I have not been single since I was 17. I am now 25. I acquired my first love—or at least at the time, what I horribly thought was “love”—eight years ago. Since then, I have not stopped. I have not stopped loving or being loved.
The longest I have ever been single is one month. Sadly enough, it may not even count, because in that one month, girl. did. not. get. any. rest. I was blowing off a cloud in one breath and fanning a flame in another.
Oh, but it’s the best preoccupation, isn’t it? This fall into the pit of love, then the inevitable conflict that occurs when two human beings try mushing their lives together. And finally, if it all works out, that satisfying-fall-into-bed-together-at-the-end-of-a-long-day-and-just-talk kind of love. It’s all engrossing stuff.
* * *
I’ve grown up. And I’m still growing up.
Sometimes, I choose not to humor the Blaming Beast, what I call the hateful, martyred creature living in my gut that tells me my feelings of inadequacy are my partner’s fault. Sometimes, I choose not to humor it.
But in other moments I’m not so proud of, it just feels so good to fall into another pit — Insecurity. I fall into it, make myself comfortable, throw pillows and whatnot, and tell myself insipid, self-hating little nothings — that I’m not sexy enough, thrilling enough, ambitious enough. That I’m just some silly little girl who’s not ready to play the Game of Adulthood.
* * *
I have not been single in almost a decade because I am afraid of loneliness. Wow — what an unoriginal predicament. And yet, here I am, my lot thrown in with other loneliness-phobic people who have become almost serial in their romantic activities.
I have not stopped loving or being loved because I cannot love myself.
It’s a weird, cold realization. I have never been enamored with myself. Dear reader, do you know what the definition of “enamor” is?
be filled with a feeling of love for; have a liking or admiration for.
Have I ever been filled with a feeling of love for myself? No, not really. I mean, some good days, I’ll look at my ass and think, daaaaaamn. But obviously, that’s not the same. That’s just vanity.
When I am alone, I feel this itch to rotate around someone else — I am the moon, enamored with the sun; the only revolution I start is around another person, forever reflecting the brighter light of others.
When does love for myself start? What process do I have to sign up for, what paperwork do I have to fill out, to be able to see myself and think, you are truly enough? Because I don’t feel that, and I yearn for it. For once in my life, when I am alone, I want to love it. For once, I want to be the sun.
Daily Post prompt: Enamored