I don’t know what it is about train journeys and scenic views, but they often leave me sufficiently bored to ponder on the existential point my life has arrived at. I turn 23 in approximately two weeks, and all I can think of is how different I’ve imagined my current state to be at this point. I didn’t expect to still fight for a man who sees me as an object of convenience, to continue to stay ‘okay’ because we’re friends and he’s allowed to seek his future partner, seeking interest in different women he meets. I. am. no. fucking. back up. Whenever I think about this, I get incredibly mad and want to punch a hole in the wall. To destroy every possible memory and wipe them from my mind. Our shared cries and laughters, the movies and shows we watched together, the several different Vietnamese restaurants we’d slurp our beef noodles in. All I’ve been thinking these days is an exit plan – to save myself from checking my phone periodically, fumbling over several scenarios of him meeting and talking to women, then coming back to tell me he’s met someone. This isn’t me. I’m tired.

When I was 15, it became apparent I dealt with emotions in an unhealthy variants. It ranged from impulsive purchasing tendencies of pounds of makeup, C-rated romantic fiction written to promote a false narrative about love to breaking things, including myself. I enjoyed the pain of hurting myself ever so slightly. There were several instances where I’d slip and fall from the staircase. Though writhing in pain, I enjoyed it. Nothing made me feel so empty but somehow, the physical pain gave me something to think about. When I had a slipped disc for a year, I hated the inconvenience it caused me every time I went to the bathroom – yet the thought often flurried ‘if my whole back would be broken, I wouldn’t have to go out and deal with the world anymore. I can sit and stew in my disability and hate everyone.’ God had different plans (yes I cuss in the same blog when necessary, deal with it) for me, thankfully. Rest assured, the physical pain I feel now derive from solely punching a bag and lifting a barbell every so often.

In a very context-based conversation with my mother, she told me certain groups of men put more effort into relationships because they view their wives not only as a treasured being but a part of them. Both beings are shared, connected. There’s no temporary state to his love for her, as it translates to the smallest things of one’s mundane life. They’re often described as ‘seng mok’ because they’re not only lovers but protective shields (there’s this thing where gentlemen would normally walk on the outside of the pedestrian street for safety reasons). Growing up, my mom typically worked different hours from my dad which means they don’t get to have a meal together on weekdays. My dad never fails to grab food from the restaurant and drop it off at home during lunch hour, texting my mother instructions on how to heat it up. My mother, never fails to massage my dad’s legs after a long day of work, even though they have a massage chair. 

My question is: What am I doing here, on the train to Madrid letting someone break my heart again, not letting myself fully experience the exponential Iove I deserve?