What is meant for you, will reach you even if it is beneath two mountains.

And what isn’t meant for you, won’t reach you even if it between your two lips.

We, as humans, are never able to truly handle the lack of control that comes with living, with existing. We don’t handle uncertainty well. You get anxious waiting for test results from school or from doctors, we get nervous when we fight with our friends, we get a sick feeling when we don’t know where someone’s head is at.

This quote means a lot to me. I come back to it often, in so many instances. What is meant for you will always reach you, regardless of distance, of circumstance. What is not meant for you will not ever reach you, regardless of how close it is.

I try to remind myself of this. Either your time has come, or it hasn’t yet. You cannot force the time to come any more than you can force the rain to fall, the sun to rise and set, and the moon to appear. There are things that are out of your hands, bound to fate.

But even those things bound to fate don’t come to fruition if you do nothing. Sitting on your hands, and expecting fate to work its part while you kick your feet up does not work, most of the time. Effort has to be there. But when you’ve done all you can, and said your piece, only then you can wait and see what fate brings.

I had such a bad habit of debasing myself, prostrating myself to those who think very little of me to try to force fate’s hand. Fate came to me and told me the truth. You can’t hold things that are not meant for you. It’s impossible.

Again, I come back to my mantra. Someone who truly loves you, will never leave you. What is meant for you, will reach you no matter what.

God could not have made a heart like mine and not made its mate. It would be too cruel.

Is finding someone easy for anyone? I have no idea. I don’t know. Because I look around and I see people who have been together since high school, or even earlier. And then I look another direction, and I see people who date, find someone, then it not working out only a few months in. Lastly, there are those who date casually, and those who don’t date at all.

I don’t know where I fit in that. I hate casual dating. Getting to know someone just for the hell of it isn’t something I do. I want to be with someone, I want to be in love, I want to have one person and be done with it. I crave stability and presence. On top of that, stability is necessary for me to have, as someone with bipolar disorder. For my own safety and sanity, I can’t be so flippant about things. I need order, I need stability, I need routine.

There’s this other quote that goes something like “we contain multitudes.” I’ve always liked that, but I’ve always despised it. We contain multitudes. There are so many different versions of ourselves, but who can love each version? That’s the trick. Finding someone who sees every side of you, who can love every bit of you and not cower away, that is a true test. That’s what makes or breaks it, really.

People don’t like love. They like that flittery flirting feeling. They don’t love love. Love is sacrificial. Love is ferocious. It’s not emotive. Our culture doesn’t love love. It loves the idea of love. It wants the emotion without paying anything for it. It’s ridiculous.

I think the hardest part of human existence is love. How do you know when you’re in love? You just know. The same way you know that you’re sick, the same way you know who your friends are. Sometimes it is unclear, but often you feel it within yourself. It is a physical feeling, really. It always has been.

Years ago, when I was younger and unmedicated or on the wrong medications, I was always searching for something in places where it did not exist. I was addicted to the feeling of things, but only surface level. I wasn’t in tune with myself enough to even know what I deserved in a partner. And I spent years paying for those decisions in trauma. Then years of my life were spent trying to pull myself back together.

Trauma, trauma, trauma. I feel as though that word is always on my lips. But I suppose that it happens, right? When you’ve faced physical and emotional violence from people who were supposed to be safe. Trauma. What an ugly word.

So, you get caught up in the superficialness of things, wear rose-tinted glasses, and suddenly you’ve got years of therapy lined up for you. All because of chasing a feeling that is not sustainable.

Love, real love, is sacrificial, ferocious, but also patient. Real love is kind, real love is without hesitation, real love is cheering each other on, helping through bad days, and enjoying the good together. Love has no ego, it has no pride. I think, if those things are lacking, then maybe that is not love, but just that flittering flirty feeling. But I don’t know. I’m not an expert on love, how can I be?

I’m waiting for you, I’m waiting for the evening calm, I’m waiting for our time, the oblique light, this pause between day and night. Peace will come, surely. But I can imagine no other peace than that of our two bodies bound together, of our gaze given over to each other – I have no other homeland but you.

The more time I spend writing here, the more time I spend thinking, the deeper I fall into pain. What do I do with these feelings, what do I do with these words? What can I say, what can I do? What do I do? What do I do? I repeat it over and over and over again and never come up with an answer.

I sit in the sun, I listen to the birds. My dog sits next to me, maybe she can feel how I suffer. She’s usually more interested in nature outside than sitting with anyone, but she sits with me recently. She comes over, places her nose on my knee, sits next to me and stares up at me. I don’t know what she’s thinking. What does she see when she looks at me? I’m usually never like this. But when I am, I always look for her. I sit with her and she lets my tears coat her fur and she sighs. I like to think of her sighs as understanding. Her telling me that she’s here with me. She doesn’t leave, not until I do. She sits, and waits, and lets me feel and doesn’t expect anything. Her love is the truest form of love, I think. There is nothing like the love of a pet.

I have no homeland. I have no other homeland. I don’t. My homeland is two arms tightly wrapped around me and dark hair and dark eyes and calls me to tell me she wants to see me and I love my homeland and my homeland loves me.

God, it almost feels shameful to write this way, to make it public. To make my pain so public and so anyone can look at it. Why do I do that? Why do I make it so public? It’s who I am. I exist in the open world, I always have. I write, I exist, I live loudly.

My eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears. You are my home, do you not understand?

There is a pit deep in my chest that is so empty, so hollow, that threatens to swallow the rest of me whole. The sun is too bright, everything is too loud, the night isn’t dark enough. I don’t sleep anymore. I haven’t slept much. I can’t find peace in sleep, my dreams become you.

You know those dreams, where you’re running but you’re running in slow motion, or you try to scream but your voice does not work? This is the waking world. My voice is hoarse and I can’t speak anymore, I can’t find the words, and so I repeat myself over and over again. Repetition is soothing, but it’s also damning at the same time. What do I do what do I do what do I do what do I do can someone just tell me what to do take this from me I don’t want to feel it anymore I don’t want to feel any of it just take it from me I just need help. Is there not someone on this god forsaken planet that can fix that? Is there no way to fix it? How do I get rid of it? I want to sponge it from myself, I want to take a knife and plunge it into my chest, open myself up, and scoop out all the hurt. Throw it into the yard and feed it to the vultures. As long as it leaves me, I’d do anything. I’ll stitch myself back up with my own hands, and somehow, that would hurt less than this.

I haven’t had a true homeland or home, and not until recently. Safety has never been mine, and finally I found safety. But oftentimes, it comes too late. Or, it fades then returns again. Just let it return.

When they say that everything is written,

I pray that your name is written next to mine.

I don’t know what else to say.