere, riding the high of emotions that has now sent you crash landing back into the land of the living (and the waking), back into this earthly shell that leaves you shackled.

You wake up disoriented. And you hate it.

Your sheets coil around your body and tighten as you struggle within its grasp. This is not where you are supposed to be, that is what your mind whispers at the very edges of consciousness. You remember impressions, clouded visions that create a vague sense of deja vu.

One.

Two.

Three.

You breathe, slowly. Collecting your thoughts, remembering your emotions. Orienting yourself. Re-orienting yourself.

Snippets of the dream begin to stroll back into your field of memory. It is a trickling stream that meanders into your consciousness, slowly but surely. Determined to find their way back.

Four.

There is a rushing in your ears.

Five.

There is a pounding in your head.

Your body acts of its own accord and you find yourself reaching an arm to the space beside you.

The bed is bigger than you remember. The room temperature warmer. The scent is different. It smells like home, but home is not where you belong.

Six.

This is not a dream.

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Five: The Number Of Drinks It Takes To Realize You Cannot Find Solace At The Bottom Of A Bottle

The first drink is smooth; no gagging, no revulsion at the taste. You hate yourself for liking it. Alcohol is not the kind of vice you like indulging in but in light of the circumstances, it is the best you can do at this very moment. You're not the biggest fan of wine but the liquid flows down easily and you find yourself enjoying the bitter after-taste. You think, "I can get over him. I can." You drain the glass easily enough. You hate yourself even more.

The second glass is not so smooth. You find that alcohol is slowly losing it's appeal but you've already come this far, what would be the point in stopping now? You remember, on the outskirts of your mind, that there was something you had been trying to forget. Obviously, you did. "Congratulations!" You think. Perhaps, this will work.

By the time you pour your third drink, you start to get an inkling of a feeling: perhaps this was not the smartest decision you have ever made. As the liquid seeps down your throat you start to realize the taste has become almost rancid. Still, you don't stop. You remember that you are trying to forget. Specifically, you are trying to forget him. You down the third glass in less time than it takes to pour it because you want to go back to 5 minutes ago when you couldn't remember anything.

The fourth drink is the hardest. At the forefront of your mind is the fact that you cannot actually get him out of your mind. It is at this point that you realize that drinking has never solved your problems before; did you honestly think it would help you now? You hate him, and you hate alcohol and at this point in time you hate the entire fucking world.

The fifth drink is not actually a drink. You disregard the glass completely because at this rate you're already fucked. Why not have one last drink? And by 'one last drink' you know you actually mean the rest of the fucking bottle. Your use of cuss words increases exponentially in comparison to how much liquid is left in the bottle. You don't care about that. In fact, you don't care about anything.  At all.

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Four: The Number Of Mistakes You Make Before You Finally Learn Your Lesson

You make your first mistake at 15. You think you're more mature than other girls, smarter than them; you convince yourself that you won't make the same mistakes that they do. Oh sweetheart, how wrong you are. The first boy you fall for is stable, committed, in it for the long haul. The only difference is that your 'long haul' and his 'long haul' differ in more than just meaning. You give more of yourself than you are willing to and when you finally have the courage to walk away (after he breaks your heart and leaves you), you can only thank God that you were smart enough not to hand over your body.

Your second mistake occurs just a few short weeks after the embers of your first mistake flicker into death. To be entirely honest you'd rather just pretend that the whole affair were nothing more than a brief waking nightmare. You learn something important from him though. You learn not to give second chances (because second leads to third and then you wind up as nothing more than a door-mat). You learn to be wary in regards to other girls because even though you yourself have the morals to stay away from boys who have already committed themselves to another, you know that not every girl believes in the same values.

Let's skip ahead a few years, by this time you're 17 and you can't help but think 'By God, I cannot believe I've made it this far without fucking up.' Silly rabbit, you spoke too soon. Mistake number three is different from the others only because it is an error on your part that you make willingly. You think about it logically, practically, think about the consequences and how exactly you will walk away from this. It is the smartest choice you have ever made, and the most idiotic (it varies depending on your mood and how inebriated you happen to be at the time). You learn one of your most important lessons during this time. You learn exactly how to differentiate between Lust and Love, Attraction and Attention. You learn that sometimes, your body is all that anyone might care for. You learn not to take boys at face value. You learn to become whoever you need to be for them: best friend, confidante, partner, mistress.

Unlike the last time, it only takes you a few months before you slip and make your fourth mistake. Unlike the third, it isn't a process that takes a gradual period of time. Instead, it only takes a single second for an epiphany to strike you. It happens when you decide to flip the script and play the player. In the end you get played and aren't you the fool for it? You don't care though, because by the end of it, you walk away the better person. You learn about yourself this time around. You learn exactly the lengths you are willing to go before you feel sick to your soul. You learn where to draw the boundaries and when exactly the exception, and not the rule, should be played.

