Welcome Home

It recently occurred to me that I’d been hiding aspects of myself, undoubtedly from others but more alarmingly from me. I'd been doing this for some time now – at first to cope, then as a way of life. I’d put the bits of myself that I wasn’t comfortable with into a box under my bed. And before long the box was out of sight and out of mind. But something prompted me to revisit the box a couple of weeks back and what I found baffled me. Its contents – opinions that I no longer agree with, distant memories, old feelings and the 1.0 version of myself – felt so foreign, as if they belonged to another person.

We are taught since young to shape our own identity to appear rock solid. That means without cracks or inconsistencies, as though we’ve been those people our whole lives. Almost like that Michelangelo quote, "every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it." So here comes my conundrum: what do I do with the aspects of myself that I have outgrown?

In a society that seems determined to sand off all the nuances and complexities of emotional maturation, rewriting the past to align with our today rather than owning up and broadcasting it seems like the norm. It’s tempting to flatten ourselves into uncomplicated characters – sweet or malicious, fun or dull, feminine or masculine, intelligent or dumb – because everything is so much more palatable within the safe confines of a label.

But we are more than that. We are confounded and enlightened. Driven and conflicted. Confident and self-conscious. There’s a quote by Sri Nisargatta Maharaj that goes “Wisdom is knowing I am nothing, Love is knowing I am everything, and between the two my life moves.” Now is when I would break into a philosophical rant about nonduality but I don’t know enough so I can’t.

However, I will say this: some days we are good, some days we are bad. Everyone has good days and bad days. We are all inconsistent. That is life. And it is important to taste the bitterness of life to truly appreciate its sweetness. Because sometimes we need to know darkness to understand that there is always a road to healing and hope and light. Turning a blind eye to the sad parts of ourselves is like turning a cold shoulder to someone because of their struggles – don't do it! An enchantress could turn you into a beast! (Did you learn nothing from Disney?!)

Maybe if we let each other be more inconsistent, we’d feel less contempt about our own inconsistencies. I’m extremely fortunate to have a family who loves me unconditionally, on my good days and on my bad days – despite my inconsistencies and I dare say because of my inconsistencies. (JK! Luv ya fam.) In doing so, they have encouraged me to love myself unconditionally too – the good and the bad. I now understand myself as someone who fumbles, someone who is not always strong, someone who doesn’t know what comes next. And I love that person anyway. Everyday I am learning to treat myself with kindness and respect even when I muck up, and to give that same kind of love to other people so that they don’t have to be good all the time.

In an attempt to normalize the messy but necessary pilgrimage we must all embark on to find the better versions of ourselves, I implore you to click through my archive of inferior and even cringe-worthy stories – great material for public fodder. At this point, I honestly don’t know which is more horrifying: knowing only my face but not my story or knowing only my story but not my face. You tell me. All I know is accepting and embracing the good and the bad of my past – my journey – is the first step towards being authentically me and living a life in accordance to that.

The Intense Person

Whenever I would get dumped in the past, my girlfriends would console me by telling me that I am a “very intense person” who can sometimes be “too much for other people.” Although these words always came from a place of love, I would take it to mean that there was something wrong with me, that it was my own damn fault that I was cut loose. Was I too much? Was I not good enough?

Unfortunately, what I inferred was that if I wanted my heart to stop breaking over and over again, I had to stop caring so much, stop being so incredibly invested in everything. I needed to pretend to be more sophisticated and world-weary than I actually was. Because that’s how I was going to get over it, rise above it, become unconcerned and unaffected by it.

I tried this pose for some time, but it was too much work trying to appear detached and apathetic. And what’s the fucking point of it, really? What’s the point of imitating a rock? Of suppressing my most human impulses and desires to turn into a slab of ham? I ached for a wilder, more colourful life. So instead of trying to hide how deeply I cared, I tried to be open about it.

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I have been in a wonderful relationship these last couple of months. He is warm and funny and has shown me the joy of being completely open and vulnerable to another human being, and that it is precious to be someone with a boundless ability to care, to love, to feel, to create. And yet, it is hard.

There are moments I want to rip open my chest and hand him my heart. And then there are moments I am overcome by the urge to crush his skull against a wall. People tell me that this is normal, that it’s the ones dearest to us that show us our demons because they are able to press just the right buttons and bring to surface our unresolved issues. Love is a grand magnifier and the right relationship will encourage us to address our fears and insecurities head on and work on them.

In our earlier days together, whenever it felt as though the world was spinning off its axis, I would freak out and completely shut down. These days, I try to stay vulnerable to what’s happening because what I’m realizing is that whenever I feel like crushing his head against the wall, that’s me protecting myself from feeling how deeply I care about and depend on him. That’s just me realizing I’m way more invested than what I am usually comfortable with. Essentially, that’s me wanting to bash my own head against the wall, for exposing the tenderest parts of my soul and trusting someone enough that I could be destroyed by it.

