TO BE KNOWN

Ive been loved, or should I say liked, many a time for the surface — being pretty, helpful, kind, giving. In the same way many people are capable of admiring a painting, few will ever actually pause to ponder its meaning. How it was created. What medium was used. The brush strokes. The imperfections contributing to the masterpiece. Emotion hidden behind color selection. “She’s hot and she does stuff for me but —“. I will spare us both the true ending of that quote from an ex boyfriend of mine because there shouldn’t be a ‘but’. As a matter of fact, now that I am a little bit older and a whole lot wiser, that shouldn’t have been said at all. 

“To be loved is to be known” is the phrase that repeats in my mind on loop when I consider love; both platonic and romantic. It holds a lot of weight in its truth. The art of knowing and being known is what sets apart friends from acquaintances, lovers from flings, strangers from familiar faces. It really is an art because there’s absolutely levels to it. Stop and consider for just a moment the amount of other human beings you cross paths with on a daily basis. For fun, I would be curious to truly count. The usual crowd at the gym. Your barista. The cashier at Circle K who happens to be there no matter what time of day you go. Coworkers. Family members. Guests you service. Bunches and bunches of other human beings. All living their own day, carrying their own weight, battling their own demons, smiling and finding joy in different things. Individualism could bring me to absolute tears if I allow it. It’s such a beautiful concept. And what I find even more beauty and awe in is the art of knowing each and every single person in a different way on a different level. 

I used to think love only existed romantically. I grew a little older and came to the realization that you are more frequently blessed and touched  by the love from your friends. The kind that never feels transactional. It doesn’t derive its value from what you bring to the table. It is not a rollercoaster. You don’t find yourself sitting around in the silent moments wondering if it’s still there. It just exists. Constantly. Unspoken and unshaken. My best friends from middle school and the way we understand every dimension of one another’s brain because we grew up in each other’s homes. My friend from high school who correctly answers all the “what vibe do I give off” instagram reels and reads looks from The Met Gala to absolute filth with me every year. Memorized Chipotle orders. “Don’t order that, you won’t like it.” Favorite colors. Pet peeves and the shit you absolutely cannot stand. Jokes that started as one thing and have completely morphed into a whole other. Platonic love — being known, is so so very lovely. But what about being known.

Romance brings things to a whole new level. Sometimes I think we as humans overcomplicate this far too much. Understandably so. It’s raw to allow another to know you. Like really know you. Head to toe. At 5 A.M. absolutely unfiltered; and on date night wearing our version of “Sunday Best”. Memorized work schedules. He altered his to better fit mine when we met. The order of each other’s shower routine and how they refer to a cotton swab. The lip thing. The lip thing. Hat means casual — no hat means business. Boots are dressed up and Sambas are chill. His Chipotle order. McDonald’s after a night out. Bananas in the cereal, how much cream in the coffee. He has his own shaker cup but chooses to use my small pink one every morning. His eyes are red when he’s tired and falling asleep on the couch is his guilty pleasure. Two ice cream sandwiches at 5:30 A.M.  The little scar on his right arm and the other on the back of his head and how they both got there. Two freckles on the flat of his ear. The cigarette going the opposite direction is the lucky one. The root of both his middle names and correctly predicting which drink he’ll order off the cocktail menu. I learn more everyday. I know more every second — and so I love more every millisecond. To be loved is to be known. 

My natural hair color. What grade I skipped and why I dropped out of college. The reason I like to stay tan. How many tattoos I have and what they mean. Why I love the moon. Why I hate being tickled. The order of my night routine. Telling signs that I’m hungry, tired or over it before I say it out loud. Why I always have dry hands and little cuts on my left fingers. My journey of mental stability and my views on overcoming hard things. Secret talents and things I nerd out over. Why I like to have long nails. Why I never believe that I am/doing enough. My love for platform shoes and oversized clothing. Cherry scented car air freshener and the significance of the numbers 9 1 1. Why I hate drugs and look away during car accident scenes on TV. The fact that in my mood, i’m terribly inconsistent — but in my heart, you’ve never known more consistency. How I’m not nearly as graceful on myself as I am on the world. What tugs on my heart strings.

To be loved is to be known. I could be at fault, I’m not good at allowing others in to the depths. I tell myself “they forgot” or, more harshly, “no one cares”. Which is ironic considering I remember every word, smell, remark. All while caring far too deep. Slow burn. In it for the long run. I love you more, back and always. Falling in love isn’t the cliff jump — allowing yourself to be known is. Unapologetically, without fear of not being accepted for who you are and all the things that have built the “you” that lives in this moment. I need help to jump, to be completely transparent. It’s never that I don’t want to, but between you and I, I’m afraid. I’m a force and I know it. I have a few screws loose and am fueled by a fire that I sometimes lose control of. I’ve made peace with my pains but they’re not necessarily “healed”. And that’s a lot to put on someone. I’m not naturally the way I am. My knuckles are white from how hard I keep myself in check, grasping at every ounce of sanity I can touch. I choose to be this version of me everyday — constant, stable, loving. Healthy. Patient and kind. The two wolves inside of me claw each other to the death. It’s a gamble which one comes out on top every day. The days I’m duller, quieter, more irritable — I’m trying. Really fucking hard. To keep my strings attached. My poker face is award winning — regardless of which one wins, I show up the same. How I should. So really, I fear losing my grip on a bad day. Falling short. Not doing it right. Being too much. Failing at the mold I’ve created for myself. But if being loved is being known, and love is unconditional — must I be known through those cracks in order to be loved? The days when the strings come undone. Now that’s something beautiful. To. Be. Known. Allowing my grip to slip and not worrying. Not shrinking a single part of me. If I can’t be loved in that moment, am I truly known? 

But I’m ready. I’m ready to be known — loved, even.