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Three: The Number Of Days It Takes To Realize That You Are Going To Be Okay

Day One:

At this point, survival does not seem plausible. The very memory of him is still etched into your skin. His nuances, his quirks, every action that defines him is imprinted into your mind; photographically, eidetically. You reminisce and you daydream; life has no meaning and every other aspect of living (work, school, friends, family, eating, breathing), they fall into an eclipsed shade in comparison to the very emptiness you feel without him. Obviously you are one dumb fuck. You can't help it though; (par for the course, you think) feelings have always ruled you in a way that laws and rigidity could only dream of. Logically you are aware that only a few months from now, you'll be over him, in a better place (you know you're lying to yourself, but you like to imagine that you are a strong, independent woman who will just deal).

Day Two:

Misery loves it's company and if you have to be miserable, you will drag down your fellow compatriots because only the strength of human solace can quench the deep revolted loathing that burns in your throat when you hit rock-bottom. You hate him because he can affect you in such a way. You hate yourself; you're such a sucker for love that sometimes you make yourself sick. You hate the world for allowing this and you hate your friends for not noticing. For taking it for granted when you said: I'm over him, obviously. That night you go to sleep wishing for a bottle of wine to keep you company because when it strikes midnight you have an epiphany: You will be alone, forever.

Day Three:

You've started the cycle again. EUS has bled into Apathy and that is exactly where you find yourself when you open your eyes and greet the new world. Life has finally oriented itself and the world is tilting and revolving exactly where you wanted it to. You have your goals: work, school, financial stability. Love will factor in eventually and when you tell this to yourself today, you almost believe it. You tell yourself that the right person will come along at the appropriate time. It's a lie, a fairytale to tide you over because deep down inside you are deathly afraid of dying alone. You can't be bothered caring though; that's the apathy kicking in. You don't care at this point in time. You're sustaining yourself by going through the motions with none of the emotions. Who fucking cares, though? The only thing you're happy about right now is that you managed to wake up not thinking about him; and when you did think about him, the thought of him did not make you want to cry.

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Two: The Number Of Phases In Your Life

Stage One: Emotional Upheaval Sickness

As with everything related to your existence, it starts with beauty. Whether it be life or love the rules are still the same; the only difference, the supporting cast.

It starts with a simple thought that bleeds into joy; happiness that touches the very edges of your survival and makes you believe that this external world is a place more pleasant than the world you live in in your head. It happens logically: You allow the thought to take root and with it so do your feelings.

The symptoms are the same: lack of appetite, lack of sleep, a furious pounding in your heart every time the thought takes corporeal form. Every call, e-mail, message, text, anything at all related to it, drives you over the edge. Makes you want to cry until you bleed.

Stage Two: Complete Apathy

You get to a point where you have to make a decision: 'Hold On' or 'Let Go'. Neither is the right choice (you know that), but you choose to 'Let Go' because you know that it's easier for you in the long run. You don't care that it'll hurt now; you're logical, practical, you know that a few months from now you won't have to hurt like this anymore and that's enough for you.

That's not the whole truth of it however. You also know that you don't want to be the person who over-extends their boundary. You're scared to put that much of yourself out there because you know that you'll get hurt (or at the very least, you convince yourself that you will); so you don't even bother taking the risk (the first time was enough, wasn't it?).

You end up with nothing left to show for it and in it's place a blank wall of indifference festers in the dark, leaking through to the surface only when you are alone and lonely. Your façade is enough to fool the masses during the day but even you know it won't hold forever. You pass off their concern, pretend that everything is fine and that life is exactly how you planned it to be all those months ago. But it isn't, and you're not.

You are dead on the inside and you are perfectly aware that there is no-one to blame on this earth but you. You and your pride, your refusal to chase after exactly what you want. You and your incessant need to be the better person, regardless of who gets hurt in the process.

You know though that this is only an intermission. Soon enough it'll start again. Around and around and around. A never ending circle of EUS and Apathy and EUS and Apathy. An eternal dance that you are none to impressed to be caught between.

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One: The Number Of Times You've Actually Had Your Heart Broken

You start dating at 13. Young start, but there's a difference between going out and putting out. You surprise yourself with how long ou remain chaste. 

So you dated a bit, messed with a few boys heads and even had a few mess with yours. Despite that though, you've never actually had your heart broken. Your past pattern was so predictable it might as well have been set in stone.

Anger following the break-up. A deep set refusal to let him one-up you in the aftermath. Another boy to take his place, to take up your time. A brief period of what you used to consider passable contentment. Another break-up. Another realization that relationships aren't the end all, be all.

Looking back, you realize now how petty you were when it came to matters of the heart. Didn't you always feel the need to be the first one to move on? The first one to prove that you were better off without them?

At 15 though, it becomes different. You want it to be different so badly. You meet someone who you convince yourself might just possibly be the one. It dawns on you, quite quickly though, that you liked the idea of having him around because it meant, then, that you weren't lonely, that you really had no right to be. You grow up that year, learn about life and love, learn that just because you are alone, it does not have to mean that you are lonely.

Skip 6 years later and it feels like you've hit the 'Repeat' button on the playlist of your life. This time though, it might actually be different. This time, you're not trying to convince yourself. 

You meet him on a weekend away. Away from work, away from responsibilites, away from life in general.

The compatibility between you two thrums in the very rawest parts of your being and you think to yourself, "This is what I have been waiting for."

Unfortunately, Life does not have the same ideas.

"We'll always have Paris." is a line that runs through your mind quite often. You hate it. So what if you have it, it will never be enough. You walk away wondering, "What could have been?"