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When we are young, it’s difficult to understand that caring too much is not a weakness, but a form of power. Sure, it means that sometimes we make mountains out of molehills. But it also means that we can feel big feelings, create works of art from thin air, and milk sublime moments out of the void. It is not a weakness, as much as it is not a problem, as long as we don’t turn it into a problem for other people.

We are all works-in-progress. After 24 trips around the sun, I finally recognize the merits of self-compassion but haven’t yet figured out how to be kind to myself on a day-to-day basis. As a start, I have banned myself from asking people, “Am I too much? Am I not good enough?” Over the years I have learnt not to present my anxiety and overactive brain as obvious liabilities. Even I am not allowed to ask myself such questions because I am only hurting myself when I do. As long as I was questioning my value, I was never going to be able to see the gifts that go along with being a very intense, anxious, emotional person.

Instead of asking questions, I decided to make statements. I tell myself that I am good and worthy. Even on my worst days, I am still good and worthy. I say it out loud, which I know sounds dorky. But dorkiness is emancipation.

People will love you, but no one will save you. Because nobody can save you from yourself. You have to save yourself. You have to decide that you are enough. You have to decide that sometimes you have more inside of yourself than you know what to do with. Seeking reassurance and approval is like begging for a fix. Don’t make it a habit. It’s lazy. It treats the symptoms but not the cause. Instead, learn to address and soothe feelings of self-doubt and distress on your own. Stop fighting yourself, day in and day out. It’s time to enjoy the way you are right now.

The Stars

I have been trying to figure out what I want to say about the year and it bothers me that I’m having such a difficult time just sitting down to write a little something something. Didn’t I use to write ten posts a day about my personal life for, like, two years? WHERE IS THAT PERSON??

Anyway, I don’t want to brag but this year I really stunned myself with what I am capable of. My life has improved 100% ever since I started being selfish. I’d always thought of ‘selfish’ as a dirty word, but during the months I was attempting to rationalize my abortion, I found myself thinking, “so, I am selfish. Is that such a bad thing?” Especially when all it really means is that I take care of myself before I try to take care of anyone else.

I never really honed the habit of taking care of myself, I think, because of the strength of my support system. Although that is a bullshit excuse, it freed me up to tend to other people instead of taking care of myself. However, we cannot expect daddy and mummy to look out for us forever, so now I am trying to shift the focus back to ME ME ME and tend to my own needs before anything else. This new desire to take care of myself is a significant turning point because prior to this, I’d never made a conscious effort to do so.

After having the abortion I took a long hard look at myself and realized I was broken. This revelation annoyed and frustrated me at first. To clarify: having an abortion did not break me. It just slowed me down and brought to my attention that I was putting myself in painful situations repeatedly. Broken people hurt themselves and sometimes use other people to do it. Are you broken?

It’s one thing to know how low you are, but another to climb out from it. For a long time, I did not know what to do with my brokenness. I visited a handful of psychics and spiritual guides because, duh. I wanted to find out if I would be broke’d forever and what I’d name my sons I’ve yet to conceive. I wanted to see my past life and try to make sense of today. I wanted to see into my future and get some measure of control over my destiny. I had to commune with the other side. What is it like over there? Is it sunny or is it cold?

It took me some time to understand that broken people still thrive and love and feel joy and do many splendid things. In fact, almost everyone is broken in one way or another. It’s perfectly ok to be weak, to be fragile, to surrender. And the moment I accepted this, I started protecting and caring for myself the way one would protect and care for a broken thing. And eventually I didn’t feel quite as terrible anymore.

Today, I am conscious of who I am as a person and aware of what my needs are, and just as importantly, what they aren’t. This knowledge empowers me to defend who I am and preserve what I need. It also means that I potentially have the power to hurt – kill, even – but that is an unintentional part of the process of becoming me, becoming whole.

When you are selfish, you give yourself the opportunity to grow. It is healthy to be selfish, it is magical to align your mind, body, and soul. To decide for yourself that you want to spend the day exploring nature, napping all afternoon, or partying till dawn. When you do something that you truly want to do – free of distractions, fears, inhibitions, regrets – you allow yourself to be fed and to grow.

It is essential to recognize from the outset that traumas and misfortunes are, most fundamentally horrible, tragic, grievous; they are not to be hankered after. The point is not to welcome disasters; they do not create wonders, but they are one avenue through which gifts arrive. I am never thankful for the heartache, but always thankful for the opportunity to build a paradise in hell. Not only do I feel more accountable and responsible for my own feelings and actions, but it is such a liberation knowing that nobody can make me feel or do anything I do not wish to. As we all know, it takes a certain darkness to see the stars. So if/when you find yourself in some darkness, remember to keep your eye on the stars.

The Biggest Weirdo

This story about coming to terms with the fact that I am a dysfunctional moron who has been doing it all wrong is a clichéd narrative but a potent one. I’d fallen in love so many times that I was beginning to suspect that I was not falling in love at all, but doing something much more ordinary: falling. Just falling.

