Don’t Ask Me to Love You

I’ve been in love once in my life. I was 13, it was stupid. Not even a boyfriend. Just a cute pubescent boy who sat across me in a math class row.

Since then, I have never been in a serious relationship. Never have I ever done a couple photo, changed a Facebook status proclaiming a new love, or shared a Valentine's Day.

Through my early years of high school, I’d drop the occasional lie. “Oh yeah, my boyfriend isn’t from here. We see each other during summer time.” Just to fit in with the hormonal obsessed social microcosms of locker rooms and halls.

Then I graduated. Suddenly I was told I was attractive by every lanky 20-something living at home with a dog, or worse yet, his mom.

I did the dinners. Did the movies. Put in months of monogamy here and there. Participated in the physical attributes of hormonal attraction. But I was bored. Tired of a man’s cling. Turned it existential, questioned my role as a woman. Felt like a token, then wondered why I ever wanted to be someone’s girlfriend at all.

College; often called a sexual breeding ground, post the social revolutions of the 60's. For me, however, university gave what it was originally intended to do. It bred my knowledge, expanded my grasp on my very own potential. “Damn, I’m a smart asshole” was my internal monologue as my academic ego grew.

All my ex-young lovers saw it too. Saw just how independent I was destined to be. For them, it finally made sense why I got up and left them all in the dust. But, that didn’t stop them from wanting to hop back on to ride the skirt tails of my sunny disposition and success.

As for the future, I can see myself becoming the leading man of a Philip Roth novel. The loner writer type; always watching, always wondering, always diagnosing their own determinant cause. Hell, I’m already half way there with this voidful expulsion of a seemingly selfish mental upper hand.

But, I can see a future of me being in love. Blindly selfless, undoubtedly dedicated, cripplingly weak in the knees at the very smile of another human being. My heart is a hybrid of intimidating stone and wistful cotton balls.

I show everyone I meet both sides of my heart. My cocky air, my humble respect. My untouchable perseverance, my understanding patience. But, I am afraid of my inability to let it beat without the heavy pacemaker wall of my analytical side. I worry, it will turn to ice before I give it a chance to grow.

I am scared of my own thoughts. I am scared they will ween me off of human interaction. Force me to remove the word “vulnerable” from the very code of my mind.

I’m sure I’m not alone with this nearly neurotic ebb and flow of the heart and mind. I think in the recesses of our ideas, we are all a little afraid of the people we might become; if left alone, if not given enough space.

I won’t be young much longer. One day I hope to have a son or a daughter. A child that I can help find their own world.

But, while I am here, alone in this room;

Don’t ask me to love you because you want me.
Don’t ask me to love you because I am a pretty girl.
Don’t ask me to love you because you feel that I owe it to you.

I’ll love you when I am able to. When and if I ever find you, the person I learn to let my heart beat to. Just don’t ask me to love you, because I am a stubborn, slightly narcissistic witty cotton filled nerd.

And I will never listen to anyone else but my own soul.