Moving forward with deep regret
My last attempt at love was an absolute disaster. It was a two man titanic. It was the challenger explosion over and over again.
He held my fate in his hands and he knew that. His power over me was our downfall. I worshipped him the worse he treated me. The opposite of love isn’t hate — it’s indifference.
So here I embark, two years later, looking for a companion. I dated breifly last spring. Six months ago. Four dates. Two weeks of “…?” Texts. Finally deleted him from my phone.
I downloaded a new app that seems to match people based on short question prompts. I do my best to be clever. Witty. Charming. Pretty.
I flirt and make sure I’m commuting fully.
No part of me wants the old love. The broken love. The Hindenburg. The kamikaze. But I miss the electricity of it. The tension. The best and worst ever. The game of it.
In my life I’ve had no success. My longest relationship was 13 months from age 19–20 and he was admittedly cheating on me for the first part of that. I didn’t grow up with love. I never saw my parents kiss. My dad left when I was still in diapers.
My daughter hasn’t known any men in our life. I think that’s by design. I don’t want to ruin her the way I was. I don’t want her to feel safe with someone and wake up to him being gone. That wouldn’t be fair.
So. It’s back to coffee dates. Talking about tv shows. Wearing mascara and pretending to like sushi. Giving myself the chance to feel something.
I know I was fucked up. I know I still am. But I think working past that is fine. I can improve. I know I will be loved. It could take a century. I’ll keep going.
