A case of being personally touched by the "haunting the narrative" trope

This post was originally written for my tumblr but I feel the need to post it here too. It would mean a lot for me if you could at least read it <3 also a small tw for sh for those who are sensitive to this topic

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

I tried to steer away from any deep personal experience on this blog, but if I'm being honest, I have no other space where I could voice my thoughts. Sure, I do keep a journal, but there's a different kind of meaning behind sending something personal into the ether of the internet, something I’ve done since learning how to create an account online. To this day, I like this balance between tradition and digitalization in personal matters.

Looking back into my past, it's impossible to overlook a certain relationship I found myself in at 17 years old. I'll be 25 in December, and I'm more healed than I've ever been, yet this person imprinted himself into my existence with almost ghostly markings. No matter how much I try, I can't seem to erase them. Back then, I was insufferably devoted to him, to someone I later realized only felt reachable in my imagination. I was lonely as a teenager and had him to bring me an ounce of hope into the disastrous situation my life was in. It's uncannily natural that being lonely in my mid-20s only brings me back to that ideal.

I can't say that I miss the real version of him. Whenever I imagine meeting the blueprint, my stomach twists itself into knots and leaves me with a phantom sickness. As much as I hate the constant redirecting back to a person who used to drag me lower, I have to finally come to accept that ultimately the idea he gave me became my muse.

It's been almost 3 years since I've cut contact, since I left and never looked back. I came back mentally to him only when I once again reached the bottom, but I managed to pull myself up again and miraculously forget that such a person ever tied himself into my existence. Throughout that time, I've written a personal novel inspired by the experience of being obsessed with the idea of someone, and I've based a few original characters on the traits I associated with him.

I've built my own life and identity since that last contact. I had other failed love interests, none of which ever came close to him in regard to looks or personality. My attitude toward being in love surely stayed the same in one situation, but there's nothing a good therapist can't fix. I made new friends, saw new faces, some fleeting and some more stable. Life makes us shed our past selves. Only the scars, even if faded to pure white, stay as a reminder of what we once were.

Despite never seeing him, I meet him frequently on the streets, many streets, in many cities, in many countries, in many other places. I see him wearing different clothes, different jewelry, different hairstyles. Those many versions of him I see often while just living my own adult life are testing reminders from the Universe. The spirit says, "here he is," and waits for my reaction. Deep down, I know they're testing me, maybe with the anticipation of seeing me fail, just like last January. They want to see if I've changed, if despite being painfully aware of what he did to me, I still choose stillness over motion.

It's in moments like this, when I'm once again writing something seemingly poetic about him, that I can't stop worrying that I'm failing that divine test. But the sorrow I felt is something that inspires me to create. Isn't that something every artist since the beginning of time has felt? Weren't they also once wondering such things?

My recent divine test came with a hint of irony. Taking the same bus at the same hour as I do once a month, I noticed him again, a new version. Black, long hair pulled back in a ponytail, yet the eyes were the same cold blue. At that moment, a thought crept in: is that how he could look? I tried to sneak a few peeks, but I'm a shy woman, and eye contact makes me feel dragged into a well-lit spot. He looked in my direction, and I wondered if I was also reminding him of someone he used to long for. Does my face also bring back a sticky feeling in his heart? Or maybe he was looking at someone behind me. Because I was afraid to let our eyes meet, I kept my gaze fixed on the busy traffic.

At the next stop, someone sat next to him, an older woman who asked him about something. It was a quick observation, nothing that was supposed to dissect him like a case study. Yet from this fleeting moment, I could read his expression. He looked really irritated to me, yet another memorable impression. A few stops later, he got up and forced himself to leave the bus. In a hurry, he reached out his right arm in my direction, toward where the ticket machine was.

And there it was, right in front of my eyes. His right arm was covered in pinkish-red cuts and round, crimson marks, straight, thin lines that only someone like me could recognize. He left hurriedly. He never looked back, but from that moment, I knew he reminded me not only of someone else but also of myself. The irony was that I was heading to another therapy appointment. It had been a little over a year since I had been clean.