Teach Me How to Have
Lessons in burning candles
I’ve been holding onto this essay for a while. Not in the “it’s been sitting in the drafts pile waiting to be posted” kind of way but in the “I’ve been holding off writing it” kind of way, always finding that I was never the right version of myself to complete it. I figured I had waited too long and was no longer capable of writing what I wanted to say, in fact, I wasn’t even sure what that was anymore.
“I knew who I was this morning, but I've changed a few times since then.” - Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
The worst thing anyone has ever called me was “stagnant.” Fresh college grad, barely twenty-one, and already someone had clocked me as someone who doesn’t go for what they want. I’ve begun to wonder if they were right. My follow-through has always been inconsistent. I write myself in circles and talk myself into staying the same.
Almost two years ago I posed the question, “What happens when you get what you want?” Intuitively, I knew the answer was: you enjoy it. But in practice, I’m not sure I don’t know how not to ruin it. Where is the line? How long can you enjoy something when you’re over-aware of its inevitable expiration? I’ve said I like having the capacity to want, but I’m not sure I’m capable of letting myself have. I’m condemned to suffocate everything. To hold onto one thing do you have to let go of another?
If someone were to ask my favorite song, Taylor Swift’s “betty” would surely make at least my long list—probably something to do with being ghosted peak pandemic by the only person I could maybe get away with calling an ex. Sue me for being obsessed with a song from the male POV declaring, “The only thing I wanna do is make it up to you," and “I don’t know anything but I know I miss you.”
My imagination back then was on the extreme side of overactive; what else is there to do1 during ten days of quarantine with an undeveloped frontal lobe but imagine everything someone could say to you? Despite the fictional James’ apology, there’s a different lyric in the song that has nested in my mind.
“Right now is the last time I can dream about what happens when you see my face again.” - Taylor Swift, betty
Over the past year, something in my brain finally clicked. I had been teetering on the edge of finally being over one of those long-term on-and-off situations. (I will never claim the term situationship, too belittling to the feelings of my Pisces moon.) The final straw was the shared google doc I tried to access only to be met with “File is in owner’s trash.” BRUTAL.
After making a copy before its eventual detonation in his trash bin—everything is keepsake—and probably a solid week of the constant urge to vomit, I began my journey of acceptance. Or more so completed it, with the very freeing conclusion that I actually wanted someone who wanted me back. How revolutionary! Someone who would not only dream about something happening but follow it up with action.
“If he wanted to he would!”
BLAH. BLAH. BLAH.
For the longest time, I’ve avoided real desire, perhaps an attempt to evade the eventual letdown. There’s something so brave about giving up the dream of what might happen to pursue whatever may be in reality. It has always been easier to just fantasize—my parents buy Powerball tickets so that three nights a week they can dream about a different life. Every night I rattle off a prayer that sounds more like a wish list and put myself to sleep with fiction2. What’s it like to not wake up disappointed?
The mental gymnastics it takes to convince myself I can get everything I want while staying the same is exhausting. How many days can I put off choosing myself? I can’t figure out what I’m waiting for. I usually reach a moment where I have to pull the trigger. Something in me goes off and I have to act. I’m not sure how I ever planned a trip to Paris. I lay in bed until I can’t anymore, my body jolting up and needing to move at the speed my mind is thinking, flipping through everything I have to do and all the feelings I’m trying to bury.
It’s been a while since I’ve read the Bible, which is probably obvious by how casually the “c” word3 rolls off my tongue as of late. But this verse has recently resurfaced to the top of my mind.
“I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do but what I hate I do.” - Romans 7:15
I lock myself in a tower, scared for anyone to see me. My roommates try to talk me into going on dates and I give them shitty excuses not to. I don’t wear the new clothes I just bought, pjs being saved for after the “right” shower. The expensive candle sits as decor. All my darlings exist in my notes app. I hold onto things too much, four of pentacles man gripping his coins so tightly. Perfect moments don’t really exist but they still never come. I think about my life in five years and just hope I’m happy.
Desire has felt wrong, always tipped too easily into gluttony, into selfishness. But being content doesn’t really mean not wanting. It doesn't mean holding onto all of your best and losing it to time. Now, I sell myself out for a story. Nothing is sacred. I kill all my darlings. The weight of all my want is crushing me; I’m desperate for a touch on my waist from a man I don’t think could break me.
I need to unclench my jaw. I think the last time I relaxed was when my head was resting on someone else’s chest. I’m not sure I can handle another heartbreak but I also don’t know if I can take any more gentleness. I could cry from a kiss on my neck. My self-rejection is incessant. I’ve always been more comfortable in the state of yearning. My brother once called me delusional; I too often prefer the dream, finding comfort in the possibility. I don’t know how to have. I’m fighting the urge to smother this essay, and there are blood stains on the heels of all my socks.
Again, I’ve found myself seduced by the idea that I could write someone into wanting me. If my charming personality doesn’t do it, surely the “next great American substack piece” will make him fall in love with me! But all I’ve written lately is a series of unanswered texts and three pages of “What the fuck am I doing?” I constantly set myself up for failure and scold myself for everything.
I am running late to myself. So I replay the words “come here” like it’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. Maybe it is. Nothing feels clear, except my want. What a dirty word. I shiver in my sleep—so many rabbits running across my grave. Panic settles in when I consider something that has half a chance. What are my odds this time around?
Order $30 worth of sushi that you can’t taste.
He texts me back AND in a few years, I have a book deal (and financial stability)!
Stylistically I might have preferred to spell out the word.