Saudade.
It is
unfortunate that I can have the most hilarious of evenings, be content and, on
the odd occasion, happy; I can be in the company of my best friends or be
simply distracted, and yet should I find myself awake after midnight, as if by
clockwork, a great sense of sadness falls over me. I cannot control it, I
cannot stop it.
It is more than
a feeling, more than a creeping sense of loss. It is an undeniable
longing for things that have not been, things that never were, and things that
used to be; for the past and present and future to collide and align in perfect
harmony. It is knowledge, ignorance, and understanding. It
is hope, and it is the absence of that very thing. It is growing old
at eighteen, it is unjustifiable exhaustion, it is love and hate and compassion
and empathy, selfishness and selflessness. It is the end of all
things and the search for the promised open door. I call it saudade.
“Saudade is a Portuguese
and Galician word for a feeling of nostalgic longing for something or someone
that one was fond of and which has been lost. It often carries a fatalist tone
and a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never return. It was
once described as ‘the love that remains’ or ‘the love that stays’ after
someone is gone.” (source unknown)
Tales of loss
and heart break are always the most difficult to tell. Tales of saudade are
harder.
When I was
fifteen, I met a boy.
When I was sixteen, I fell in love.
When I was seventeen, he broke my heart.
Now, at eighteen
years of age, I have a story to tell.
Most people can
recall their first heart break – the pain, the rejection, the weeks of bad films
and even worse music. A broken heart can often be overlooked, mocked, or
ignored. Often, especially in young adults, it can last several weeks.
Mine sent me
into a twelve month depression.
It is difficult
to know where to begin, for my memory of the past year has melted inwards and the
months can be recognised only by major events. With this in mind, I shall start my story
where all good romance novels refuse to go – the end.
There are three
characters in my tale – the boy, I shall call him ‘J’; the friend, I will call
her ‘S’; and myself. J and I had been friends since we were fifteen. It had
begun as a light, school-girl crush (something I never admitted to at the
time), and as opportunity allowed, we grew closer over the years. We were friends, but everyone knew that it
was more, and everyone was thrilled – we were the “people’s couple” so to speak.
Comments were made by students and teachers alike, hinting that J and myself
would inevitably become ‘an item’. After months of denying our feelings, it became
official. In the days that followed, the
word “finally!” has never been so overused in the history of language.
Many people will
argue that love cannot be understood at such a young age – that the emotion
involved is merely an imitation of the real thing and that it should not be toyed
with. I believe, with all my heart, that at sixteen I was irrevocably, unconditionally,
in love with J. He was my best friend, I trusted him completely, and I became
the best possible version of myself during the months that we were together.
Introducing S.
S was one of my closest girl friends, and had been for many years. We were two completely different people, and
yet somehow, it worked. S and J were always friends. Very, very good friends. I
need not explain the nature of the events which occurred throughout my
relationship with J, but I was assured by both boyfriend and best friend that I
need not worry about their alarmingly close friendship. I trusted them both to
the ends of the Earth, and even after several occasions where my forgiveness
was begged for, I accepted their stories.
I do not think
that it is necessary for me to detail the fall out of a text-book love triangle
– the film industry won’t let us forget what they are about, and so it will
come as no surprise when I reveal that my relationship ended messily, and in
the public eye. I lost my boyfriend, my
best friend, and my emotional stability in one conversation, and once again,
everyone knew. S and J were together almost immediately.
I was in
desperate need of space and time to compose myself and neither was ever offered. J led me on an emotional rollercoaster that –
confessing his love for me, then speaking of S and their ‘connection’. After four months, my trust in people was
shattered, my self esteem had never been so low, I had never been so
disappointed, and eventually, exhaustion kicked in.
In the midst of
my personal dramas, my senior year was suffering. My grades dropped across the board from ‘Very
High Achievements’ to, in some cases, a standard fail. My teachers expressed
their concerns, the distance that I had placed between my friends and I was
nearly irreparable, and I lost control. It was no longer possible for me to hide my
condition and gradually, a small group of people began to notice. I stopped eating, I did not sleep, I refused
to read or write – previously pastimes I had always adored. I stopped playing sport, I found excuses to
not attend friendly gatherings, and I was cruel to my immediate family. After months of pain and rivers of tears, I
opened up to my parents. I have never
felt so supported, so loved, and such relief than I did that evening.
After spending
two weeks at home to try and recuperate, I returned to school with a new
resolve. I forgave S and J, I wished them all the happiness, and after accepting
that the damage done by J would take years to heal, I began to rebuild my
friendship with S.
I may be just
eighteen years of age, but I have seen people change. I have seen sides to
people I wish I had never witnessed, and my opinions and understandings of
things have shifted along with them. It has come to my notice, that high school
sucks (surprise, surprise). High school sucks,
and heartbreak sucks, and every teenage cliché is true, but it only made
finishing last year all that more of a relief. I may have reached a stage
in my life where I am past the drama and the lies and the immaturity, but I
know understand that not everyone is here with me. The people I relied on
the most, at the end of the day, didn't turn out to be the people I believed
them to be. I realised that to trust yourself with others at this age, both in
a relationship and amongst friends, is to put your happiness in the hands of
another. It is foolish and naive and at eighteen, it isn't a risk that
should be taken - no matter how much someone means to you. Your
happiness? Your emotional and mental state? It is yours. To give that
willingly to someone, is to hand away the only thing you can keep as your own,
and at the end of the day, it isn't worth it.
Getting through
your teenage years is hard. We all have our own dramas, we all go through
different forms of pain, but we're meant to. We have to. If we can
survive these years, our most vulnerable and impressionable years, and emerge
decent people, then we've beaten the rest. It's a learning curb.
All of it.
None of us are
alone and it is always going to get better eventually.
"Every person down
there is ignoring your pain because they're too busy with their own." (Spike; Buffy The Vampire
Slayer)
We're still teenagers,
but we won't be forever.
