A Hue of Blu: the unforgettable love story

by Marie-France Léger

Find a purpose. As if that was the easiest thing in the world. To find a purpose when everyone around you already found theirs.

Felt.

In a world short of love, I had to be wanted. I was wanted. I felt wanted. Never loved, no. But I was wanted.

Being wanted keeps you whole (at least for now.)

Maybe I fell in love with the potential of people, not who they really were.

Or who they could be.

The rats weren’t above me, they were beside me. They just buried their ugliness better.

No one is ever above another.

It sounded dramatic, but when you had nothing, the people you gave yourself to filled the void that was left stripped and barren.

.

I mended the broken pieces of myself. But broken pieces always remained, especially when they sat right underneath your skin. It looked like flesh, felt like flesh. Shards became soft. Glass became smooth. Pain became happiness. Happiness became pain. Pain became comfort, and that comfort was bliss.

A metaphor for SH isn't it?

“I think I agree with her. You had a string of shitty experiences so you don’t expect this to be different.” “It won’t be.” “See!” Fawn pinched my wrist. “See.” My cheeks heated. Maybe I did project. Maybe I did see what I wanted to see. But how could my poor, little brain do that to me? I wanted nothing more than to be loved.

“Two. Where you are bold and impulsive, you’re also the kindest, most generous girl I’ve ever met. You wear your heart on your sleeve. You value love over everything, even in the absence of it.” Even in the absence of it.

I guess we were two sides of the same coin – tarnished, rusted and bruised. I guess I was more my mother than I thought I was.

He shrugged, coughing into his flannel. “Don’t worry, Boland. Plenty of fish in the sea.” And I wanted one. One who didn’t want me.

Plenty of fish until the one you want doesn't want you.

“Good enough to fuck,” I stated. “Not good enough to love,” I accepted.

Now the only art I knew were the paintings in museums, the graffiti on brick walls, the tattoos on my skin. I kept them hidden. Only the people I slept with knew I had them, maybe not even then. Were they really paying attention to something more than my bare flesh and nakedness?

Oh.

Not throwing up, that was the relief. But that desire to be small, to impress, to feel wanted and beautiful. A full time job, I’d say. It consumed me.

But over time, I learned to be everything that everyone wanted. I learned to match the energy of others, to morph into whatever they liked and remained that way until I didn’t need to anymore. That was the moment I realized how to win people over. That was also the moment I realized how little of myself I had left, when I was trying to please everyone else.

Halloween was my favourite form of self-expression. You could be anyone you wanted, put on a costume and people wouldn’t judge you, wouldn’t try and look any deeper than what you showed them.

It resembled euphoric bliss every time I took a blade to my flesh and felt something other than mental drought.

You could be the greatest person, perform the grandest gestures, but if that someone never valued the love you showed them in the first place, they never would.

My flesh, the skin I wore, was covered in markings that represented me. A broken shell. A damaged past. Unlovable, reckless,

I think you saw a girl who needed saving . . . And you wanted to fix her broken heart so you didn’t need to mend your own.

The pressure I carried to be the girl he wanted was overwhelming and unattainable. I’d broken every part of me trying to fit into that pretty, perfect mould. I’d lost sight of who I was just so he could glance in my direction for one second – because that one second was my heroin. And he watched me overdose.

I wondered sometimes, if I would be the one to exit or the person who would try. Sometimes, I was both of those people – sometimes I was neither.

It was exhausting to chase after someone who never wanted you from the start. It was even more exhausting to pretend that there was a chance in hell you could change their mind.

By begging for a man who couldn’t be what I needed, I devalued my worth, my self-respect.

Either way he wasn’t worth it. He’s not worth it. He’s not worth it. He’s not worth it. But you know who was? Me. I was worth it. I was worth it. I am worth it.

He never did anything with me as the primary focus. I was never a priority, never first. I satisfied him, but I was never enough to fulfill him.

I couldn’t be who I wanted to be when I was with him, because for a while I was nothing if he wasn’t mine.

you’ve always felt like you needed to please other people so they wouldn’t leave.