Confessions of a Hopeless Romantic
“This is the very last time. Never again!” — I should hire someone to keep count of the number of times I have reiterated these words. My life follows a definitive pattern. From a state of forced reluctance to love, and from there to a bad (understatement of the century) break up. Each time that happens, I look into the mirror and promise myself to finally take the vow of singlehood, and every time I do this, I can feel my tear-stained reflection looking back at me in utter disappointment.
Parents freak out when their daughters suddenly go through the gothic or emo phase, and wait in anticipation for the dark side to come calling. I steered clear from that path, but what I chose instead, wasn’t really the best option either. Growing up on a steady diet of fairy tales and romance movies/novels has its own shortcomings. My parents were satisfied with the little princess they were raising and I made the mistake of believing that I was one. As soon as a love song played on the radio, I would stare out the window, pretending to be the lovelorn dame in search of her savior. No matter what, my only solution to having a happy life was to be with the right man.
I soon discovered that I had been endowed with the talent of being able to balance my professional and personal life without any major glitches and so as soon as I was of a dateable age (age being a debatable issue here), my heart began to yearn for someone special. Thus began the long chain of really, really terrible relationships.
Looking back I realize that I have never really been single, save for those one-two months between each new date. I cried and whined to my friends, dramatically declared being a social recluse and even confined myself to the house. But, that never lasted for too long and once again I would find myself getting attracted to a stranger with promises of a better tomorrow.
Why could I not enjoy my own company for a while? The feminist in me seemed particularly bothered by the fact that I needed a guy to make me happy and I tried to fight that.
A love doctor’s diagnosis would be this — I suffer from “hopelessly romanticovitis”. Trample over my heart innumerable times and I will still retain my positivity and embark on a journey, not actively looking for new love, but finding and accepting one anyway. The problem is that I thrive on all that drama. I enjoy the nerve-tingling excitement of getting to know someone new, that sensation of warmth that fills my heart with every new declaration of love, and the companionship I receive.
That feeling of never feeling lonely is addictive, albeit a little self-destructive.
Two years ago, I had the worst break up and it taught me the importance of self -love. My heart however remained a slave to its habits and kept scouting for probable liaisons. The scary thing is that sometimes, it ended up finding the wrong sort and that is when I knew I had to stop.
And I did. Stop, I mean. For six whole months. Quite an achievement on my part. Epiphanies do not bode well with me and I tend to forget about them quite easily. I am once again in a relationship, expecting to get hurt and at the same time hoping not to. You might ask why I keep doing this. The answer is simple really — love is like the first sip of hot chocolate after an evening out in the cold. It might taste brilliant or absolutely disgusting, but while you decide on that, the warmth from the mug will have already seeped into your very soul.