by Diana Rusu
I don't really feel like writing, I haven't written in thousands of years and if I catch a word on its way to my fingers, I turn on the police sirens. Wailing. Alarm, alarm. Of course I'm literally shitting myself thinking about the next step. Self confidence has never been my strength.
Ok, maybe not the police sirens, but sometimes I can be like a squealing baby, if something has been triggered, some distant memory, perhaps.
So, I moved country again. I was scared of many things, but changing my life wasn't one of them. In case of a panic attack, I would have been prepared and I was certain I could hold my horses, when the smells around me on the streets of Bucharest took me on a wave of anxiety. I am home again; and it was all too intimate. My brain refused to speak the language.
"Today, intimacy is INTO-ME-SEE"*
With so many options and not enough guidelines, how do we know that we found the one?, I'm hearing *Esther Perel talking through the screen of my computer. Of course, it made me think, was it London? Was it Cluj? Is it any other city in the world? - I had no idea. But then, whenever I had the slightest doubt, I also realized that this wasn't an experiment. There isn't another person with whom I could write the apartment newspaper, invent a story that would last nine years and still be as exciting as it was in the beginning, sing out loud or plan our holidays for when we're 88.
"Fake news isn’t just for politics, it also applies to curated Instagram lives where we craft and filter these perfect stories and no one knows what goes on in the lives of other couples" (E. Perel). It does sound like marketing, but in the same time, it's something that I've been thinking about for quite some time, since I finished reading probably the only non-fiction book I ever digged: Future Sex. When E. Witt is trying to convince herself that it is worth risking contentment for the sake of experience, but it's also important to acknowledge both desire and inhibition, I'm already seeing my past sex, and everything seems in order for the present moment.
"Have some patience, grow a beard. This is real life, not Instagram; we're people, not dogs. Dogs are nice, people are complicated."
As for the filtered lives, aren't we all dealing with our imperfections and pains - when it comes to relationships, as if they are part of a collective story? I'm grateful to have a group of friends where a problem is never my own; I share it with them, but I don't get consolation and silence: I get awareness, context, different cases, history, interpretation AND some banter. It's refreshing to be reminded that you're living in real life, sometimes, if that makes any sense, like when he told me to leave him alone and I kind of freaked out, and just like in the good ol' days when one would log in on a forum to ask for advice, I texted my friends; my friend's response was: "I can yell at him whenever he's disturbing me, especially when I'm reading and I'm in my bubble. He also gets annoyed if I disturb him while he's playing. Have some patience, grow a beard. This is real life, not Instagram; we're people, not dogs. Dogs are nice, people are complicated." (I.)
"It took us A LONG TIME to learn and we're still learning. Relationships are like musical instruments, you cannot just pick one up and expect to know how to play it instantly, you have to learn it" (A.)
Truth is, a relationship for me is not like riding a bike. I don't remember how to do it, even if I've done it before. This into-me-see that Esther talks about is a good catchline, but what if we don't know how to address it? Oh well, I actually started typing this post two months ago, and I guess we'll have more than enough time to figure out plenty of catchlines. In the meantime, I'll try to write well, and edit often.