My epiphany relies on a logic so foreign, I still feel a little bit disoriented. Taking a deep dive into my shadow was no stroll in the park but seems to always unearth gold. It’s scary to think how little I understood about what drove my attachments and motivated my relationships prior to this. And even scarier to discover how much I’d underestimated the effect we can have on another human being.

The question of how and more importantly why there are such great discrepancies in the way we see, experience and respond to the world and each other continues to plague me. I’d always had a vague awareness that I was doing it a little funny – seeing things from a very skewed perspective, rushing through experiences without being fully present or engaged, and reacting in very bizarre and extreme ways.

In my quest for answers, I’ve turned to Math equations, theories on personality types, our own self-perception, and even ideas about reincarnation. My tired mind insists that it’s outlandish for a person to have his or her paradigm shaken and reframed twice daily, but it’s been said in the bible that there is no rest for the wicked so we trudged on. And slowly but surely, the pieces seem to be coming together.

In an effort to not be dramatic, I will be frank: Ainsworth and Bowlby’s Attachment Theory is a long but worthwhile read, particularly if you find yourself unable to connect with other human beings in a healthy and balanced way.

The longing for emotional connectedness is the most powerful drive in each and every one of us. It’s a survival drive, a primary instinct, and a basic human need. No man is an island and a stable, loving relationship is rumoured to be the absolute cornerstone of human happiness, personal fulfillment, and general well-being.

Our interaction with others is an intricate dance of connection and disconnection, wired in our brains to be recognized as safety and danger. Our brain interprets disconnection from those we depend on as a threat, and the ways in which we deal with these moments of distress are governed by our attachment style, which according to the theory is shaped by the bond we shared with our first caregiver.

Even though I’d been blessed with what could only be described as a blissful and easy childhood, I’ve still somehow managed to blossom into a full-fledged weirdo, prone – desperate, even – to forming fantasy bonds instead of developing truly intimate and trusting relationships.

Perhaps the endless teasing about being picked up from the dustbin or being called an ‘accident baby’ gave me the absurd idea of overcompensating as a means to prove my worth. Perhaps having been made the butt of one too many jokes laid the groundwork for a lifetime of idealizing others while belittling myself. What I’m learning is that my tendency to give too much of myself, which I’d always thought of as pretty darn noble, comes from a dark, dark place of unworthiness and a desire to please others for validation.

But wait, there’s more. Such as my need for constant touch and reassurance, my preoccupation with monitoring my partner’s emotions and jumping to catastrophic conclusions the moment I sense a change, my immense fear of losing the attention or affection of my partner, blah blah blah. I’m just a weirdo, basically.

N-E-way, I’m struggling to ignore my bleak reality now that it’s become apparent.

Some days I’m convinced that it’s too difficult, that I’m doomed to grow old with nine cats and then be buried with only forgetfulness when I die. But other days I feel inspired and determined to process and unlearn my fears – of being unworthy, of rejection, of abandonment – despite how deep they may seem to run. The more I grow, the smaller everything and everyone else seems.

The Teachers

I used to think the concepts of reincarnation and soul contracts were a load of horseshit, in so many words. But the more I reflect on everything and everyone I’ve encountered throughout my life, I can’t help but embrace the idea of past lives and sense of a higher purpose.

I’ve been tripping on stairs a lot lately, both figuratively and literally, and it very much feels like I’m just going in circles, as though life has got me chasing my own tail. So after a gentle nudging from my father who threw a chair across our living room as he shouted, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE?” I’ve been thinking a lot about what the hell it is I’m doing – and what the hell it is I’m meant to be doing.

The eternal question springs up again: What is the purpose of life? I don’t know, but let’s assume (we’ll be asses together) that we are all here to learn. From my understanding, we each have one primary life lesson and several secondary life lessons. Thankfully, we don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out what our deeply personal life lesson is. The universe has a pretty sick sense of humour and what I’ve observed is that whenever there’s something to be learnt, something that needs working on, the same situation will relentlessly present itself until I either learn my lesson or at least find a healthy way of dealing with the issue.

We seem to naturally attract and choose experiences that help us to grow. Truth: Our primary life lesson affects the events that show up during the course of our lifetime. The universe doesn’t ask us to head out in search of lessons. All it really asks of us is to tune out the white noise and be still, be alert, be open.

Borrowing the words of Chuck Palahniuk, “what we call chaos is just patterns we haven’t recognized. What we call random is just patterns we can’t decipher.” Paying heed to our feelings and trusting our intuition is essential to the process of identifying our patterns, which eventually lead us to our lessons. Whether it's a lesson in humility or a lesson in gratitude, it definitely helps to be aware of what our lesson is because it is only in knowing, can we consciously bring more of that energy into what we do and how we behave, which will subsequently make living our life easier.

