“A love story is not about those who lose their heart but about those who find that sullen inhabitant who, when it is stumbled upon, means the body can fool no one, can fool nothing- not the wisdom of sleep or the habit of social graces. It is a consuming of oneself and the past” – "The English Patient"
My love life can only be described as a one giant PMS cycle: there are a lot of emotions, a lot of depressed thoughts, and a constant pain all over my body (minus the blood). Despite my numerous sexual partners, I have only had the pleasure of dating two individuals.
My first relationship was the poster child for every high school relationship: full of regrets, bad choices, rushed feelings, and failed commitment. We were basically kids playing house, trying to make grown decisions and life choices when we weren’t old enough to drive without parental supervision. As do most relationships, it ended with hard feelings and resentment coupled with a lack of closure.
My second relationship spun the tale of star-crossed lesbians, starring a girl who I thought I could fix and myself, the girl who thought she was special. Our toxic love story couldn’t change the fact that addiction was the more passionate lover, and that I couldn’t give what she truly wanted: relief.
I carried these relationships like weights stapled into my stomach, hiding them under layers of clothing, dry heaving at the thought of them sloshing around, repressing that they were put there in the first place. I have always been a fuck boi, preferring the company of a different suitor as opposed to a familiar face. I started using this mentality to build a barrier between myself and other people. Feelings were like herpes, you don’t realize you have them until they suddenly pop up, and you try to forget that they are there, lying dormant under the skin.
My past made me jaded. It made me resent affection that deviated from an unfamiliar sexual encounter with strangers. The touch of another, that was not an aggressive grab, made me uncomfortable.
My past made me feel ashamed. Why should I deserve a loving relationship, when all I have done is fuck people over? Fuckbois aren’t meant to find relationships. Sluts aren’t meant to be more than a receptacle for a man. Assholes don’t deserve true love.
However, none of this is true.
NO matter what you have been told in life, everyone deserves true love.
A love that consumes you, that eats away at your past and flourishes your future. A love that is flawed, yet beautiful and pure.
A love that makes you want to read sappy poetry and sneak surprise love letters and sit on your back porch, look up at the stars in your pajamas and smile like an idiot.
A love that makes us feel like giddy school girls playing footsie under the table at lunch.
A unrequited love.
It took me 20 years to realize that my body count, my drug use, my Tuesday nights spent drinking, my toxic relationships, and my cynical thoughts have no bearing on the love I deserve. We all deserve to be happy. We all deserve to find love, myself included.
Now go out. Find yourself, and find your consuming.
