Hidden Battle Scars

The wounds take so long to heal.

I thought I was safe, but the tip of the ice berg is just beginning to show.

Because You’re My Woman – Lee Seung Gi

I couldn’t ever date a younger guy. 

Even the guys my age seem to young to me. They still haven’t experienced the world fully, they haven’t worked a nine to 5 job (not like I have either) and they don’t know what it’s like to have to support themselves. I’m saying this about the guys who I currently associate with on a weekly basis, which limits this impression of mine to guys of college age.

After living with my cousin and his family for three months, after hanging out with guys who were easily ten to twelve years older than me, after hooking up with guys five to seven years older than me, I am simply more comfortable with older guys. I feel like I can reveal my innocence, my vulnerability, in their strength and cynicism. They seem more stable, more safe, and less childish. 

Why is it that I don’t treasure innocence and vulnerability in a guy? That innocence that can only come with a first love? Is it because I lost that long ago, became so cynical so young, that I resent their innocence? And yet Istill  subconsciously desire it.

Two of my favorite songs these days are “Because You’re My Woman” by Lee Seung Gi and “Noona (older sister) is so pretty” by Shinee. They’re both about younger guys liking older girls and just the other day, I thought to myself, if anyone ever sang an Lee Seung Gi song to me, I would simply melt. I would probably fall immediately for that guy. Of course, I was picturing Lee Seung Gi, tall, skinny, adorable and awkward, and an amazing voice.

On Thursday, my church friends and I went out to karaoke. Among the friends was a guy (boy?) who, I had just discovered that day, was actually younger than me.  I had been feeling vibes from him for a while, which always made me anticipate meeting him, even though I knew it was just my lust for attention that I was experiencing. Once I knew he was younger though, it kind of killed the vibes.

I sang Lee Seung Gi’s song, because I love that song. And he sang it with me, because he was the only other person who could sing Korean songs. It was alright until he turned and looked at me, singing the line, “Because you’re my woman.”

I laughed it off but now I don’t know what I feel. I’m struggling with a silly crush that threatens to turn dangerously awkward. He’s unsuitable in every way, especially as an unbeliever who is in the journey of seeking God, and most importantly, soon to be an illegal immigrant if he stays in the U.S. past the sixty days after his student visa expires. He smokes and more than likely clubs and drinks as well. Superficially, he’s short, perhaps even two or three inches shorter than me. He is struggling with paying for college and may have to return to Korea to serve his mandatory two years in the military.

Why do I always fall for the ridiculously unsuitable boys/men? I am tired of the Christian answer. I am tired of waiting on God’s will. I am tired of never loving someone suitable, never loving someone who could love me back.

I wish I knew why I sometimes start crying out of nowhere.

I wish I weren’t as jealous as I am.

I wish I were ecstatic to be with you instead of just happy.

I wish I had been able to graduate on time.

I wish I were as brave as I used to be.

I wish you could adore me in the way I deserve to be adored.

I wish I were less emotional.

I wish you were more emotional.

I wish the thought of having to take out more loans for next year didn’t make me want to curl up into a ball and cry.

I wish I were happy.

I wish I were less honest.

I wish someone, anyone would hire me.

I wish I could move home or run away or do something that would make me feel like I was alive again.

I wish you loved me.

I wish I loved you.

I wish I could pretend that it doesn’t hurt when you joke about other girls and I know you’re being serious.

I wish I were badass enough not to care.

Still Waiting On Your Will

I met a guy reccently who is tall, attractive, and personable. I met a guy who I had a stalker crush on all of second year. He invited me to go snowboarding with his friends last weekend and I eagerly accepted, at least for the prospect of fresh powder and a fun time.

But now I’m trying to be resolved in my decision to not see him for the next week. To try not to think about him too much or obsess about him too much because I don’t want to be hurt again. I don’t want to be the one who’s in love with someone who’s just along for the ride.

I want someone real, someone honest, someone committed. And there are so many things wrong with him that I can’t see us staying together.

Plus I’ll be leaving in another 6 months for the UK. I’ll be out of the country for another year, again. I am never in the same place for long enough time to make a relationship worthwhile.

And it hurts that I am still scarred by your words. Why can’t I move on?

Drunk

I went clubbing the other day with some girls I wasn’t terribly close to. I gave my brash and outgoing man-eater side an airing out in the car ride to the club, but for some reason, things were different at the club.

I guess because two of the girls were under 21 so I didn’t want to drink too much in front of them. I didn’t get drunk at all, which is an unusual thing for me. I ended up being the only girl who didn’t dance with anyone, really marking me out as a prude. I was just so uncomfortable dancing with these random strangers. Maybe the fact that it was an 18+ club was why; I couldn’t get past the fact that the guy dry-humping me might be just barely not-jailbait.

At any rate, I knew it was because I wasn’t drunk enough.

Because when I’m drunk, I can pretend that the stranger is you. Even in my subconscious, your face is still there. When I’m drunk, I can pretend it’s you, the last person that I loved.

Fung kuang qu ai. In Chinese, that means love crazily.

I loved you crazily. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. It happened so unwittingly, so fast. I have never changed so much as the result of one person. I say I’m over you but the effects of loving you and being heart-broken because of you are still stamped all over me.

I saw pictures the other day of you with my closest friend in Singapore. Pictures of you and her (with some others) on three different occasions. Why were you there with her and her friends? Why was she there for your 25th birthday dinner? Why didn’t she tell me?

Why do I care anymore?

But it hurts me like crazy to think that you would want to be with her and not with me. It hurts me to think that you might be happy be together.