Even though this goes against what I was brought up to believe, I think our soul decides which weakness it is ready to work on, which negative pattern it is ready to transform and then chooses the circumstances to be born into in order to learn that. And before we incarnate, we make agreements with other souls to meet in this lifetime to help and support each other on our journey.

“Cya at Nando's for dinner tonight,” said his soul to mine. Whether it’s pure luck or mere coincidence – or in recent times, good ol’ Internet algorithms – that brings you to me/me to you, I’ve likened this phenomenon to the ancient saying that goes ‘when the student is ready, the teacher will appear.’

Sometimes people are sent into our life to help us manifest our own intentions, bringing with them information, resources, and support. Or to simply be a match for our intentions themselves, which inspires and influences us, provides us an example and role model to follow, ultimately revealing another layer of ourselves to us, helping us to grow.

Other times our paths cross because we have unfinished business with each other to tend to. Upon first meeting, the person will seem familiar, as though we’ve known them all our life – chances are we have known them all our life, in a previous life. These karmic relationships are usually fraught with complexities because of the baggage we carry, and often push us through what we previously perceived to be our limits. They test our extremes so we are compelled to search for our true meaning and purpose.

It could be about healing past issues and then building something in this present lifetime together, or about healing and then moving on and finally letting this person go. But once we complete our cycle of karmic connections, we stop attracting repetitive lessons and gain an awareness and a profound sense of what it is we want and need in our life.

The thing about soul contracts is that they are neither our destiny nor our fate. They are simply our past being presented to us over and over again until we learn what it is that we need to learn and are willing to make the right decisions for a balanced, healthy and meaningful future.

2016 was going to be the year I finally erected that wall around myself, which I’ve witnessed so many others put up in the name of self-preservation. This was going to be the year I knew better. But as luck would have it, just as it was decided that those foolish days of letting people in heedlessly – without hesitation, without question, without defenses – were over, my paths crossed with a man who’d gone through his life keeping all but a couple of people at arm’s length. And almost at once I knew that I wasn’t going to be breaking any patterns or learning any lessons by shrinking my heart two sizes smaller.

Still, I found myself stuck between a rock and a hard place. As it happens, it’s nearly impossible to have a worthwhile relationship with someone who guards his or her heart like the gold in Fort Knox and puts you down in subtle, creepy ways. And perhaps the worst thing about it is honestly believing that you can change them.

So this is my pattern – running into unavailable people. Since we’re working on the presumption that people are our mirrors, wherein what we see in others is a reflection of ourselves, that could only mean one thing. Yup, you guessed it.

There’s been a remarkable amount of self-awareness on display over the last couple of months, especially so from two seemingly unavailable people. But it occurred to us that if we had any kind of shot of making this a purposeful endeavor, we really had to confront our issues.

Watching each other unpack these little tidbits of truth about ourselves has been pretty real. What initially began as an intimate and possibly lustful union has now evolved into a rollercoaster ride with confusion, twists, resentment, frustration, running, hiding, chasing, bewilderment, intensity, contradiction, and depth. But also a promise of healing for us both if we are willing to stay the course and see this through.

Not every one of our close encounters with people will end in happily ever after, and that's ok. Some relationships are just crucial stepping-stones to reach the next stage. But what makes them just as important and worthy of our time, attention, love, and respect is simply the willingness to ask hard questions, to sift through harder answers, to have long conversations, to accept not always knowing the answers, and to ensure that our intentions, actions, emotions are aligned.

At the end of the day, no one really knows why anybody is here anyway. But still, no one belongs here more than you.

The Powerful People

There’s a part of me that feels I shouldn’t be seeing anyone right now, that I’ve lost the capacity and privilege to love and to be loved. But there’s another part of me that thinks the first part of me is really fucking stupid. So here I am once again, memorizing his favourite foods and learning his quirks, while simultaneously uncovering my deepest fears and beliefs about life and growing my awareness about who I am and the barriers that hold me back. Because even after seeing a therapist and doing all the self work I could possibly do on my own person, nothing brings my deep-seated issues to the surface more than being in a relationship and seeing myself through someone else’s eyes.

To my own surprise, I’ve thus far been able to approach this with a clean slate and the vulnerability that every love deserves. And interestingly the thing that sets this experience apart from the others is that the person “who takes what is given, puts it on a fucking pedestal and then worships it for way longer than is necessary or sane” is gone now. After a decade of dating, it’s finally dawned on me that I’ve been really fucking stupid. And by that I mean too fucking generous.

So instead of waiting for someone to put me on a pedestal, I just went and did it myself over the last couple of months. And what I’m beginning to realize is that everyone is slightly taken aback and nobody knows quite what to do with a girl who stands atop a pedestal she’s built with her very own tiny hands. Because in a society that profits from our self-doubt, loving ourselves, praising ourselves, being kind to ourselves, are seen as radical acts of rebellion.

This is especially true for women, who have for centuries downplayed their strengths and successes so as to stick to the status quo, but are now killing it in all aspects of the modern world like never before. The moment we start owning our unconventional beauty, our vehement power and our praiseworthy triumphs, is the moment we start owning ourselves.

