The origin story

“Red roses near a green hedge surrounding a house” by Caroline Sleeper on Unsplash

They keep asking me for an origin story.

Where are you from? What did you do? How did you get here? What do you want from your life?

I tell them something because it makes things easier. It makes things good for me in the long run. I might have to talk to them again. I might need them for favours.

You were not like that.

You never asked me for anything. You never interrogated, never pried, never assumed. It was maybe because we all knew about these sensitivities. It was definitely because we all knew about these sensitivities.

You know what? I can’t tell if I like you because it’s you or because you were there when I first felt safe.

They say that I deserve good. Or better. Or something. They don’t say that you’re not good enough for me, but that’s what they actually think.

Maybe they just want me to have the best that I can have. Or maybe they’re just so sad and so miserable that they can’t let me be happy.

But you make me happy. You see the world in much the same way I do. You see the systems and structures and the power that flows between and through them. When I say something, I don’t have to worry about whether I will need to explain my life story to you. I don’t need to explain it. You know it all already.

But I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to respect you, even though I know I should. Nobody ever taught me “This is how you love someone in a way that respects them and doesn’t just objectify them for your sexual and romantic projection.” I didn’t have role models around me from whom I could learn.

I think my heart calls out to you because it knows that you are safe, and it believes that you are good. I’m tired of waiting for someone and I think it just wants to settle for anyone. That scares me, because I might just be hurting myself again.

You don’t need to know any of this. You never asked for any of this. You never asked for my origin story.