When I was younger I always thought that I would find a man who treated me like a spoiled child treated a second-hand toy. After watching scenes of chaos and infidelity play out in my war-torn household for years, I started to form the belief that all men were made to destroy and we women were simply built to clean up after them. Don’t get me wrong; I am not a feminist. I’ve tried to jump on that massive, dramatic bandwagon but I just can’t fight the urge to cook and clean for my husband. A lot of feminists would look down on my willingness to submit to a “brute,” but that’s a story for another time.

I grew up thinking I was a wife to be put on a shelf, always loyal and always loving and always allowing my man to go out and do what he wanted, when he wanted. I was a toy, another plaything to be wound-up when the child was bored. As were all the other women, you see, I just had the privilege of being kept around for the rest of my life. It was at the age of thirteen that I finally began to understand I was more than a piece of meat to be touched, but never eaten, but by that time it was too late. The labels “s***” and “w****” were glued to my back and it was almost as if I could hear the horses saying they were sorry their hooves did this to me . . . No one else apologized so neither did I; I wore those words better than any hooker could but at night I was a saint quietly whispering for God’s mercy, but never begging and definitely not crying because that was weakness and I never expose weakness.


I was quiet about the infidelity that surrounded me. With sorry eyes, I watched them all cheat, but slowly the sadness turned into anger and I could no longer breathe. Eventually I caught my breath and the anger seeped from my lungs like the smoke from the bad intake of a cigarette. I thought I was a dragon but I was just gold, not even the real kind of gold; I was just gold-plated silver—second best, always and forever.

I didn’t always think in such complicated metaphors, but it became exhausting to constantly tear myself down (I had to become creative because I was in the business of watching other’s happiness).


I thought all of these thoughts; I thought I knew all of these ideas for facts. There was one scenario I never thought, though: that I would be caught up in a whirlwind of nearly angry romance. I was the strong one, remember? I already watched all of the relationships fail . . . I learned my lesson and I didn’t even have to experience it for myself! I grew to appreciate my gold-plated silver. I consciously fought attraction and I subconsciously sabotaged myself. How else is it that a mind so entrapped by not falling love would fall in love?

It was a shocking thing, this fiery romance. I was new to emotion. Sixteen years of a glass castle built out of see-through emotion suddenly shattered and I was left naked in the ruins searching for the hand that had knocked my kingdom over. I gasped for air—the fall had stolen my breath—but every inhalation was snatched by a surprise kiss. I can’t say I was displeased (maybe a little disgruntled, but somehow not displeased). There were months of gasping, flailing, looking for tears, but finding them swallowed by an ocean of gentleness. This romance was a sea that enveloped my body in a peaceful embrace, wiping away tears and soothing my sore muscles.

What was love? I had no idea, still not quite sure—I’m working it out, but I thought maybe I could grasp some vague notion of it in the crook of his neck and the way the corner of his lips crinkled when he half-smiled. I asked myself every day, wasted so much of my precious time and I could never find the answer. I think a lot already, so I thought that maybe I could figure it out after a difficult thought process. That was when I began to have a slow realization.

It took me a while but I started to find out that love wasn’t a palpable thing. I could not touch love. I could find things to represent love, but I could not literally—and never will be able to—grasp the hand of love. The more I tried to define it, the more I flailed in the ever-tranquil sea that had encircled me. The ocean began to grow rocky, upset, suffocating. I kept taking in gulps of salty water, each mouthful containing a tear I had already shed and each tear containing a poignant memory. That was my niche, though: I always stirred up the tranquil water.

The sea had reached its peak, one final wave left to crash down on my heavy head. It raced toward me and I swear I could I hear it roaring a farewell, but the sun came out. The sun whispered secrets in my ear and for a second I faced the sky with a brave face, accepting whatever the sky willed the sea to do. It took a split-second—not even a full second—to calm the waters. I turned from the sun and my bravery escaped out of every orifice in my body, replaced with a desperate determination to fix my dire situation because I finally had a vague notion of love. The wave slowed . . . and it slowed . . . and I watched it roll gently toward my half-submerged face. The crystal-turned-gray water surrounded my face, caressed the tears leaking from my eyes. Such a sweet touch was able to tranquilize my struggling body; I began to float again.

I began to think about love again, but I didn’t try so hard this time. I thought that maybe love was the smell his body left on my clothes or the look in his eyes when I did something cute. That didn’t seem right, though. I continued to think and the sea continued to sway steadily, murmuring soft encouragement. Maybe the ocean wanted me to have an epiphany; I wouldn’t have minded that.

There was a short amount of time where I had latched onto an idea, and I had never really let that go. I pondered, relaxing into the soothingly monotonous motions of the water. Love was hard; that’s why I ran from it for the entirety of my short life. But maybe it wasn’t love that I ran from . . . maybe it was the work. Because love was so much work. People slaved their whole lives just for one person to say three ridiculously fatal words. Yet, it was such an accomplishment to love and be loved. Some would even say that it is the greatest thing one can achieve. I thought that maybe love was the energy I used to stay afloat when the sea was storming and I thought that maybe love was the relief I felt when the sun was shining . . . and I thought that maybe love was his smell and his neck and his lips. Well, maybe love was him and love was me and love is you.

Swimming was strenuous even with the water as calm as it was. I begged and kicked, gasped and clawed, but the gentleness seemed to disappear with the sun. The water stroked my muscles, urged me to give in to the flow of the waves, the grave underneath the surface. The notion of love that I had grasped previously gripped my mind, seized it like a tyrannous ruler. Yet, there was no hope or light left. The sun had stopped shining; the water had stopped moving. I could only rely on myself. The notion had come too late. There was nothing left of me to rely on. I succumbed to the quietness of the grave on the bottom of the ocean floor.