Enlarged automotive dictionary with slightly less fines
by Anna Atsu
He wasn't a calculation, as naturally none of the men in my life were. But clearly, as small as I am, I stood much taller than him in every possible sense.
I chuckled to myself while writing the poem about him because his story resonates in so many different ways in a completely different chapter of my life. A new friend, a prince, a Kinyarwanda poet, a photographer of inkas and elaborated hairstyles, recommending new music for chilling out, asked me why I am not including his memory in my memoir. I answered truthfully and sincerely that I am only going to include good people there, so I prefer to consign him to history, read by a much smaller audience. Therefore, I am doing it now before my audience grows significantly. Let me continue with my story:
He had a truly Russian-sounding name, the same as the name of an ex of my caring, faithful, and patient friend—a painter’s lover and nail artist with no empathy for individuals who find their "way up to the surface" with any hyper-intellectual solution… I'll explain the concept later.
Yes, so you want the name… Take a breath...
Four very handsome letters, the first one, commanding for titles, is the 9th letter of the alphabet… Hold your breath as I'll reveal the last letter at the very end of the story.
It was a fast drive, no hands-on included—only deep kisses leading to nothing more than a breakdown.
So, what was he like? Naturally handsome, with Spanish raven-black hair, and cute freckles on his boyish, tanned face. The only white boy I ever kissed. The most elaborate kisser in his category. He was a walking passion with not as much intellect, hardly passing his GCSEs and literally and figuratively losing his mind in the first year of economic studies. His mind was distorted, very… bringing me deep down into his dark raven world.
What did I like about him? His company when he was in a romantic mood. I loved horse riding, and his family owned several lands with beautiful mares grazing on the pastures.
He led the brown mares with big black eyes while I was on top, admiring endless poppy fields set around the land peninsula.
He also took me for extremely fast rides. It was a thrill to be moved at such speed. It wasn't romantic, just extreme, like the whole relationship.
But he was romantic in good phases. Never in the car. We spent hours in a bubbly jacuzzi by the swimming pool, where after my 50 lengths, he patiently let me swim while he watched, my long body moving swiftly like a green frog across the immensely long pool.
He would stare at my blue eyes covered by wet hair and make me laugh, softly talking about his mom and harshly about his furious father. I befriended his half-sisters from various relationships his father had—some pink intelligent ones and some the same pinky-clothed dump ones, depending on the mother, I suppose.
His mom was a midwife, whose contraception knowledge I didn't need for another four years after I finally broke up with her son. I read her professional medical books about birth with deep interest as there was a point in my life when I desired to be a gynaecologist. (For other desired professions, you'll need to wait for my memoir…)
I adored her beauty. She was toxically dependent on his father, whom she divorced but continued to live with.
He was very successful at breaking hearts. Before I managed to free myself from his strong embrace, he even managed to slip a ring on my finger.
It was a diamond passed down by his grandmother "for a girl he was to be madly in love with"… so he was, mad, and in love with me, a naive romantic blond like all his previous girlfriends. But he painted me in the darkest shade of blond possible. All those relationships must have been short episodes, as no sane girl would last until the final imprisonment of such a character.
I tried to free myself many times, but I kept coming back, driven by his promises of change and sweet words accompanied by the sweets we ate together in tones. These words would turn sharp the next minute, like blades he used in the past on his wrists. Logically, I knew he was "no good," but the force of attraction was ever stronger.
Finally, though, not by my own strength but thanks to the words that saved me many times, I suppose, I freed myself. It was a text message intended for someone else but ended up with the most frequent recipient of my messages at that time. Note that it was a long time ago, and you could not "unsend" a message once sent. Here I was, freed, albeit wishfully and not courageously, by words.
The ring would return to him intact. He insisted on keeping it, even if only to monetise it to pay off his sins. I sent it back after enough brainwashing with a letter quoting some books about manipulation. All the numerous photographs of us and horses I placed on the car hatch when I knew he was parked nearby visiting his aunt. He suggested burning them.
I don't burn photographs…
I cut them into pieces.
Hold on, Anna, why this story? Cutting, self-harm? You don't need to prove to anyone that you are a romantic soul, liking all kinds of flowers and loving with passion.
No, I don't.
My perspective is that memories hold significant value and shouldn't be shunned. Contrary to causing disturbance or harm, they actually offer valuable insights.
As someone who opposes self-harm, I believe that each memory is akin to a piece of a puzzle, contributing to our personal growth.
Like learning to ride a horse, they propel us forward on a journey away from the sources of pain, towards freedom from detrimental dependencies.
Memories can be bittersweet, especially when revisiting the positive aspects.
It's essential not to attempt to erase them from our minds, as this often leads to their resurfacing in unexpected and distressing ways. Societal norms often discourage open discussion about our failures, emotions, and desires, fostering a culture of silence.
This silence can lead to feelings of insult and result in burying memories deep within ourselves.
However, burying memories only intensifies their impact, causing internal turmoil and distorting our perceptions.
Instead, it's crucial to reflect on these memories and share them openly to extract valuable lessons and promote personal growth.
Now I need to take you underwater…
But why again, Anna? You already asked to dive, didn’t you?
No, I did not ask you to dive. I asked you to hold your breath. And how long were you able to hold your breath?
You are not holding your breath for so long. It is impossible. You did not listen, otherwise, you would be already dead. And that’s the right thing to do. You don’t follow anyone to your detriment.
So, let me now tell you exactly what I mean so you can understand the concept of "clearly sinking drinking." You see, I've spent most of the long summers of my youth around or in the lake. I swim mostly in pools all year long, but only the lake deep enough can explain what I mean.
