Love is terrifying.
I don’t care what people say, it’s not rainbows and butterflies. It’s fear, pain and tears. How are you supposed to let someone get close enough to know you, to really understand who you are so that they can love YOU and not some diluted version of yourself? How can you trust someone with the most intimate parts of yourself when every other time it has proven to cause months of regret?
But I am ever the optimist. Each new encounter sparks excitement into this paperback heart. They stroll casually into my life. All swagger and sunshine and I think ‘This time. This time I’ve got it right.’ And for a while my world exists in the lenses of rose colored glasses. I so desperately want to believe in him, in myself, in us.
Weeks, months, years go by. He tells me he loves me. This time I’ve got it right. I’ve finally found the elusive “one” the world tells me I am supposed to be with until my hair greys, skin wrinkles, and beauty fades.
So far there have been four “the one[s]”, four men who came in like a summer breeze and went as a raging tempest, leaving the wreckage of my life in their wake. And so I pick up the pieces and reconstruct myself into a stronger, better version.
The one. He will fall in love with my independence, my ability to finance myself, my blazing self-respect. He won’t tell me he loves me then lean to his friends and whisper “it’s not serious.” He will believe in my dreams and goals. He won’t tell me that I am stuck in one place, destined to make no progress. If he did he wouldn’t know me at all. I’ve tasted the countries of the world, walked across states, overcome abuse and self-hate, and relentlessly pursued my education and career. He will love me as I have come to love myself, despite my struggles and because of my triumphs.
But I continue on and wait for man number five, because maybe, just maybe, next time I’ll have it right.