Permission to be loved

I permit anger, guilt and shame. I permit joy in small bouts and happiness when it surprises me. I permit freedom to sleep in and take days off. But I am yet to accept that I am worthy of your love.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, as he gently caressed my back, making small soothing circles. I smiled shyly and said nothing. We stayed like that for a while, breathing gently, bodies relaxed and spent.

I turned over, resting my head on the pillow next to him.

“Why don’t you let me hold you?” he asked.

I stared at him, unsure of what to say. He waited, as he always did, giving me time to gather my thoughts. This time the thoughts did not gather. My mind was blank.

“I let you hold me,” I said softly. “You were holding me right now.”

“Yes… but then you turned and moved away,” he said, holding my gaze, not letting me look away.

“I….,” I didn’t have an answer. I could have stayed in his arms but I didn’t. I never allowed him to hold me for longer than a few minutes. My hugs were quick too. I did not linger when it came to affection.

He held my chin with his thumb and forefinger, lifting my face to his.

“Hey, talk to me. What’s going on with you?” he asked gently.

“Nothing is going on with me.” I needed this conversation to stop. I had to shut it down.

He sighed and turned to lie down on his back, staring at the fan that moved slowly and noiselessly. I watched him, admiring the contours of his body, the sprinkle of hair on his chest, his muscular arms, strong legs, soft, black hair that fell gently on his forehead and curled at the nape of his neck. I found myself wondering why a beautiful and kind man like him had decided to love someone like me.

Ours was not an epic love story. It did not follow the standard trajectory of attraction that leads to inevitable romance. We were friends till we were not. We had fallen in love slowly. Or rather, it had taken me time to understand that what I felt for him was beyond a platonic friendship. We had seen each other through terrible, heart-wrenching break-ups. I had cried on his shoulder many times. He had taken me for long drives to cheer me up. Somewhere along the way our hands had found a way to entangle, fingers meshed together in a firm hold. Before I knew it, my body had found its way into his strong embrace.

“I’m scared of getting hurt again,” I had whispered to him one night, many years ago.

“I will never hurt you,” he had replied, pulling me close to him.

He had kept his promise. Even when our fights were downright vicious, he never said he wanted a break. It was always me – wanting to leave, wanting to run away, wanting to be left alone. But he held on, steady in his belief that his love was enough for the both of us. It had to be. Because his wife was not capable of affection – showing it or receiving it.

He knew it and accepted it. I could see him yearning for small acts of love through the day. But he held back. When he needed a hug, I would give him a quick one, holding on just long enough to certify it as a hug and then pull back. I always had something to do, a chore to finish, somewhere to go.

There were times when he tried to fight back, not letting me go, wanting to hold on a little longer. I would explode, rage creeping up like a vicious snake, ready to bite.

“You need too much love,” I spat out once. “It’s overwhelming. I can’t be affectionate all the time. Please give me some space.”

He had looked hurt. He had wanted to say something. But I did not give him a chance. I stormed off, like I always did, unable to bear the pain I was inflicting.

I did not deserve this man. I did not deserve his affection and love. I felt unworthy.

I was the bad deal in our relationship.

I heard my mother’s voice, “You lucked out with him. No one else would be able to handle you.”

Yes, I told myself. I had lucked out.

I was with a man who accepted me as I was. He did not expect me to change. He never asked me to be better, do better. He worked around my flaws, calling them unique features of a unique woman. He respected me as a partner, mother and friend.

I have never been loved in this way before. The first love a child feels is from their parents. It is meant to be unconditional. Perhaps it was when I was a little girl. But as I grew older, the love changed. Parameters were added – like doing well in class, behaving appropriately in social gatherings, dressing well, being polite, listening to them, no arguments, no fights, no boyfriends, no sex. I did not meet these parameters. Their love changed to disappointment.

My parents did not hug us, so physical affection did not come to me naturally. I felt awkward when friends were warm and kind. I felt uncomfortable when boyfriends or lovers held my hand in public. I made excuses, scoffing at them all. I am not a PDA (physical displays of affection) kind of person, I would tell them.

I will let my guard down in private, I convinced myself.

But I didn’t.

Behind closed doors, when no one was watching, when I could show all the affection in the world, I would falter. My body would react of its own accord, pulling me away before my heart could fight it. I would let my body win, every single time.

Eventually my heart came to accept its failure. It receded quietly and with dignity. There was no use in fighting. I was not ready.

In most love stories, (the easy, racy kind) there is a turning point - a moment in which the protagonist realises that they are hopelessly in love. They cannot deny it anymore. The result of this leads to unbridled, passionate sex where they tell each other how they feel – through their bodies.

When I read these stories, I often wonder when my turning point will come. Will I wake up one day and realise that I am worthy of love? That no matter how badly I behave, I still deserve the man I married?

His love has no conditions or parameters. It does not test me, although I wait for it to. It does not tease or taunt. It just is. Waiting to be recognised.

“Let me hold you,” he will ask me again one day.

And I will let him.

…

Written to the prompt - Permission

at

Ochre Sky Stories

{Memoir Workshop}

with

Natasha Badhwar

&

Raju Tai