There is something masochistic about indulging in an act that could kill you, for a moment of pleasure. I scolded a friend who had a scare with poppers. I warned my friend who was struggling with the idea of leaving her husband but loved the lifestyle he could afford them. I recited to myself as I dug my nails into my thigh waiting desperately for my anxiety to release me so that I could continue up the walkway to my office. There was no orgasm waiting for me. No sweet and sensual respite from death. No happily ever after family, house, and dog with perfect Christmas Card photos. No fulfillment or appreciation of me, the real me, the whole of me. If that’s not self harm, I thought, I don’t know what is.
If I need to be numb to accommodate you, perhaps I am missing the point? Perhaps you were never meant to be an experience for me. Maybe I am sugar-coating shit to make a placebo more palatable? Because that’s the thing with poppers, husbands and shitty jobs…they just delay the inevitable. What is meant to be will be. Forcing your will on the universe never ends well. It never lasts and life always finds a way to course correct towards the truth. The reality, different for each one of us and somehow also not.
And you know the truth by the way it feels.
She will hum the same tune your heart sings, he will laugh at the same quirky scenes in movies. It will feel like home and someplace altogether new at the same time. It will feel surreal and like the answer to a million unspoken prayers. You’ll know because you’ll be anything but numb. To hell with tempting death and shitty husbands and jobs that squeeze the joy out of my day. I want the stuff that makes me feel alive.