And so, without further ado, may I present the modern woman: she doesn’t bother with false modesty, she dares to challenge the boys in charge, she can have sex with the same frivolity as men, she can run a business, she can date other women, she can travel the world, she can raise children while thriving in her career. She doesn’t need anyone’s help or permission crafting her personality. She’s climbed her way up to a glorious point of high self-esteem. She values herself and rightly asks for what she deserves.

This can be intimidating because society knows it can't knock a girl off a pedestal she's built herself. And even if we somehow do, she has the means to build herself a new one. Women who own themselves, who don’t need saving, who know their place should be a win for everyone, but some of us (men particularly) still think of this as a hella threatening zero-sum game. And from my observations, it appears that the more women are able to do for themselves, the less men know what to do with themselves – not their balls though, no confusion there.

While the definition of power remains highly subjective, in my unbiased opinion, I’d finally morphed into a powerful person. To me, knowing who you are and being comfortable with the person you are, is what makes a “powerful person.” This is the kind of power that can’t be taken away from you, because it’s not defined by your looks, your square footage, your fame, or your bank account. People who possess this power know that they have the authority to choose what they want rather than let their lives be dictated by society or some irrational fear. A powerful person can be anybody – a Subway sandwich artist, a stay-at-home mum, a CEO, even someone with the upper body strength of a hamster such as myself. Power certainly doesn’t look the same on everyone, but people can always tell when it’s there.

I wish I’d harnessed this power sooner, especially since I seem to gravitate towards pompous misogynists, but then again I may have very well abused it had I not suffered at its mercy during my earlier days. If anything, this newfound power reassured me that my days of being chewed up and spat out were over. But when I discovered that his witty, self-deprecating humor was just a shtick masking a slew of insecurities, I looked to the heavens and shrieked “FOR FUCK SAKE, WHY GIVE ME THIS POWER AND THEN PUT ME IN A SITUATION WHERE I WON’T BE NEEDING IT?”

Sweet, sweet irony stirkes again.

The Injustice

Having enough kids to form a soccer team is one of my main aspirations in life so I felt conflicted not embracing the opportunity, however surprising and untimely it was. But after pragmatism set in, I was 100% behind my decision – for the most part. My reason was and remains simple: I am not ready. I am not mature or selfless enough to be the mother I want to be. And I have neither the mental nor emotional nor economic resources to raise a child on my own.

Even though I believe that it is our responsibility to protect those who cannot protect themselves, I have always found it odd that we assume a fetus would invariably choose its own life over the life and welfare of its mother and family. Why do we make that assumption? Is such a choice moral? Is it not incumbent on the parent to make the decision for the fetus?

On the other hand, when a soul decides to incarnate, doesn’t it select its parents – or parent – and life circumstances? And when I cross that line and say that I have the right to choose if the human being living in my womb should die, at which point does the value of life begin? When the fetus has fingernails? Right after a child is born? When they are three years old? When they bring home their first A for calculus? I don’t know. And I’ll never know. Life is often about choosing the least of all evils, is it not?

The moment I amped my rationalizations up to a self-serving degree, the paralyzing emotions I’d felt during the initial aftermath began to dissipate. One by one, they left – fear, guilt, denial, anguish – as if to go out for some beer and chicken wings and then never come back. Yet, abortion continues to be a confusing and hellish experience, just not for the reasons I’d foreseen.

What I’m realizing is that society now judges me as a woman who has fallen from grace. It’s as if there’s an unspoken law that women could have the freedom and right to choose their own future, but only on the condition that they are duly ashamed. And what strikes me as particularly unjust is that while I’m obliged to shroud my abortion in private remorse, the man involved has not been made – and will never be made – to feel marked for shame. It irks me that only one party is saddled with the weight of this perverse social contract, wherein abortion is considered a women’s problem, for which women must pay the price.

… Yes. And on Thursdays I sit in the backyard and burn my bras.

Anyway, I’ve always prided myself as someone fairly open about my own person, quirks, defects, blunders and all, of which my abortion is – as I’ve come to understand in the last couple of months – not included. Suddenly I found myself with a new identity, that of a person with something to hide. And I hate it.

The first rule of abortion (for women) is that you don’t talk about your abortion outside of your therapist’s office. And as far as I can tell, this rule applies even to women who are otherwise proud, confident, and pro-choice. They are happy and eager to shout about women’s right to have an abortion — just not their own. And I empathize with them completely.

But storytelling is vital, distinctly so and especially so, when we are told to keep quiet. There aren’t enough honest conversations about the painful and complex curveballs life sometimes throws at us, and it’s essential that we try to change this. Today I write anonymously because my story involves others who don’t necessarily want to be identified, but it's a step nonetheless in the right direction. One day we will all speak freely and put a face to each and every one of these precious stories.

