I’ve been in love three times.
The first love was new. Everything was so perfect. Our first kiss in his muddy cult-de-sac still makes my heart beat fast, because then it just seemed like every component of love I’d ever envisioned [or not] was connecting in one defined moment of fulfillment. Every song about love rang true, and my young heart exploded with an excitement that This Was It, finally. We danced in puddles and slept in blueberry fields. We exchanged glances from across a world and understood without a doubt that we would never find anything so flawless. We sat under bleachers and accepted our fate as soulmates. The world was muted; nothing mattered but love.
Sometimes I still wish it was that easy. I fought so hard against the idea that it could continue to be ‘all I needed’ and in the end, that fighting lead to what I’m pretty sure is Love-slapping-me-in-the-face. I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t pushed so hard for space even when all I wanted to do was give into my feelings. I guess stubbornness and pride got in the way of a boy that gave me his heart for so long, even when I chose to ignore it. What if I was there now, drinking late-afternoon coffee and reading books out loud with him at a cozy cabin in Tahoe? Would it still be the same?
I guess I don’t get the choice to know.
The second love was on fire. It was brief but fierce, hard to control, and ultimately scorched my heart to embers. Maybe it was that South Pacific Breeze, or my quest for finding things I fear and indulging in them, but I gave my heart so hard I’m surprised there was anything left when this Love failed me. I ignored all common sense, closed my eyes and took the ride. My beliefs and my mind and my comprehension were challenged, and, for some reason that made me love him even more.
But I was a kid, and he wasn’t—or maybe it was the other way around. We both needed something, and for a while, it was each other. It was learning and inspiring and becoming. It was skinny dipping with sharks. And when it was over, it almost seemed like I’d imagined the entire thing. All that was left was a few books, a lonely tattoo, and my sudden hatred for all that was love. I still think about him sometimes, and I know he does the same. We hardly ever talk, but he constantly inspires.
He was the only one that has ever scaled a barbed wire fence to eat popcorn with me.
The third love was the best. Or the worst, depending. I know I’m still young, but I feel like being alive for 23 years has at least taught me a thing or two. That’s why when Love Three came along I knew he was Love Three by date three. I’d learnt from leaving my first love that sometimes you have to sacrifice some things for love. Sometimes you have to sacrifice everything for it.
So I did.
I gave up my persistence of independence and instead let him take me in his arms and life and show me how it was to be. I let down my walls. He was everything. And it was worth it, because for some reason I was smiling even in the lowest moments. It was perfect. I was going to spend the rest of my life with this talented, hilarious, unique and uplifting man. There was no question.
Until there was a question. Something lingered in the back of my mind. Then someone planted a seed of doubt in my mind. They asked me why I had given up that unique/independent part of myself for some boy. They challenged my dedication. They told me that now was the only time I was allowed to be selfish—I was young and needed to figure shit out for myself before making any sacrifices for someone else. The seed grew into a secret uncertainty of this relationship and what I was giving up to be with the love of my life. Every disagreement was magnified, every flaw of his stood out ten times as it had when I was veiled with love. All of a sudden, it wasn’t perfect. I was selfish. I didn’t want to give up what I had just yet.
And then it was over, and somehow I though ‘I’m free… finally.’ I was allowed the opportunity to go on and keep being myself.
But now, after 6 months, I still can’t help feeling like I was most free when I was with him. I was free to love as hard as I wanted and be accepted, truly, for every part of me, including my shortcomings. I was free to tell someone exactly how I felt about them, and how they made me feel about myself, and bask in the loveliness of not needing anything else.
I tried making it better. I admitted fault, apologized ceaselessly, and tried explaining what had happened and where I had gone wrong. I was persistent, charming, honest and bold. But something had changed. Not just in me, but in him. There was a hard shell around him now that I couldn’t penetrate…a deep seeded hatred that fully encompassed a once passionate and perfect person. He had indulged in the anti-existence. And it’s my fault. I made the perfect man completely suck.
I know he doesn’t think he sucks. From what I can tell, he’s convinced himself that he’s never been happier. Maybe he thinks ‘fitting in’ will be the answer to finding another girl that loves him more than I did, or finding one that won’t make him hurt as bad as I did. It makes me sad, and I don’t really know what to do. I think about him every day, every night, every time I think of something funny or beautiful or dream of traveling somewhere exotic. I assumed that we would end up together, but every day it seems like we are walking towards different oceans in different worlds and will never be able to find our way back. How do I let go? And is it possible to stop blaming myself?
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My advice to you is stop being selfish and start loving as hard as you can. Don't listen to anyone else, and for the love of God, if you meet someone that is your perfect compliment, bring him with you wherever you go.
This is getting over you.
