At home, I have a husband.
Sometimes that’s all I think of him as. He’s nameless, faceless, no more than a rigid mannequin whose arms are loops for me to tangle mine around – handlebars to which I cling in order to anchor myself to the life I’m supposed to have. When I’m shivering in the early morning, hunched over the sink with droplets rolling down my face, I sometimes remove the golden collar from my finger and lift it to align with my gaze. It was supposed to be a portal. My wedding ring was supposed to be the doorway to a better, calmer life.
But it wasn’t.
My husband is a nice person. He is. I’m lucky to have him – that’s what I’ve worked out – because he is kind and considerate and gentle and has eyes that echo the colour of forget-me-nots and a wild, untameable thatch of dark hair that I’m supposed to be able to lose myself in. He’s meant to be my world, as beautiful as sunsets, tropical flowers and tides that tug away at sandy bays, and as exciting as new cultures, season finales and world exploration.
My other half.
If there’s anything I’ve gathered from life, it’s that human beings are generally thought of as two-piece jigsaws. We’re born as halves, and not truly completed until we find our other one, until our corners are neat and clipped and packed away into suburban lifestyles filled with mortgages and duos of children. And we’re supposed to like that.
My mother was always trying to complete my jigsaw. She never minded throughout my childhood, in which I spent my time creating adventures and worlds into which I invited anybody who I could persuade. It was when I grew older, and when all of my friends started dreaming about boys and girls and I started dreaming about travelling the world instead.
At first she was scared that I longed for the 'wrong' kind of half: one that was the same shape as me – a girl. But that wasn’t true. I didn’t want a girl, a boy, or anything in between.
I didn’t want anyone.
It wasn't something I understood it at the time, nor did anybody else. I just thought that I was wrong, that a fundamental part of me was backwards or deformed. All of my friends were attaching themselves to others and they did little but speak of how wonderful it was. Soul mates. Completion. Things that I did not want but was told I needed.
So I thought of them like injections. Much like pain, love wasn’t something I desired, but if I accepted it then it would do me good.
And here I am, a wife with a handpicked husband and a stomach that swells over my waistband, the weight carrying with it a feeling of imprisonment and dread. Looking in the mirror on those cold mornings is what exposes everything to me; the injections were poison, and I am bearing the scars.
It’s only now, far too late, that I realise that some halves don’t need to be neat and whole. Some of us are collages, not jigsaws, and instead we like to fill the spaces inside of us with scraps of experiences and activities outside of other people. Now my edges are pushed back and confined, held in place by a kindly man who I never wanted to intertwine with, and yet once upon a time all I wished for was to spill out into the world, to expand myself by way of mountain climbing, food tasting, friend-making and an infinity of other possibilities and hopes. I didn’t need a wedding ring. I didn’t need to pass on new versions of myself. I needed only to be as widespread and uneven as life itself.
Do not be afraid to have jagged edges. Do not be like me.
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Author's Note: This was supposed to be an important message about how difficult it can be to live in a world that thinks happiness relies on love, marriage and having a family when you personally don't want involvement in any of that. All reviews and critiques will be appreciated, because I'm not sure that this is as effective as I'd like it to be.
(By the way, this is not my own personal viewpoint. I'm merely trying to represent those who don't need love but are made to feel they are nothing without it).
Points: 561
Reviews: 476
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