Kiana
My body is giving up on me. I have been feeling feverish for a week already, and I have an unusual swelling on the right portion of my leg just above my ankle. It’s a mosquito bite but it swelling up because, according to WebMD, I’m allergic to mosquitoes—specifically the sting of a female mosquito. I planned to get myself checked by an allergist this weekend but when I got to the hospital, the doctor wasn’t there because it’s a weekend and consultations run for half day only.
There’s life: Just when I had the nerve to have myself checked by a doctor, the doctor isn’t present. I guess this stands as a metaphor for some other parts of my life. Just when I have the strength to confess my romantic feelings-turned-obsession for someone, he isn’t there. So I kinda had to 1-800-HOTLINE-BLING him on Facebook messenger to set up an appointment. (Get this: I call it “appointment” so I don’t have to write the word “date” here.)
We agreed to have “the talk” this coming full moon. The downside, though: He doesn’t know that we are gonna have “the talk,” I just said we “should meet for coffee sometime this month.”
I know I have nothing to lose. I know that I need to do this because I deserve the peace of mind I assume I’ll get from closure. (I really hope there is closure.) I need to know whether he feels the same way as I do. I need to know because these are questions I cannot live with.
Why are romantic confessions in novels and movies so clean and un-disheveled even when they are spontaneous? Do the characters endure sleepless, anxious nights thinking about the worst things that could happen when they confess?
My grandparents raised me Catholic. I had no way out of it. I graduated from a Catholic high school and it was protocol to attend confession every month. I mostly skipped, but on days when I couldn’t, I’d go last, assuming that the attending priest would be so tired hearing 36 teenagers spew their sins and ask for forgiveness and absolution. I asked my classmates how they felt after confession. Mostly they’d reply, “I feel forgiven and cleansed.” But I didn’t feel forgiven or cleansed. Instead, I felt more aware of my sins, to the extent that every single day after confession was like being inside a rigid military camp, or like I was watching myself on CCTV.
Why is confession so frightening? Is it because confessions are a way for us to spit the truth? If so, then I’m grateful we have a word for it. But, why does the truth scare us? ♦