Words left unsaid
On the regret of not having chosen vulnerability
The apartment was so empty I could hear a whistle of wind escaping through its wooden, cracked windows. There were rectangles everywhere on the walls, marking the locations of the paintings that had just been removed. The usual cologne aroma had evaporated from the corridor. The apartment was so empty.
There were no discussions about grandpa being late, the aroma of fried meat cooked to the sound of grandma’s radio had vanished, the piano was asleep. The apartment was so empty.
It had been undressed to its original condition. No furniture, no curtains, no carpets. The apartment was so empty. The memories, however, floated around the space, insisting on staying. They glued themselves to the ceiling, holding on to the building’s structure. But they were the structure.
I closed all the windows and all the doors, wanting to preserve the soul of that apartment in a vacuum. I couldn’t. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and I swallowed it all. All the memories, all the smells, all the sounds. Now they live within me, for me, forever.
In Portugal we don’t usually say “I love you”. “Amo-te” almost sounds harsh. The words aren’t melodic. There’s even a space between the verb and the subject. We transport that distance from grammar to our lives.
My grandparents were two of my biggest loves, yet I never told them I loved them. They didn’t do it for me either. We expressed our feelings through actions: that avocado dessert that grandpa prepared for me until it was as smooth as silk, the songs played on the piano by granny, my visits for afternoon tea and cake, even when they couldn’t eat cake anymore.
When they left, I realized I hadn’t pronounced my feelings. The words were not expressive enough, but they could have, at least, materialized love. I came to think of the many reasons I never said “amo-te”, although I was so sure I could, so certain I was loved back.
In fact, there was one reason only: the discomfort of being vulnerable. Of trying something new that my grandparents would find weird. Of listening to the echo of my own voice and, maybe, not getting a “me too”. Now the eternal silence of avoidance haunts me.
Happiness is the most vulnerable of all emotions. It puts us in direct contact with all the possibilities of loss. We refrain from celebrating, we avoid the compliments, we leave words of affirmation for the following day (that tends never to arrive). So where does that happiness go? It gets shrunk and compacted into a forgotten corner of our bodies, compressed so that it never comes out.
We become experts at editing joy before life has the chance to take it away from us.
Being vulnerable hurts like s***. But regrets hurt much more. Every time I served my avoidant side, I neglected my expansion. I thought I was protecting myself. I was wrong. I was preventing myself from reaching a deeper sense of satisfaction. I was hiding away from potential. I avoided love, in its external form. Now not only do I regret not saying “I love you”. I regret all the joy I edited out because expressing it felt too exposing.
I could have shouted “I love you” to let everybody on the streets of Lisbon know I had the best grandparents in the world. I could have, I could have.
To live better with my past, I exercise vulnerability daily. I try to make it muscular. I’m still weak though. This is a hard muscle to build. I also tell everyone how much I loved my grandparents. It’s like my own emotional historical reparation. It doesn’t fix a thing, but it shifts the focus from an avoidable mistake and the weight of regret to a deep conversation about love. Maybe, one day my heart will be toned enough to love more, lose more and live more. Good luck, regrets. You might not survive.