The Pill Plan

My mum has always had a sort of hippie, au naturale approach to health and medicine so I never really had a particular doctor or even clicnic that I would visit regularly growing up. She’d stress the importance of listening to your own body and understanding what it was trying to say by way of green mucus, ulcers, and loose stool. She’d prescribe a warm cup of honey and lemon for a sore throat, a plate of chicken liver after a visit from Aunt Flo, a pot of ginger tea for a tummy upset, and always sleep, sleep, sleep, no matter your ailment.

So, being someone who doesn’t take Panadol or even vitamin capsules, contraceptive pills just wasn’t something I’d ever considered. Hell, there was even once I tried to twerk and then downward dog my way out of taking the morning-after pill until my cousin screamed at me, “are you fucking insane – how does dancing and yoga help in any way? ”

I’d been bleeding for longer than what was healthy, so my gynae prescribed me some contraceptive pills in a bid to curb my bleeding and chill my hormones out. Even though she definitely used more professional medical terms when explaining this to me, I still had some qualms about her decision. And also a lot of faith that my uterus would calm down and cooperate soon.

My options were to either bleed to death or risk nausea, weight gain, and some wicked hot pulsing acne on my chin. So I bled for another week and then had to be given a talking-to by my mum (oh, the irony!) before I eventually took my first pill.

Today I am happy to report that I’m 5 pills away from the end of my first course of Meliane. Apart from the migraines, which feel very much like someone driving an electric drill right through my skull, and my erratic mood swinging like a pendulum defying all laws of Physics, the last couple of weeks have gone by much better than I had anticipated.

I never really took the responsibility of birth control into my own hands because I’m too afraid to stick an IUD up there, the sympto-thermal method seems hella confusing, and as mentioned my impression of the pill up until recently had been ugh. It’s such a silly decision to let the onus fall on the dude, while I just lingered in this kind of in-between place that put me – a perfectly educated kale-eating urban dweller – in a very vulnerable position. As it turns out, pulling out happens to be not that much riskier than using a condom in terms of pregnancy. And is often the preferred method of many other perfectly educated kale-eating urban dwellers. But as it also turns out, guys can be total asshats.

So, really, have your own game plan, girls.

There are plenty of options out there and not every one of them will be equally well-suited to you and your body, so put in the time and effort to figure out what is best. Whichever you choose, it is going to come with some side effects, but the point is to choose something. Have a plan that is NOT Plan B. Prevention is better than cure! Or rather, prevention is better than abortion! Please take my word for it.

Birth control is essential to the liberation and empowerment of women because it allows sex to be almost entirely isolated from child-bearing and reproduction. But only almost. And any woman who is making sex with a man needs to be aware that she is implicitly embracing this risk. It’s really not rocket science and I’m not sure why I never thought of it this way before – probably because it lowers my libido – but even if you take the necessary precautions, there will always be a tiny, tiny, chance that partaking in this act now may mean making a choice between terminating and not terminating a pregnancy further down the road.

Scary, isn’t it?

The Older Folks

Azelia Banks dropped a lot of wild truth in her interview with Playboy magazine last year, which I felt deeply resonated with me. “I love older men. The things in an older man’s house are better – his furniture, even his knives and his pots. And they smell better. Young guys, they may skip a shower and shit like that.” Amen to that. Aside from their high-end kitchenware (be still my heart) and mastery of daily showers (and maybe a deep-seated desire to "live in sin" and piss my parents off), it’s hard to explain my fascination with older men.

I have nothing against guys my age, but my interactions with them over the years have led me to conclude that a lot of them, maturity-wise, are about 11 years old. Most of them still play with action figures when nobody’s looking and spend their time jacking off to images of Heidi Montag. Needless to say, falling in love with the average 23-year-old male is like falling in love with a really sophisticated mandrill – except less exhilarating. And more demeaning. And less fun. And more offensive. And less enlightening. And more repugnant. You get the idea.

Nobody really needs to be told about the allure and fun going out with a significantly older person entails, so I’m just going to jump right into the not-so-fun-stuff a.k.a. the realities that we sometimes blatantly ignore cuz GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN(DS). Amirite?

When I first started involving myself with older men, I was all “age ain’t nothin’ but a number.” But that’s actually not the case, and the fact that I believe this now but rolled my eyes back then proves my point exactly. Hindsight is 20/20.

Whenever I used to plot sticking my tongue into an older person’s mouth, I was inevitably tempted to rationalize the stretch of time between our births by citing the “magic seven” rule, where it’s stated that subtracting seven from my age and then doubling it would give me the socially-acceptable maximum age of anyone I wanted to date. So for the 23-year-old that I was, the upper age limit was 32 (i.e., [23-7] x 2). The other side of the rule defines the minimum age boundary: divide your age by two and then add seven.

