I’ve been thinking about how my dad always used to drink bitter drinks — tonic water, bitter lemon, lemon water, etc. I have no idea why. And I’ll never know, because he passed when I was 18.
So I grew up drinking those ‘not exactly for children’ drinks, and I’ve just been wondering: is it because that’s what we had at home, that’s what I used to drink too, and I don’t even know if I liked it?
And now, 18 years later, at 36, I caught myself eyeing shelves filled with bottles of tonic water and bitter lemon at the grocery store, and this urge, this weird craving came over me. And now I get it, because as I was drinking it, the harsh, acidic, tart taste of it somehow awakened my senses, and it felt like a wake-up call. And I don’t know what this says about me, that my idea of a comfort drink is straight-up ‘battery acid’… but I’ve been thinking about this since the last time I was strolling the grocery store and got myself a bottle of bitter lemon, on ‘one of those days,’ one of those ‘I’m so done’ days.
It wasn’t even a conscious thought; it just happened, and suddenly I remembered old summer days spent in a small town in the Hungarian countryside, and my dad. And then, of course, I remembered you — because you are the reason that ‘I’m so done’ yet again, and that I have to take myself on a walk and get some fresh air, because what else could I do with my confusion, yet again?
I noticed that the worse I feel, the more I want to take care of myself, and I think this is the best that I could do, right? And then here you are, the epitome of bitterness. It seems like I’m exaggerating, but I’ve recognised it in you now, as I remember your words. You, my good old twin flame — you blasted back into my life when I least expected it and stirred up the still water that is my life, and my poor nervous system, and so the long journey of healing starts again. Not from the beginning, but still. My best friend, my other half, my everything who is also nothing.
This couldn’t have been funnier, the whole mess you made — but mostly you saying that you don’t believe in spirituality, because funny enough, you are the very person who kick-started my spiritual awakening. Mr ‘I don’t believe in this’… I don’t know if I should laugh or cry, because ‘must be nice.’ Because believe it or not, it happened to me — in unforgettable ego deaths and dark nights of the soul, and countless rebirths — and now you’re bitter about it.
And I feel your resentment, because I am different now, and you can’t reach me the way you used to. And I can’t blame you, because I feel resentment too. I fear it too — this something that is looming over our heads — and I tried to outrun it too, as you’re doing now, but it’s futile. The running, the hiding, the anger… It’s beyond our control. Trust me, I learned it the hard way. This force is stronger than us, but not stronger than our bond, and so, we can’t be apart, and that’s what scares me too.
And you’re bitter — I’ve seen it on you — but now that I’ve seen it, I can let my own resentment go. I don’t want to fight unseen, imaginary enemies anymore. ‘Look at you, you’re so spiritual’… as if I ever had any other choice. I never did, just like you. And you can laugh at this, and mock the very idea of something having control over us, but trust me, the end is unavoidable. Just like the explosions, and the goodbyes, and the lessons — destruction for the sake of evolution. This is our journey, and I am spiritual because of you.
And one day, hopefully, you will see it too, and finally you won’t just want to come over for a while — you will come home. You see how I stopped planning with anyone else? One year ago, the mere idea would have thrown me into a laughing fit, but now I believe in things, and unseen forces, and us, most of all.
And memories of the old small-town Hungarian summers will stay with me for the rest of my life, but maybe, instead of bitter drinks, I will find comfort in sweet ones — the ones I know you like. And maybe some will be placed on our kitchen table by your very hands. And I will remember you, and think of you, every time I look at them, or drink them, and I won’t feel any more resentment. Nor bitterness. Only love.”