Middle of a lake. You don’t do it when you are alone. Someone you trust needs to be swimming around, just in case. You don’t need to say what you are doing, but if you were to do it for too long, they will know…
First, you close your eyes and you float, you enjoy the fullness of your breath keeping you on the surface of the water.
Then, you hold another breath and you sink. No equipment. Only the resilience of your lungs… You let go and…
… you sink, deeper and deeper, as deep as you can…
You like the feeling, you don’t let your mind waste any energy, and you let yourself be taken as deep as you can until the moment you open your eyes and you can’t hold it any longer, this is when you rapidly start moving your feet and as rapidly as you can, you make your way to the surface.
This might mean you get some water through your teeth as you blurt out with a grimace on your face. You might be sinking, you might be drinking, but you are not drowning. You are getting yourself to a safe place and the surface of the water is just that place that allows you to stay safe, to stay alive.
In the same way, you might allow yourself to immerse yourself in a relationship, let yourself just feel the lack of control and pleasure to be taken deep. But the moment you can’t breathe is the moment you must immediately start taking yourself out of the depth. If you can still do it by yourself because you have not drunk too much water, you do it with your own strength.
If you spent there longer that you should have, you might need the hand of someone who can help you to get out quicker as you do not have then time to waste. You must not drown.
So what do you say, Anna? Therapist?
I've made the best friendship with one psychiatrist back then being attached to the BMW driver. The doctor was the only one so far where I was the only one in a disturbed seat and the only one I'd been driven to by my mom. Okay! He drove me once or twice, but then he also sat there, after me, of course.
Convalescing was rapid compared to the eternal distance I wanted to keep from that man. Chill pills prescribed were more for a haze than for lifting anything. I wasn't an over-thinker back then; clearly, I was rather falling asleep everywhere, at work, even when driving in a parking lot, trying to drive away from work with my mom's car. The fact that he was a fast driver and a mechanic didn’t add to my driving skills. With buckets of rainwater distorting my vision, I was driving myself in a well-known direction of self-destruction.
OK, it might be helpful when you are young and inexperienced… But when you are fully grown up?
People will call you stupid, sick, distorted, delusional, insane…
You only need to grow enough to not care what others say — I say to you.
Hey, Anna, that's a lesson on its own…
And who told you that I will be serving you only one lesson at a time?
I will not discuss titles. I will only repeat what I've heard from all public figures and private friends: "You will only regret not starting earlier".
Any contacts to share? I have a whole list of reputable therapists and another list of psychologist friends, mostly with degrees in psychology. Language? Not an issue, you name it, they are there. Distance? All online… We usually forge friendships on holidays. The last one was a couple of therapists met in Turkey a year ago. Lovely people I can share.
No pressure to feel like in a therapist's room…
Whom I recommend?
I wouldn't tell you. I know them as friends. The bigger problem is if they will find room for you. They already serve some tall figures!
I am here for a tall purpose:
Dear friend. We all long for connections… Indeed. "We're all hungry—for approval, attention, affection". We often look where it is impossible to get them…
What’s the whole point of relationships?
To build. They need to build us, not destroy. They can challenge us. They should challenge us:
to change,
to improve,
to work on love,
possibly everlasting.
But if once we realise, hot-hearted and cool-headed, that the direction is impossible and self-destructive, we must divert and simply start a long process of healing. No one has told you? I am trying in some of my "all over the place" posts. I am a disorganised romantic spirit, lovingly doing everything I can not to hate numbers for what they do to me, not a well-calculated accountant.
You are cool and organized—good for you. I will try to learn from you how to be cool. To become organised? You can't change one's nature. You can only make progress. Not everyone had a chance to be born in a selection of royal charter, where all the calories are beautifully calculated and served as synchronised dishes.
We are all on different chapters of learning how to eat well and wisely choose our restaurants. And that's OK! Accept where you are, and don't feel bad that for several reasons you should be more advanced in your journey. Forget about the number of chapter you are in. I told you that I prefer savoury dishes over sweets…
Thinking about numbers will make you feel bad. Don't feel bad that your love skills are unrehearsed and lacking grace. You might never learn to dance… but you should be making progress…
This is my generous takeaway for today. I hope it is not too difficult to digest… if so, you are the right person in the right place… You are brave! You are beautiful! You are smart!
Take care of yourself!
Be courageous!
Face yourself!
PS: I won't be delving into my past by opting for BMWs; they're simply too low for my liking. I prefer taller vehicles; I'm not one for bending. However, what I will take away from this experience is a return to horse riding, an activity I had closely associated with the blue car driver.
While reflecting on this memory over the weekend, I also realised that this early encounter with "love" left me with another lingering association I've been trying to evade…
…the ring. It's a somewhat revolutionary realisation, considering I subconsciously ordered one a couple of months ago from the only trusted kissing jeweller in his category. His grandmother didn't have a cherished ring to pass on to a “madly in-love girl”...
It'll arrive from a distant country of his ancestors in the coming months. Whether it's made of platinum, iron, black diamond, or lemongrass, I have faith that it will be the right one.
As for hugs, I readily share them with anyone seeking a comforting embrace, akin to a mummy's warmth, allowing me to feel like a newborn baby.
So, my dear friend, don't deprive yourself of enjoying things you love simply because they're associated with people or memories you'd rather distance yourself from. Embrace the objects and hobbies you enjoy without fear that they'll tether you to past mistakes. The past is behind you; you're moving in a different direction!
The last letter was "R," reminiscent of the roaring BMW engine he cared for more than my sanity. I wasn’t careful. He wasn’t truly caring.
“R” - like remember…
Remember when to drive forward and when to Reverse
so that you don’t need to get injured…
Loved it! Thx