I’ve always imagined love as an all-encompassing experience. That I’d be completely fulfilled. That whomever I chose would chose me & we would be enough for each other. It was always so romantic. I was a hopeless romantic
I thought that the grandest gesture was sticking through all the unpleasant parts, even if it was at the expense of my dignity. I didn’t have the greatest examples of healthy love, so I begun to relive the stories I’d seen up close.
I fell in love for the first time and he impregnated his son’s mom again while we were together… Then in “love” with another: The Gravest Mistake. Then in LOVE with the HIM, whom many of my songs are inspired by, the sad parts, the sex parts, the passionate parts. So much went wrong and was wrong… and my heart was broken a million times. A billion, maybe.
Slowly, all the idealistic expectations started to peel away like skin, sunburnt. But instead of a healed epidermis, I grew a hardened, green coat of jade. I recognized it recently. I don’t believe in love the way that I used to. There’s a lot of cynicism in my language when my single-hood comes into question. I try to muffle the screams of the inherent, hard-wired desire for a partner out of fear. Fear of disappointment. Rejection. Fear of becoming too dependent and attached.
It’s the mark of optimism being marred by reality. The point where hope meets disappointment.
I suppose the turnaround comes from the realization that even though our expectations were not met with someone of old, it doesn’t mean that the possibly of a new ideals should be stifled. As long we are alive, we are growing and our may standards adjust accordingly. Or someone new may be better suited to give you what you need.
So the crumpled pages of love letters have the potential to set the tone for a new story. People say that the end of a relationship teaches you what you don’t want. That the people we have loved teach us how to better love ourselves, sometimes through their neglect, which makes us realize your worth, and sometimes via their affection for you. It’s all a way to learn yourself.
I’m a hypocrite.
The paragraph above is so true, but I don’t feel it for myself. It feels really natural to hold on to the parts that hurt the most. The pain becomes familiar and comfortable, so recalling the parts that felt good feels disloyal to the grief. I really want to feel hopeful again, but I honestly don’t right now. It sounds good on paper to tell the world to have an open heart, though we should, but everything in it’s time.
I’m practicing on myself until the alarm goes off.