About passion

I never understood passion until I had children. I thought that I just couldn't feel it; that I was iceblooded and could not be moved much, because I always felt detached and mechanical when I had sex, and I thought that was the only place you could really have passion (it never occurred to me that I was just bad at it--now I am content to recognise that I am doing it wrong and probably always will). I have never really had anything I lost myself in. Always there was some part of me observing, taking notes almost. I might get carried away singing at the football, but I'd need to have way too many drinks to get to the place where that was possible.

But I love my son passionately, and it has nothing to do with sex, of course. I see him lying in his bed, his face beautiful and calm in sleep, and I want to sacrifice everything so that he can remain untroubled. I do not just resent people who want to do him harm; I resent the notion that anyone could want to do him harm, that there ever should be anyone who would want to. I used to believe I was a pacifist, that I would never kill a person no matter how I was provoked, but now I know I am not. I would not kill or die for my country, but for my son, I would not even blink.

That seems overdramatic, but isn't that what passion is? It's whatever can make you fierce, whatever can make you lift yourself above the grind, the shit job you are making of your life, the sweet notes that rise above the noise. I am blessed that I learned that I too could find those notes, in fleeting moments, when I see him sleeping and I think, god I love him, and I know that the capacity to love is what has made being human, having this life, worthwhile.

About Zenella

i love her, i love her so much that even if i had words, i would not have words enough. I love her so much that there is part of me that only exists to love her. I have a part so empty and unreal that only she makes it real. I love her so much I cry because I cannot hold her.

My daughter, my heart, my beating heart, I love you so much I don't even have words, I don't even have feelings, I do not know how you express it, I do not know, I only have tears, my beautiful daughter, I am so sorry I could not be your father, I am so sorry, I am sorry, I will be sorry forever, I love you.

Missing

I do not think that missing one dose of tryptophan makes me susceptible to depression, but I do think realising I have breaks the placebo element of it.

So I negotiated a difficult conversation that shouldn't have been difficult but left me wondering where I stand, and I reached for the fortitude, the resilience I've built, so that I could just not care. But it was lacking and I knew that that was because I knew I had missed my tryptophan last night.

It is like a pit opens up and I have no idea what should be filling it. When I feel loved, I know it isn't there. But sometimes I feel like I cannot be loved, because there is no me for them to find.

I know we are empty, confused by the echoes in the space within us into thinking that we can be filled. I know that but I can't stop wanting to be complete.

***

Sometimes I wish I had a friend to tell me, don't be so emo. And then I realise that I am that friend. The world can be dishonest and brutal, and I can be too, but I don't need to be dishonest or brutal with myself. I can hold myself tightly and cease to be anything but the flickers of light that you see in the broken pieces of me that we are pretending is a man.