Between Smecta and a Portrait of Him

I’ve had diarrhea for four days. That’s where this starts. I thought it was over, so I pushed my luck—three coffees in one day, comfort food like I hadn’t tasted in weeks. But no, it wasn’t over. My body reminded me the way it always does when I try to sprint through fatigue, or emotions, or limits I pretend I don’t have.

Still, I did what I could to feel human again: I went to the pharmacy and bought Smecta. I visited the used clothes boutique and found a bundle of clothes for seven euros. I picked up a few groceries, collected my packages, and tried to be productive. I bought a dress—tight around the shoulders and chest, but flattering, even a little sensual. I think it’ll work for my upcoming art show if the weather plays nice.

I want to look beautiful. Presentable. Like someone who belongs in her own life. Like someone who knows what she’s doing.

And yet, beneath all these little acts of self-care, something raw keeps twisting inside me. Something unresolved. Something about him. About us. About the fact that he goes to tantra workshops and how that truth keeps resurfacing in ways I can’t quite explain. The idea of going to one myself both intrigues and terrifies me—not only because I can't afford it but also because of the truths about myself the experience might bring to light.

Last night, I went to his Forró workshop. It was, honestly, wonderful. He was relaxed, smiling more than usual. We danced. We laughed. And afterward, he came over. We made love for hours. Then again in the morning. I came twice. I was surprised by how much I wanted him, how open I felt. Present. Alive.

After he left to run errands, I sat quietly and painted his portrait. I’d started it before, but something finally clicked. It’s not perfect—it doesn’t look exactly like the photo—but it’s him, the way I see him. I made him a little more handsome than he really is, I think. Not out of flattery, but out of tenderness. Out of love, maybe. Or something close enough to it.

He told me once that he doesn’t think he could fall in love with someone else because he’s focused on our relationship. I keep turning that over in my mind. Because as much as I care about him, I also feel a kind of pressure building inside me. Not from him, necessarily—from everything. I feel like I’m behind. Like I’m failing. Like my body and my mind and my projects and my art are all begging me to stop pretending I can do it all at once.

I tried to work. I really did. I had a client order waiting for me, but I couldn’t bring myself to open the file. I submitted a piece to a pub that didn’t get accepted—a story about having an accent, about feeling foreign in the very language you speak. It meant a lot to me, and I was surprised it didn’t land. Maybe I’ll write about that too—stories that don’t get picked but should have. The quiet ones. The honest ones.

Later, I realized I’d made all my canvas frames the wrong size. Too big. White edges showing. I’ll have to start over, if he'll lend me the necessary tools again. I didn’t even feel like calling him to explain. I just stood there, staring at the mess, thinking: So this is what it means to be a beginner.

I miss eating like a pig. I miss feeling like myself.

Sometimes, I write little prayers to no one in particular: Let love be easy. Let money come gently. Let boundaries be clear. Let me stop bracing for disappointment and just live.

I have enough in me. I have everything in me.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s where healing begins.

Not when everything is fixed, but when I remember that even now, I’m already enough.