Factual Storytelling Exercise

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.