I want to get drunk this weekend and forget your face, but getting drunk does nothing but leave me another scar from you. Yet another unwitting scar scored by your casual affections and clumsy excuses.

I want to finally forget you. I don’t want to remember you anymore.

My Heart Stops

My heart still stops when I see pictures of the two of us together.

These days, for some reason, my mind keeps wandering back to you. Of your emo boy-band glasses and your smooth voice.

You remembered my birthday. You found me online just to make sure someone wished me a happy birthday when I was so far away from home and family.

I didn’t realise that maybe it wasn’t such a coincidence after all.

I guess you still haven’t forgotten me. I haven’t forgotten you either.

Guardian Angel – Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

Flowers on my birthday.

Text messages when I was lonely.

Lunch dates and dinner dates uncountable.

Sunday morning church together.

All the excuses I made to myself, that you were not my guardian angel.

When it was so obvious, I just ignored the facts.

You played me your favorite song. I said the singer had only selfish love. But maybe mine was still more selfish. Even if it wasn’t quite love.

Sometimes I wonder about how you’re doing these days.

Questions I’ll Never Ask You

I stare straight through you, wishing I had the gift of telepathy.

Are you going to leave me like he did?

Why are you here?

How long are you staying?

What do you see in me?

Is there someone else on your mind? Someone who lit up your world and then burned it to the ground?

Are you as blindsided by all of this as I am?

What is this? Is this dating? Is it hooking up? Is it a path to a relationship? I’m not sure if I know how to do that anymore.

Are you going to mean? Are you going to lie to me?

Am I safe with you?

I want to apologize for my nervous chatter, but instead, I find myself building a persona. I dress differently and I carry myself as if I were some other girl, because it’s too risky to be me. It’s too risky to be real and open and to let you rip my heart out.

Are you the same as me? Do you date more than I do? When was your last relationship? How do you usually do this? I want to tell you everything about my past relationships: how I held onto empty promises for 3 years, how I haven’t been on a real honest-to-goodness date since I was a teenager, how I haven’t kissed anyone for half a year, how I sometimes feel cheated by my body because it portrays a completely false pretense and I am constantly misinterpreted. But instead, I say nothing, feigning the one type of strength that I fail to possess.

But at the end of the night, after you’ve spent hours staring at me, all I want to know is what you see when you look into my eyes. Please, please tell me who I am, because I’m nowhere near to knowing than I was before I went to France and threw away everything that I thought I was.

Russell

As you begin to kiss me, I’m silent for the first time since we’ve met. The minutes steadily tick by as I stare you straight in the eyes, unable to form coherent questions. I try to memorize the texture of your curls, your hairline, your flawless skin, your piercing blue eyes behind thick-framed glasses, your lips that seem too full, the cleft in your chin, the stubble surrounding your mouth. You have an unbelievably quick wit and a good heart, but I can’t manage to see past your veiled eyes.

 

I say nothing, pretending that my heart is impenetrable. I block every thought and emotion but I can feel my precociousness preparing for betrayal.

 

“Who are you?”, I want to ask. “What is this? Are you going to hurt me? How long before I do something that hurts you? How long before you fall for me and I play the same game? How long before I walk away?”

 

At point blank range, I note your every flaw. You have a nervous laugh and your fingers fidget when you speak. You are intelligent but unfocused, smart enough to be nerdy. You are an only child. Your jacket is too big, your slacks are wrinkly, and your shoes don’t match, but your sweater is the exact shade of your ice blue eyes. You are timid and unsure. I can imagine you ever having a secret or surprising someone or taking a transatlantic flight on a whim. I am Natalie Portman to your Zach Braff, which is romantic until you realize that at some point, she must have grown bored of him.

 

When I am in your arms, I stop assessing. You remember everything I have said to you, most of which was said merely in passing; I hope that all of my stories match in spite of my flair for overstatement. I feel your fingers trace my spine, trailing down the crest of my hip. Your palms cover my torso. I can feel your body beginning to shake as sweat beads appear above your lip and below your hairline. I stop short of imagining our bodies as one, writhing and entwining.

 

I don’t know if I’m ready for this and I don’t know if I’m strong enough to say no. I’m not a girl who settles for less than wonderful, but I’m not opposed to occupying myself in the meantime. For now, I’ll stay silent, my doubts the only part of me that run free.

Someday

Maybe someday I’ll treat my feet better and stop wearing high heels. Maybe I’ll stop drinking so much, or stop drinking at all. Maybe I’ll start running and eat better and drink eight glasses of water a day. Maybe I’ll stop staying up so late and I’ll figure out what wakes me up in the middle of the night.

 

Maybe someday I’ll stop falling in love with men who are emotionally dead and genetically programmed to leave me. Maybe I’ll stop giving away my body just so that I feel like someone cares enough to own me. Maybe I’ll learn to expect someone to love me as much as I love myself.

 

Maybe someday I’ll stop watching TV and start reading and knitting and dancing more.

 

Maybe someday I’ll start living up to my potential and I’ll study as much as I should and I’ll be at the top of my class instead of swimming lazily somewhere in the middle. Maybe I’ll admit to myself that I love music more than I love anything else. Maybe I’ll finally meet a musician who doesn’t take himself too seriously and wants to try to save the world with me.

 

Maybe someday I’ll leave all my hurts in the past where they belong. Maybe I’ll reclaim my childhood heroes: Pocahontas and Anne of Green Gables and my mom and any other woman who refused to be anything the world expected her to be.

 

Maybe someday I’ll be as good and pure and daring as I used to be.