Love is Helping Someone Set a Boundary

I was watching Melancholia, watching a blue planet expand and consume the cinema screen. It was the end of the world, and all the while I was thinking of Isaac. Less out of melodrama, I hope, than out of boredom; the film was mesmerizingly dull.

And yet I left the cinema with an odd sense of clarity: I’d hurt someone who genuinely cared about me.

“What are the lasting effects?” he’d asked of my past relationship.

I didn’t know, I said, but I’d surely see them triggered in a relationship (or situationship, in our case). And now the verdict is in: trust issues, self-doubt and hypervigilance. The lingering cognitive dissonance of my past relationship was both a blessing and a curse. It had allowed us to truly empathise with one another but, for better or worse, made me pull away. To this day I don’t know if it was intuition or paranoia.

But when I saw the world end in that stuffy, little shoebox of a cinema, I could think only of the flight Isaac never booked, the boardgames we never played, the comedy shows we never saw, and the looks of unspoken but tacit understanding we’d never share again.

Back in Barcelona, I hadn’t allowed myself to dream. I’m not the soppy kind either, so it doesn’t come naturally. Planning our day over coffee was enough, sharing random observations was enough, his silly jokes and puns were enough.

The little things, the quotidian, his company.

But there I was in the aftermath of Melancholia colliding into Earth, the credits rolling, and I dreamt of us playing chess on Sunday mornings, of getting up early and running down to the beach where he would surf, and I would read with a winter jacket and a thermos of coffee – we’d go for a dip together afterwards, and maybe I’d show him the bits I’d highlighted, an essay I’d enjoyed, over tea.

Not that I ever have tea, but these are, after all, just dreams – dreams I’d suppressed back when we were talking. I hadn’t given myself permission to feel even as I developed feelings.

I did feel safe, though; I felt safe until I didn’t.

I felt safe enough to invite him out to Barcelona, to book two nights in an eight-bed dorm, one night in a private room.

“I’ve never done something like this before!” I said, giggling to a couple of guys in the dorm. They seemed excited for me, for this little glimpse of hope. Isaac and I matched in Nice, I’d explained, but he left before we’d had a chance to meet. We’d even been in the same bar on the same night, a few hours apart.

He’d be taking the bunk beneath me, and though it was almost one a.m., I’d done my makeup. I wanted him to like me, but accepted the possibility that he might not; what was more important, I was learning, was whether I liked him.

I did, at first intellectually, and I could be completely myself. I felt safe as soon as I saw him, a looming silhouette in the park; I felt safe when my energy ebbed, and I ran out of things to say; I felt safe proofreading artist statements in galleries; I felt safe in the silence of an open drawing session though I can’t draw; and I felt safe as we fell asleep in the two single beds he’d pushed together, in that dollhouse of a room where he caught moths off the ceiling.

But sharing a bed on our final night together hadn’t allowed for things to progress naturally, and the elephant in the room was branded with a red, hot iron: have sex!

“Are you OK?” he asked between kisses.

I admitted that it felt inorganic. It’s not often that I can untie that knot in my throat (and often I don’t feel I’m allowed to) but I could because it was Isaac; I could because he’d given me a way out as opposed to kissing my taut lips and parting them with an eager tongue. I was accustomed to this latter, to “going through the motions,” and rarely (or perhaps even never) did anyone say anything – I thought they hadn’t known, but they just probably hadn’t cared.

Isaac and I, on the other hand, had already spoken about being intimate when we didn’t want to be, and the accompanying void. Once, when I left a guy’s apartment because I’d changed my mind, Isaac said he was proud of me – something I don’t hear very often.

I’ve long equated my body with my worth, and think I owe men sex for tolerating my company. It horrified me to think Isaac would return home disappointed; he flew all the way to Barcelona, and I hadn’t put out. He was very sweet about it, though, which is when I experienced genuine desire – something uncommon for me after years of desensitisation. I was attracted to him, not only intellectually but also physically. By removing the expectation, I felt safe; I felt like more than just my body. Love, to me, is helping someone set a boundary when they don’t know how to; and Isaac had done just that.

I fell asleep in his arms mid-conversation.

