Essay on heartbreak: Habibi
Your mouth still tastes like puke. As if the universe wouldn’t grant you closure. As if it wasn’t enough. As if seeing seagulls and craws everywhere you go wasn’t enough. And just like that you are 14 again. Creating playlists to sing to crying. To lie on your bed and stare at the ceiling to. You fall asleep to the Smiths on your disc man. You forgot how pathetic you could become and somehow this makes you laugh about yourself.
Over the best plate of arabic food you will find in the city you try to call home now, you try to push in the nutrients, because earlier that morning you cried, because you felt so weak. Your body is shrinking and while that sparks old shadows in your mind and feeds the joy of shrinking yourself so small that people worry, you try to withhold the sick lust of your long lost disorders. Your favorite place of them all is pretty much your favorite place because of its walnut paste and its down to earth mentality. Not at all pretty, loud and cold – but this one shop has the best food you ever tasted.
You close your eyes and try to taste every bit of it. Every swirl of smoke, every soft brush of sweetness and every sting of acidity. You are asked whether you are alright and without opening your eyes you say: “Yes. Just trying to enjoy it.”
A third way through your plate you are asked, whether she was very upset and hurt and suddenly it is all back. Your stomach gets angry about having food in it and tries to get rid of it. You breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth and you try to say it calm but steady: “Let’s not talk about that, okay, just not now.” But its already too late. You are glad that you could eat most of your favorite cardamom carrots in the world before the giant stone in your stomach returned.
You will go to the cinema and the smell of fresh popcorn will make you sick. In the soft dark and red plush you can cry silently if you want to. Sipping diet coke which is literally hard to swallow. Like a child you will feel angry and misunderstood but now your adulting perspective of reflecting your own doing in this whole disaster destroys your hiding behind childish naivety. This is harder than just finger pointing. Because if you were, you would find yourself shocked in the mirror, looking at your own face, your pointed fingertips just inches away from each other.
You bathe in this feeling, even if it is obviously miserable of you. Sometimes you wonder if people think you’re stupid. As if you didn’t notice how they try to talk comforting and supporting and trying not to stir something up when it is almost unbearably obvious. You are so sad. You don’t want to go to that new city on your own, eight hours of train rides and stares into the grey landscape, a few days lonely in a bed that’s too big. It just hurts you so badly. It hurts so badly. And you don’t even have the right to feel this way.
You don’t want the cut on your finger to heal. You want to be reminded everytime you wash your hands and the water cleans the wound that this was a very happy moment. It will fade. Just like the cut, just like the blood.
You don’t want to wash it off your clothes. They just lay there in the corner of your bathroom. You don’t want to wash it away.
From time to time an old voice comes by like a stranger passerby that you share a glance with and he whispers “maybe this is the proof for what you always seem to find in people” and you end his sentence yourself whispering: they just want your body.
Which is bullshit, you know that. But because of your past and what was done to you, what you did to yourself and what people let happen, old old hands of doubt crawl out of the dark and softly tuck on your shirt and your hair. This is the only thing they see in you, the voices say. Your body. The only thing that makes of your worth.
And softly you start to notice that you make this about yourself. As always. It is always about yourself because the realisation that it is in fact about someone else and their decision against you is not bearable at any point. It is not about yourself. It is about someone else.
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