We are collectively opposed to saying what we mean.
From the shy to the abrasive, the confident to the timid and the insecure to the secure, we all stand united under the life-sucking fear of losing face. Call it Britishness! Call it propriety! Call it self-protection! Call it whatever helps you to keep quiet – because underneath the grayscale sensibilities of what one should do, we all know that it’s a curse to keep your feelings to yourself.
And yet, these realms of hoarding our affections feels like home. We have been societally raised to tread cautiously through our relationships, navigating love with wall-up connections, minimal vulnerability and hearts placed far from our sleeves. It’s a mighty effort to shield ourselves from hurt, sure, but the beauty of our humanness once again subverts logic as we perpetually sit with the unexplainable aches of longing for one another.
Who are you thinking about right now?
With the batshit happenings of the past two years, it’s likely that your perspectives have been stretched and the awareness of your own mortality, reawakened. Like speeches at a leaving party, the sound of a worrying diagnosis or the moments before “I do”, mortality is: reality realised, emotive urgency and a reminder that almost everything will come to an end.
Typically, these kinds of realisations are followed by an overwhelming desire for declaration. Which, with its subsequent position of powerlessness, is not a space we often want to put ourselves in. Declarations are uncomfortable, they hold huge uncertainty and they require a relinquishing of the upper hand. They are not wholly selfless, of course, but I wonder if these moments of explosive expression are actually less about us and more about our unbeknownst lovers than we previously realised.
As we swim in the limbotic waters of saying something or holding back, we often default to the “what if?” consequences that could affect number one; will they reciprocate? What will they think of me? What will they do with my vulnerability? What if I’m not enough? Will they care? What will happen afterwards? Will I be rejected? Is it safe? Will this change anything? Could it change everything?
These questions, although valid and inevitably concerning, are the exact obstacles that cause us to turn back. When we give them (read: ourselves) a disproportionate amount of attention in the matter, the pendulum of relationship swings from outpourings of intimacy to lonely withdrawal. Both terrifying, one attempted in love.
The reluctance to sit at the table of vulnerability is understandable when we have been built to fear rejection. But, next to the threats of failing governments, overwhelmed health services and a global pandemic – does it really feel so intimidating? (Don’t answer that).
Besides, once you’ve made your declaration, you can bathe in the seductive discomfort of “what will happen next?”. Hold tight, turn your phone on airplane mode and lose yourself in music that will facilitate the delicious wallowing of your possible, incoming rejection. Either the reply will pleasantly surprise you, or you’ll get to finish said album.
Of course, I know that this is all easier said than done. In fact, thanks to a sickly slice of writer’s block, I haven’t spoken to you since September, when I decided to arrest my iPhone notes on a tipsy tube journey home and make a statement of nonsensical observations before uninvitedly interrupting your inboxes at 1.54am (sorry about that).
Maybe it’s because it’s Valentine’s day, or because I’m writing this in an airport (cue: cinematic Love Actually flashbacks), or because I’m bored of restrictive emotions, or because risk feels appropriate after two years of stillness. Whatever the reason, this urgency to truly say what you mean – in all its rawness – feels like an invitation to finally take hold of.
For romance, for friendship, for family.
For the estranged, for the new-meets, for the familiar.
For the first time, for the thousandth time, for the last time.
Go on, tell someone that you love them.