My What-If

You have long been my what-if, and here I sit in tears with a bottle half full and half empty of wine.

“I don’t want to give you false hopes,” you said, finally giving me closure. You don’t want to be with me, and if you did, I probably wouldn’t want to be with you.

It’s your lack of interest, I bet, that makes me want you. Your lack of interest, I bet, that makes me experience what I’ve labelled love – only, it isn’t love. It’s what I grew up with: it’s a craving for validation.

And yet if you were to validate me, I’d probably lose interest.

“I don’t want to give you false hopes,” you said, but, surprisingly, I think I might want you more for having validated all my core beliefs: I am undeserving of love. Maybe I’m a sucker for validation, after all, so long as it corresponds with my self-concept, my borderline subconscious sense of inadequacy – it peers from the shadows like the glistening eye of a monster through one’s wardrobe doors.

A healthy person, surely, would get up and dust off their knees, but I would grovel at your feet if it meant a pat on the head – or, better yet, a tender kick in the ribs.

You have long been my what-if. What if I hadn’t freaked out? What if I hadn’t run away? What if I hadn’t become insecurely attached? What if you had caught that flight? What if we had attended that comedy show? What if we had played that board game? What if we’d fallen in love?

You were my what-if, you were my what-if until you called it quits. Thank goodness, otherwise I would have waited forever, playing match after match of chess. No, dear readers, not metaphorically but literally.

Isaac and I have (or had) played chess for at least six months after our falling out – and, surprisingly, chess has taught me a lot about myself. Chess has taught me about my blind spots, the angles and perspectives I hadn’t considered; chess has taught me empathy for I walk a mile in the opponent’s shoes; chess has taught me that I’m not as smart as I thought I was. There’s so much I don’t see when playing chess – and yet Isaac, he sees everything.

It’s second nature to him, but sometimes I wonder if he’s in my shoes, predicting my next move. I wonder if he sees me beyond the chess pieces, beyond the patterns, the predictability. I wonder if he sees my mind.

Because I see him; I see him in every queen and every castle.

I see him; I see him like I haven’t seen anyone before.

You see, I lack object constancy, so people aren’t real when they aren’t around; but Isaac is. I watch him play chess live, I watch his moves, and I have instant access to his mind. Isaac. He feels real to me. He feels real as he moves a piece. He feels real, in bed somewhere, his phone light illuminating his face, his long, golden fingers tapping the screen – long, golden fingers that once traced my lips. I can’t fathom, even, that once upon a time I fell asleep in his arms.

Isaac had long been my what-if. But maybe I’d romanticised it. Maybe I’d romanticised it because we, as individuals, crave meaning (duh) – is it unliterary to say duh?

And if I’m being honest, I’m mostly empty – I’m a conch shell that howls with the illusion of the sea.

And if Isaac loved me, I wouldn’t love him back – I love anything and everything that confirms my worthlessness. Show me love and I’ll show you the door.

What was the question again? I’m almost out of wine. Gratitude? Right. I’m grateful for Isaac in that he taught me how to feel again. He taught me hope. Sure, it was wasted on him, but I learned how to hope again and isn’t that an accomplishment? I need only redirect that hope elsewhere.

Isaac.

You had long been my what-if.

Maybe because we shared the same language. Maybe because you let me be myself. Maybe because you didn’t particularly like me, not really. I don’t know, God. God, I’m so tired of being unloved. What is love? What is love if it isn’t my ex? What is love if it isn’t you? What is love if I’m here crying completely and utterly alone? What is love if the most affection afforded me is granted by my students?

I am grateful for the woman who is looking after me. The woman who teaches English online. The woman who earns a living by showing an interest in others’ lives. She will never be my what-if. She has long been a constant. And if she ever allows anyone else into her life, they’ll have to make an effort.

No more what-ifs, no more maybes.

I am, I am, I am.

I wish the best for everyone. I wish the best for Isaac. But I also wish he’d realise who I am and what he had: me, Karina, wide-eyed and expectant.

And I don’t know who I’m writing to, because never again will I send you, Isaac, a poorly written email that elicits a sober groan, a shudder, a why the fuck did I send that?

“I don’t want to give you false hopes,” you said, and I’m grateful. I’m grateful you gave me closure, I’m grateful you gave me chess, and I’m grateful the wine has gone straight to my head. Maybe one last text?

“You have long been my what-if.”

And I mean there’s nothing to be ungrateful for – I know my worth. It’s funny, though, it’s funny when others perceive you otherwise. You’re a chewing gum wrapper, you’re a cigarette butt, you’re nothing but breasts and thighs. Or maybe, just maybe, those are my core beliefs speaking again – my head’s so full of them I sometimes think I’m schizophrenic.

My ex, I think, was only with me for the sex, but Isaac, Isaac made me feel comfortable. I didn’t have to put out. God, he was gorgeous, minus that infantile Velcro wallet and creased Matisse T-shirt – the dancers were on surfboards. I liked him anyway, but it seems that I am inherently unlikeable – to Isaac, at least. God, sometimes I wish I were dead. It’s so embarrassing to be me.