But every so often, even after doing the math, I found myself hanging out with a 39-year-old on some weekends because, like pollution, true love knows no boundaries. Also, there’s something incredibly satisfying about responding to your feelings, flipping the bird at societal norms, and letting your inner freak flag fly. In such instances I tried to justify the situation thusly: “Well, my aunt and uncle (or whoever) are sixteen years apart and they’re doing swell, so LET’S GET THIS THANG GOIN’.”

Everyone knows a happy grown-up couple with a significant number of years between them, and even if you don’t, you can always Google George Clooney and Amal Alamuddin and let them be your inspiration. But here’s the catch: They are all adults, in which case, how old they are in relation to their partner matters much less. Time seems to behave in a more bizarre way when we’re younger because everything changes so quickly, and for a young person who hasn’t yet figured out his or her place in this world, every year is a pivotal one.

Anyway, here are some musings I’ve had after charging ahead heedlessly into some May-December romances, that I wish I’d bothered to think through a little more because older men can be complicado.

1.
Love and sex are still the absolute jam whatever your age is, but what I’ve found is that the hot mystery of figuring out how to do them is mostly gone for the older person who has been there and done that a million times over.

It’s nice to be around people who seem to have it all figured out, who are assured of themselves and their interests – a quality that usually increases the longer we hang out on planet Earth – because it’s like finding a cheat sheet to life. But what’s just as nice and actually much more fun is sharing the novelty of things – in bed and in life – with someone who is also just learning about them.

It’s cool to be turning to the person you’re boning for wisdom. But you can also learn stuff from your parents, grandparents, siblings, bosses, the internet, your dog, the bible, your best friend’s mum, and anyone and anywhere else, really.

2.
Having a significantly older partner can severely limit the activities you’re able to enjoy together. Chances are you won’t be able to hang out with each other’s friends without everyone feeling a little awkward, or kiss in public without attracting a handful of side-eyes and potentially the attention of authorities. Also, his head will probably roll if you tried to bring him home to meet your family and I’m quite sure he won’t be appreciative of tequila shots on a Wednesday night.

Basically, the only thing I did regularly with my significantly older partner was watch films in his apartment. And that one weekend we flew to a neighbouring city on impulse. Sounds really spontaneous and romantic, right? UH, NO. Not to be a wet blanket, but flying solo with an older guy who is unbeknown to most of your family and friends is how a lot of murder stories begin. Please be smarter than I was about this very basic tenet of common sense, because everyone loves you just the way you are: alive.

3.
The biggest question you should ask yourself about an older suitor is this: How long before his hairline recedes to the back of his head? Kidding. It is this: Why has he chosen to date me instead of someone his own age? Your natural response might be the one I gave myself, “BECAUSE WE ARE A MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN AND I AM A SPECIAL SNOWFLAKE AND I AM VERY MATURE!!!!” To be fair, this answer is not completely untrue but is probably not the main reason why a grown man might be sniffing around your doorstep.

Far more likely is the fact that a lot of older people seek out much younger booty because they themselves are insecure and feel intimidated by women their own age, who aren’t easily impressed by confetti and dry ice. Some may even be trying to nurse a midlife crisis by way of a naïve twenty-something. (I don’t know – it’s their life!)

Any adult knows that seducing a much younger person – even a smart, willing, self-aware younger person – carries with it a power imbalance that is ripe for exploitation and manipulation. You might feel like you and your older person are emotional equals, but when age and gender differences come into play, they can be leveraged to persuade you into stuff, no matter how self-possessed you are. Unconsciously, you might end up making choices that aren’t in your best interest just to re-establish the pretense that you’re totally mature and that y'alls two are peers.

This is all starting to come across as “A DIRTY OLD MAN STOLE MY YOUTHFUL INNOCENCE,” but that could not be further from the truth. I made my own decisions and actually enjoyed majority of the time I spent dating older dudes. At this point, I think it’s worth mentioning that I’ve been feeling a temporary distrust in humanity of late and a vague but omnipresent suspicion that everyone is out to hurt me, which I’m attributing to the hormone pills I’m currently taking on my gynae’s orders.

There are plenty of loving, mutually respectful relationships between people born decades apart. And not every one of these affairs is going to end up a daytime soapie about forbidden love, social taboo, and sexual corruption; sometimes it really is just about two people with many years between them who really like and respect each other. It’s totally workable, as long as you remember: Lolita is not a love story. OK? All right, now run along. Don't be afraid to try everything once. Or twice. Or however many times till you figure out what works and what does not work for you. As always, be safe and enjoy the high-end kitchenware, ya lil minxes.

The Irony of Life

You guys are fucking awful, really. Just fucking awful. Google Analytics tells me you’ve been lurking on here, just waiting to read about which one of my fingers I’ve cut off in an attempt to assauge my guilt. I knew I was going to be underestimated by everyone, so – surprise! I still have all my fingers. And toes. In fact, I even went on a date last weekend, which I’d like to think of as an act of stoicism, not wanting an abortion to interrupt my life, to show off that my existence though irrevocably changed by it, was not arrested by it.

