4 Feelings I Wish I Could Materialize
If I could bottle up the way I feel in those moments—different types of elation—I would. I wish I could materialize the state I’m in, keep it in pill form, so I can access it again and again, despite you. I won’t be greedy—even if it’s limited, I’ll ration it. Just knowing I could relive it on demand, without actually using it up... even that would be enough.
For extreme migraines:
When you look at me—unprovoked—across the room, in the midst of heated conversations floating all around us. I lose myself in the way you look at me, in how you really see me. You see the girl trapped behind my eyes, unmasked, bare—and it doesn’t scare you.
I’m captivated by this stillness, the way everything disappears—not just the room and the people in it, but everything. My problems, the things I hate about myself, the monsters in my head... all of it fades. And all that remains is this moment—us. It makes me feel beautiful in an ethereal way, the kind of beauty that doesn’t really exist. We just hear of it in old folk tales.
It makes me feel like I finally found it—the thing everyone’s chasing in life. It makes me hopeful.
But before I get too accustomed to this feeling, the realist in me rips my eyes away, erasing the moment in a blink. And I begin to wonder—was it real? Or just a fragment of my imagination?
I can’t afford to feel this good, or else I might become incapable of living life, because most of the time... it doesn’t feel remotely as good as that.
For extreme fatigue:
The way I feel when I randomly walk into a room—you weren’t expecting me, and I wasn’t expecting to see you. You’re engrossed in a conversation, focused, your facial features neutral as you nod at the person in front of you.
The moment your eyes land on me, I see your features transform—the sparkles in your eyes come to life before me. Your whole being radiates, and you walk away abruptly from the conversation, charging toward me like you’re scared that if you don’t come soon enough, I’ll disappear.
The person you’re with turns around, confused. What was it that caused this much commotion in your eyes?
And it’s me.
They don’t understand, and neither do I.
Me? The happiness that erupted in your eyes, literally tangible, for me? You’re that happy to see me?
It makes me feel so worthy. It energizes me in exactly the way I needed.
I wish I saw myself with the same joy you do, but I convince myself it’s not about me. No matter how often it happens, you were probably just waiting for an opportunity to escape whoever it was you were talking to.
I can’t afford this much optimism.
For loss of appetite:
When we have surface-level jokes, but the feeling is bone-deep. You giggle way more than the joke deserved, because the happiness you try to trap within you escapes with every laugh. The privilege of being across from me, looking at me, having this access to me that I don’t often grant anyone: unapologetically declared.
You tell me you’re so privileged to be in my presence when I’m relaxed—hair down, being silly for once, pretending the crushing responsibilities aren’t there.
You don’t say this in words, but in the way you look at me—the way you lean forward, as close as you’re allowed. Not behind, but right on the line itself—because you can’t deprive yourself of even that tiny space the line takes up.
But mostly, you tell me in the way you try to halt time.
You notice when I try to pick up my phone, and instantly, you draw me back in with a witty joke, and I put it down. I see the fear escape your body. You were scared I’d find something on that phone that would force me to leave.
More time with me.
The way I smooth down my dress, lean forward, ready to get up, and you jolt straight up—desperate to find something to say that will make me stay. And when you find it, and I relax back into my chair, your chest caves in—relieved.
More of me.
When all your attempts fail and I finally come to my senses and get up, I see the defeat in your eyes. It’s never enough. One hour, 20 minutes—once, we talked for three hours straight, and you still felt so deprived.
The ironic part is, it makes me feel so full.
The way you look at me as I leave makes me feel like I will always have a place to stay.
I’m more than enough.
I deny myself the ability to notice these micro, not-so-subtle attempts to keep me, though. I pretend I didn’t notice. I apologize for overstaying. I know it confuses you, but these aspirations are too big for me.
For swollen eyes:
My favorite feeling, though, the one I’d choose to solidify, if I had to choose only one, is how I felt when I expressed my pain to you.
I can explain.
I never show this vulnerability to anyone, especially not to someone like you. But you make me feel so understood that my guard was down, and I had to let the pain terrorizing my heart out.
I spoke fast, without context—words spilling out of my mouth in dozens—and the tears streaming down my face as if they were in a race with each other. Who can make it to the finish line first—the symptoms or the cause?
I talk in code because a tiny remnant of the sane part of me is still there. I don’t give any incriminating details, or any details at all, just how bad it hurts and how horrible I feel. And I look at you, bracing myself for your judgment.
You must be so confused, probably thinking I’m crazy for this unprompted, bizarre meltdown.
But I’m caught off guard.
The pain I feel is etched on your face—I swear I can hear your heart break, mirroring mine.
You not only understand how I feel—you feel it. You’re suffering for me. It makes you feel worse that I feel this way. The idea of me in pain is excruciating to you.
In that moment, all my hurt disappears.
I feel so, so, so loved.
I feel the stark opposite of the loneliness and despair I felt right before walking into this moment with you. I feel so much better, as if you literally took my pain and shouldered it.
And I think you did.
That feeling I wasn’t able to talk myself out of.
Maybe if I let you in, I wouldn’t need to materialize these feelings in pill form.
But I could never take a risk like that.