*

“Hope I didn’t snore directly into your face,” I messaged, after we’d both returned home. He was looking up flights to mine and I was composing a list of bars and restaurants, considering the pescatarian options. And in an ideal world, we’d have gone.

You’ll recall that I didn’t give myself permission to feel. That is, until one steamy phone call, after which I couldn’t help it. I was experiencing not only an intellectual connection, but also lust – and this latter was like finding a needle in a haystack. I felt small, enamoured, safe; Isaac could hold space for me which made me disproportionately hopeful.

I felt safe. I felt safe until I didn’t, until I asked that he message earlier. I admitted to feeling dysregulated, and though it’s nobody’s responsibility to regulate my emotions, I thought it was a safe space where I could express a need – something I was learning to do.

When Isaac doubled his response time and left me on read for forty-three hours, I could only interpret it as a test: he was testing my needs, my boundaries, my self-respect. If he brushed over what I said and did the opposite, would I repeat or abandon myself? I couldn’t reconcile the man who read aloud to his mum on road trips with the man who left me hanging when I was brave enough to be vulnerable.

I was convinced he was trying to manipulate me. By requesting a need, I’d revealed a trigger; and he’d pulled it the first chance he got.

We said our goodbyes, but over the next few days, he sent me songs and reels. Sometimes, I think lovers send us stuff knowing we’ll interpret it with our wishful thinking. We’ll seize any lyric that resembles the narrative we crave, the apology we want to hear, the feelings we wish they felt. They needn’t do anything, really; we do it all on their behalf because we want them to do and be who we think they are.

“It’s unfair that I have to interpret your behaviour and verbalise it on your behalf,” I texted. “Does messaging me mean you can meet my needs, or are you hoping you can send me a few songs and I’ll abandon myself?”

The accountability came twenty hours later (which was admittedly a normal timeframe for us, given the length of our texts) and he said all the right things: “I did abandon you when you were vulnerable… it was disrespectful to you… I never want you to ignore or abandon your needs… I’m willing to accept that and change and not allow it to happen again.”

I told him to leave me alone.

Right after admitting to feeling dysregulated, twenty hours were too much for me, and I was too embarrassed to bring it up again. I felt like I’d asked for the moon when all I’d wanted was a text of reassurance, and I was sure he was conditioning me into silence; never again would I request something if this was the aftermath.

But sometimes, I think I wasn’t clear enough. I guess the lesson there, if there’s a lesson anywhere, is to be as clear as possible when expressing a need or boundary. When we allow for ambiguity, it either a) leads to misunderstandings, or b) gives others the chance to feign ignorance. I was sure Isaac was culpable of this latter. It’s insidious, invisible, a gas leak, but I knew it all too well. They ignore your needs, overstep your boundaries, feign confusion and then comfort you, you poor, crazy little thing.

But I recall our conversation about those lasting effects. Isaac would shut down and avoid conflict, he’d said. Maybe he hadn’t meant to hurt me, after all. When we meet others, we don’t know if we’re meeting them after a transformative event. The version of them we meet might be an adult or a toddler, so to speak. I, for example, am a fledgling in this new version of myself. I still colour outside the lines, and I lack the fine motor skills to apply what I’ve learned with precision. I’m yet to grow into these shoes. When meeting other people, it’s important to have this in mind, too, and show some grace. People may still be in the process of assimilating new lessons, torn between an old and new self. And I knew Isaac was in a transformative phase; I knew because he’d told me. But while he was struggling with confrontation, I was learning to say no and choose myself (albeit with a heavy hand).

Besides, there’s more to it than that. How on earth can you date someone you think is trying to trick you? when your nervous system screams that the sky is falling? The last time I ignored my gut, I paid for it – I think I still am. I’d call if it weren’t for the cognitive dissonance, but he’d reframed talking to me as a favour: “I was prepared to help and support you because I know you’ve had a tough time.” It was eerily reminiscent of somewhere I’d been before, and that somewhere was like nothing on Earth.

Then I had that moment of clarity (or delusion – who knows?). But ever since I watched that bloody movie, I’ve been dreaming – the very thing I shouldn’t do. I suppose it’s not the end of the world and Melancholia will pass me by.

But I’m tired. I’m so tired of being strong.

I just wish someone would ask, “Are you OK?”

And I wish I could ask him back.