Unknown
Below is a piece I wrote all in one sitting earlier this week, when I finally articulated the thoughts that have been swirling around my mind for years, but even moreso lately.
It’s much more prose-y than my normal content on Medium, and it’s likely because I was inspired by a song to which I feel a deep connection. I drew from and used as a sort of template the song “Unknown / Nth” by Hozier, my absolute favorite artist, from his latest album Unreal Unearth.
The lyrics really resonated with me as I have always prioritized being truly understood and seen by my partner in a relationship. And each time I’m sorely disappointed. “To be loved is to be seen,” they say. But I often feel invisible or unseeable.
Although the bridge of the song is heart achingly beautiful, I connected most with the chorus:
It ain’t the being alone
(Sha la la)
It ain’t the empty home, baby
(Sha la la)
You know I’m good on my own
(Sha la la)
Sha la la, baby
You know, it’s more the being unknown
So much of the living, love, is the being unknown
I’ve become accustomed to hyper-independence and I’ve always enjoyed my solitude. I don’t need a partner. But when I find someone I feel a potential connection with, someone who might see me for who I am and understand it, the real pain comes from realizing I was wrong.
This is the type of thing I might keep to myself forever, saved in a notebook under my desk or on a document on my laptop to never see the light of day. But I’m unusually proud of it, and since I talk about desperately wanting to be seen and known, I suppose I should give people a chance.
— —
No other loneliness can compare to the feeling of sharing a bed with someone you’ve known for so long, yet they now feel like a stranger. How is it that I can feel safe enough with someone to uncork the bottle of demons inside me, of the feelings I’m too afraid to approach by myself, but I can be so wrong?
The vulnerability of baring any piece of your mind, heart or soul, no matter how small, is the apex of courage and the height of intimacy. A reaction — or lack of one — to the most genuine and raw elements of myself will immediately determine the course and longevity of that love. There is no rebounding from the stark embarrassment and dejection that comes with your very essence being lost in translation.
And unfortunately, the reactions are typically less than satisfactory. As soon as I reveal a facet of myself that is normally kept in the shadows, it often becomes clear that this person does not understand it and, by extension, me — and more importantly, does not wish to try.
Imagine handing a lover a rose from your garden, which you watered and nurtured with care, only for them to overlook the beauty of the flower because they grabbed it by the stem and were pricked by the thorns. Then imagine licking the blood from their wounds and bandaging them while they disparage your gift.
I gave you this ugly, painful piece of me because it is so dear to me — not because I want to hurt you, but because I hoped perhaps that one person wouldn’t find it so revolting.
And it’s so easy to be fooled. It may be that they interpret my revelations as deceit. These were layers that weren’t visible when we met. But I always declared my intent. I come with warnings.
The real treachery is their declarations of unconditional love; they assure me they are unafraid of these rotting parts of me when they have yet to be confronted by them. People know their limits — they won’t admit to me that my darkness exceeds them. They just hope I never reveal it. They want to enjoy the comfort and gentleness of my love, the passion and fun and sensuality they can extract from the relationship. They use up my goodness before the rotten core reveals itself. And it inevitably does.
My bed is warm enough with just me in it. The discomfort doesn’t stem from solitude. It’s an accumulation of the rejected and returned imperfect gems I pulled out of myself and offered to others in a desperate attempt for validation and connection.
Over and over, I’m fooled. Each underwhelming attempt at impersonal comfort or spark of misguided anger directed toward the unearthed artifacts of my mind erodes my willingness to share them. I stack the stones on the walls around me higher and higher, making it that much more difficult to expose the thorns and thicket.
But I find a way to knock them down every time and do it again. I will continue to lose the misunderstood pieces of myself to a graveyard of lovers. I will be deceived again, because why would I not believe their earnest assurances of acceptance, their pleas for more of me? If someone asks to see all of me, I’ll run out and dig up the buried pieces with no hesitation and hastily brush the dirt off. See, here, look — is it beautiful? Does it deserve to be above ground? Will you treasure it, worship it? Could you at least help me clean it up?
The resounding “no” will echo in my mind and join the chorus of all of the previous voices of rejection, some of which are my own.
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