I have a confession: I am bound in chains and sometimes I like it. My flesh is tethered by bands of leather and holy boxes inscribed with the word of God. The numbness under the straps speaks to me of security, reminds me of an invisible, all powerful touch.
The truth is metaphor’s a nasty animal that rears its head and paws at the dirt and runs off chasing wild game the moment you think it’s majesty might actually be your own.
But the bigger truth is this: Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about freedom, about what it means to be free, about liberation, and all the chains we carry.
There’s a certain sense of liberation that comes with the end of a relationship. It’s an odd feeling, since one would imagine there’d be no such sense after a break-up, but those who would imagine this are perhaps exceptions, or else have not had such a relationship before. I am not here to judge. Only to observe.
For all intents and purposes, my last relationship was perfect. He was everything I could want in a man, and he said I was equally as much as he could ask for. Even with nearly five thousand miles between us, we made it an impressive six months before things came to a halting end. That’s still about a hundred and eighty days longer than any of my in-person relationships have lasted. So where’s the irony in that?
What’s most curious for me is the general lack of sadness I feel. When I broke up with my first boyfriend (of two months, for those asking), I was devastated in my reserved way of feeling emotions. Yet, in all honesty, that was an end I had not foreseen, whereas this was an ending I had made peace with before it had happened.