possibilist fanfiction—21. give the bruises out like gifts. also currently: queer & post-colonial theory, extra dry decaf skim cappuccino, good rosé wine, mason jars, callused knuckles, all of the quiet ghosts in bloom. (& quinn fabray.)
well that’s probably not true. I mean romantic love is tricky & complicated always, too, & I’ve never had someone romantically love me without platonically loving me too so.
yeah I just think there’s so much love & I’m not a huge fan of trying to parse out every kind but. life is big & people are messy but I don’t buy people not falling in love with other people.
it’s been confusing & immense & hurtful & sustaining, & I didn’t have the best sorta love when I was small. sometimes I’m convinced of a zero sum or something to that effect, but in the past few years I’ve gotten to experience more love—the good & bad—than most people do in their whole lives.
I’ve always, always adored Izzie. probably bc in real life she’s quite a bit the opposite of me, & those happy cheery characters with so much underlying depth are some of my favorites to get to see. bc really, most of my fucked up shit is out there with people who know me, & I get quiet & very fucked up at times, & I love how much Izzie has lost & how she’s still fiercely & so stupidly determined to see the world brightly.
plus—smart & attractive (& a pretty healthy body type, all things considered) blondes subverting gender roles with feminine feminism? hell yes.
oh. well. i met abbigail last summer at berekely & we fell in a very intense & gorgeous & lovely & confusing sort of love so
rn she’s just. my evidence of little fates. we’re seeing other people & we’re both poets & i don;t think we could ever actually end up together like married yay white picket fence shit
but in some ways she’ll always be one of my soul mates so yeah. we adore one another. ineffably. so yep
yesterday, in a conversation with my mother—who for all intents & purposes is what anyone might consider the epitome of a classic WASP (conservative, Lutheran, doctor, blonde, upper middle class, winter house in Aspen)—she said that “life is a test.”
& today i spoke to a girl i have loved for over a year, someone who walked into this berkeley fog at the same time as i did more than twelve months ago, full of her own aches & breaks & scars, & i asked her to hold me & i held her back as well as i knew how to—& we spoke about the ineffable existence in the absence of a god.
many postmodernists, & certainly, their predecessors, are concerned with the void of nihilism. but i think in some soft, sacred moments, abbigial & i got to learn the infinity of nihilism: here are the hydrangeas that i meant to signify your bruises, look at these blooms, i will love you more with every morning.
her intense overachieving has always reminded me so much of myself but then at the same time she’s still lovely & tender & I am so glad for (WoC, especially yeah!) characters like her
oh goodness. Cristina maybe? Izzie, Meredith, Callie, Arizona, Bailey? they’re all fabulous.
but yeah. the incredible woman of Cristina Yang may forever just slightly win my heart.
god I had such rad convos with Abbigail today
& I’m rewatching grey’s anatomy
& I am having so so so many faberry & so so many life feels
i’m definitely probably not the very best person to ask about this, bc i very much am in alignment with winterson’s
'You’ll get over it…' It’s the clichés that cause the trouble. To lose someone you love is to alter your life for ever. You don’t get over it because ‘it” is the person you loved. The pain stops, there are new people, but the gap never closes. How could it? The particularness of someone who mattered enough to grieve over is not made anodyne by death. This hole in my heart is in the shape of you and no-one else can fit it. Why would I want them to?
but. in my experience, i haven’t really let go of a past relationship as much as i’ve allowed it to change, with the people i really fell in love with. & i do have relationships with them, ones that are different & closer & farther away all at once. with abbigail, we’re in a constant state of learning with one another—what we need, when we need it, how much the other person can give.
but i’d say the biggest things for me were communication & then just time. which doesn’t heal all wounds or anything, not in the slightest. i think they scar over & with the right communication you can sometimes prevent them from being ripped open all over again. but yeah, i had to take time & space & fall in love with other people & things & moments. life keeps getting bigger, & love expands so incredibly, & i think letting those organically happen is probably the best way to move forward.
but i don’t know if we ever really let go entirely. i think we all move forward, none of us are going back, & the important people stay. or they come back. & you have to put your own health first but at the end of the day: cry to sam smith, take long showers, drink terrible wine & good vodka, kiss someone you shouldn’t, fuck someone safe while you’re drunk, fuck someone safe while you’re sober. sit in the forest or on the beach or in the middle of the city & listen to andreas wolter & just watch the world explode into minute profound ineffables, put on sunglasses & cry in the middle of the grocers when you see their favorite food, smoke a cigarette & remember how they used to taste, sleep in, get up early & see the sunrise by yourself, get caught in the rain.
live grandly, fall in love over & again with salt of the earth kindness. forgive.
aw well. thank you. it’s funny bc I often get asked by friends if hearing reassurances helps dysmorphia, & ofc to a degree, it doesn’t—that’s sort of what dysmorphia entails, right?—but then I have fleeting moments of clarity where I do remember those reassurances so.
this is my worst injury so other than being super super sore lol i’m okay
i’m sure i’ll be feeling it terribly in the next few days but no real injuries :)(also beautiful—I don’t know about that)