Usually after a rejection, I have the tendency to express my hatred towards the girls I’ve liked. My humiliation is subtle, and I’ve grown the habit of overlooking the question of why. I intuitively prefer blurting insults that potentially lead to mistakes I later on regret. And after my contempt is conveyed, it mentally replaces me back on top, and the feeling of embarrassment fades away. My pride convinces me to only care about myself in those moments. It thoroughly blinds me to the point that I forget how considerable is a woman’s value and worth.
I remember one experience I had with this one girl I crushed on; I considered her my best friend. Over a year passed, and our friendship had flourished very meaningfully. We had each given what felt like a part of our lives towards each other—nothing physical ever happened. It ended up becoming an emotional mess and we drifted apart. To this day, I question why we ever did, but time will only tell. An immediate rage overcame me, because I was upset at why things were declining—there was no reason for it to. The aftermath worked against my favour, and through my naivety, I began blaming her for the cause of it all. I regret how my attitude approached the situation, but I did what any boy would normally do: I avoided talking to her, and I was left with a scar that infected me with hatred. When I worked up the courage to talk to her, it ended up becoming an argument with insults strictly from my end. I remember my friend asking me how were things with her, and initially, I would do everything I could within my will to avoid insulting her, but alas, I couldn’t—and I did. What I didn’t realize was that while I was fighting for what we once had, in the process, I was pushing her away past the point for her to reconsider. If there was no reason before, I now knew I had created one.
We had granted each other that closeness and uniqueness that is rarely found in a friendship nowadays. I think what I’m referring to is trust—it’s hard giving it to someone completely. You feel a hollow emptiness when you’ve given it to someone you deem special only for it to shatter. The hollowness that formed inside me was all the space hatred needed to spawn its destruction.
People can be quite untrustworthy, and the more you get to know them—by that I mean the more you let someone know who you really are—the more it feels as though something is at stake.
Although she didn’t show it, I knew by her silence she was hurt by my damaging words. Teresa Medeiros once said, “Women are delicate creatures. Fragile. Gentle. Made by God to be sheltered from the harshness of this world.” I had proven to this girl I was that harshness. If I could concoct any lesson to be learned from this, it’s this: indeed, women are fragile, and if ever you find yourself arguing with one, pay careful attention to each word that is uttered—wounds may heal, but scars will always remain.
A rose is beautiful in its grandeur, but its thorns can prick you. That doesn’t take away from its appeal, though. It remains beautiful as it is without any harm from it’s holders and observers. But if you shred it to pieces, good luck trying to place it back together; the damage remains permanent. A woman is similarly beautiful. I now know that I do not want my scarring wound to affect her aesthetic as a female individual. Each woman is beauteous in character and attractive in design sketched by the intelligent mind that created us. Lest we forget the delicacy of their splendour if we are ever pierced by their thorns. It should remind you that you have yet to figure how to hold it. I know I have my regrets with past crushes, but it served me with lessons to be learned. For the next flower I stumble across, I promised myself to be delicate when I hold it, because it may very well be the one that will not prick me.
Women are made to be loved, not understood.