LOOK. AT. ME. NOTHING. WRONG. AT. ALL. HAHAHA. HA. HA. HA.

I don’t know if I’d take a bulimic to a buffet on the way home from rehab but I figured it’s probably different with abortion, right? The idea was to normalize my days, so I tried. But my dad was flummoxed and seemed certain that I would return home preggos again. Lol. A girl can’t get pregnant from sharing a pizza with a boy. Wait – can she??

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m still basking in the afterglow of flushing my embryonic baby down the toilet last December. And in this time, my mind has become a sort of battleground. Most days I feel like everything and nothing at once, and I’m certain that there’s a hole in the middle of me that every happy thing falls into. It seems crazy and dangerous that nobody has put me in a straitjacket (read: chastity belt) or confiscated my computer yet.

I usually have to put a little distance between myself and the past before I can really understand it – and I use the term “understand” loosely, the way you’d call the 10 steps between your couch and fridge “exercise.” So I rang in the New Year thinking “not this year,” because time heals all wounds, and 2020 seems perfect for processing that sort of thing, and ignorance is bliss – and admittedly, so is denial. But then I had this other thought one day – not an original thought, but it’s better than no thought at all: If there’s just one thing I know to be beautiful and true about life, it’s that it is nothing more than a colourful parade to the grave. JK. It’s that if you aren’t honest with yourself – cuttingly, painfully honest – life can’t be honest with you. And so of my infantile experience thus far of life after an abortion, I have this to say:

Every morning, my mum asks me how I feel and I say, “I won’t be home for dinner this evening,” which is an answer to a question I wasn’t asked. So she asks again. “Stop it,” I snap back with a mouthful of warm porridge.

Emotionally, my anxiety made me brittle and easy to anger. Physically, seven continuous weeks of bleeding had taken its toll on me and if I appeared to be very selective about how I expended my energy, it’s because I was and I still am.

I felt myself retreating from the world like a slow-motion magic trick. Even though everyone reassured me that the passing of time would eventually carry me out of this nightmare towards feelings of joy, I waited many days and had no such feelings.

I used to be horrified by the idea of people telling me what to do or think, but this gesture was something I’d come to greatly appreciate in the last few weeks. And although falling on my own face is nothing new to me, this latest burn ripped my ego apart and shook my sense of self in such a merciless way, I really did not know what to do but to do absolutely nothing. It made the most sense to stop being an active participant in my own life, to become a passive observer instead, after the colossal mess I’d created for myself with my own hands. I had almost no desire or confidence to be present or engaged, only to be presentational, or to pretend.

As you can imagine, I’m beyond French’d out at this moment. Frenchmen, french toast, french kissing… Say it with me: ugh. But much has to be said about the way the French respond to pain and embrace their pain day after day with uncompromising zest for life and admirable poise. FYI, pain means bread in French in case you had the nerve or cluelessness to miss my clever pun.

Despite how tempting it is to surrender to emptiness, to withdraw into the safety of our shells, and to drift away from anything we’d once called familiar whenever tragedy strikes, it’s so important to remain determined to pull something meaningful out of the abyss of dissonance. “Paris is our capital. We love music, drunkenness, joy. For centuries lovers of death have tried to make us lose life’s flavour. They never succeed,” was what French writer and cartoonist Joann Sfar had to say in wake of the massacre last November.

There’s a good chance going back out into the world to reclaim my identity, to reassert who I am and what I stand for, to take back ownership of my life will at some point – or rather, several points – challenge everything I believe to be true about myself and break my heart into more pieces than it was made of. But that’s not anywhere close to the worst thing that can happen to me. Far worse is living a life motivated by fear and ruled by pride.

So, how do I move forward from here? How will I use myself, everything I’ve been given, to serve that which is greater than myself? The only way I know how to, I guess. I’ll find a man I like a lot and have as much amazing sex as humanly possible – obviously with a condom this time. (I think there’s a saying that goes ‘once bitten… please bite me on my arse again, please’ ????) Then I’ll do it again the next day until my legs are so weak and wobbly I can hardly stand up. I’ll tell him what turns me on and ask him what turns him on. I’ll teach him how to touch me so that I have really good orgasms. We’ll stay up ridiculously late telling each other the long stories of our lives. And then meet for ice cream and walks in the park at spontaneous hours of the afternoon. I’ll buy him my favourite Douglas Coupland book and write him SparkNotes inside in a coded, erotically tender language that only the two of us can decipher. When he says, “You’re so beautiful.” (Oh, and he will.) I won’t blush and say, “Thank you.” I’ll ask, “What makes you think that?” And then watch his face very carefully while he answers. It will be fun and interesting and hot and sweet and bloody terrifying all at the same time.

But this is what we’re here for. It’s what we're meant to do in this colourful parade to the grave we call life. Joie de vivre, it’s such a simple – and, it must be said, fundamentally French – idea. How wonderful it is to be alive and how ironic the medium in which this lesson revealed itself.