After breaking up with my best friend, whom I’ve known for over a year, I’m in a particularly foul mood. I feel very upset. But it had to be done, just like a wound needs to be cauterised for it to heal; she was not good for my mental health, said several things which deeply hurt myself and my family (the kind of things you can’t go back from saying—things surrounding death, life and everything in between) and to be honest with you, I believed it was time to part ways. Toxic relationships do nothing except eat away at you, and I learned long ago, ever since someone in my extended family hurt me very deeply (see my Sexual Harassment Experience), that it’s better to cut ties with someone who isn’t healthy for you and hurts you rather than cling in the hope things will get better for the fear of being lonely and having no-one to talk to. Problems had been building for while, she’d said several hurtful things in the past that I ignored and brushed under the carpet even though they cut me to the core, I kept making excuses for her, even when she acted incredibly badly and said things which made me feel as though someone had ripped open my chest and tore my heart out—and one day, I woke up, and realised enough was enough. I’ve had enough monsters for one lifetime.
But this post isn’t about my ex-best friend. No. This is about my future boyfriend. Something positive or negative, depending on how you look at it. I’ve wanted a boyfriend for a very long time. It’s not because everyone else has a boyfriend or because I’ve been brainwashed by the media into believing the key to happiness lies in the attainment of romantic love or some other shtick like that. It’s something more than that. There’s just something incredibly comforting about the male presence (when it is wanted) that I’ve missed since my father left me. Of course, I have plenty of love from my mother and siblings, but it’s not the same, is it, compared to a proper, male presence. I can’t explain what exactly it is, but men have this way of carrying themselves, this aura, this almost swashbuckling, braggardly, boyish feel about them, which I find very comforting and appealing. It’s as if—and I suppose this is the case—men and women are meant to live together, to bring their energies together and exist in harmony and peace. Without the combination of the two energies, one feels as though one is operating at half the level of strength one should be exuding.
There’s nothing in the world like a man that cares for you and loves you deeply. It really is something else. To find one, well, that is something else, too, because it’s so incredibly difficult. In capitalist societies, too often men and women retreat into the world of technology and consumerism in an attempt to assuage their own loneliness instead of reaching out to each other, and I’m no different. When I go outside, if I see someone particularly handsome, I’d rather eat my own hat (well, who wears hats these days, anyway? I’d eat my own t-shirt, since it’s the summer in Australia right now) than go up to them and talk to them, ask them about their day, start “chatting them up”. I physically cannot do it. Make the first move, I mean. I honestly think it’s not in my blood. Or I’m just a coward.
Does anyone else understand what I’m talking about, this desire for a comforting male “presence”? It’s like being in the glow of something soft and warm, like a fireplace, when you are shivering and cold. That’s exactly what it’s like. I suppose I can explain it after all, although in metaphors. I guess it’s only natural for women to be drawn to men and vice versa, it is how our species has survived this far. It’s biological, psychological, spiritual, societal. Love winds up in everything, from the entertainment industry to why we wage wars against other people. And I’m missing it. It really does feel as though I’m a puzzle with half the pieces missing. Like everyone is inside, inured from the cold, while I’m out in the snow, trying to trace my own footprints to find my way home.
I go on Instagram sometimes, scrolling through photographs of couples kissing each other on the cheek, or watch boyfriend-or-husband-tags on Youtube, and a wistfulness comes over me, like clouds across a prairie. I want that, I think, silently, to myself. Will I ever have that? My mouth pinches into a cold sort of expression and I retreat into myself, hands clasping in my lap.
Maybe I’ll end up as the strange little woman with a small cottage filled with cats who wears mismatched scarves and scowls at children on the street as she makes her daily walks throughout the village. You know, the crazy cat lady, with wild eyes and bedraggled hair, unloved until the very end. Some part of me honestly believes that will happen, because at this stage in my life, I can’t imagine ever bumping into someone magically and starting a relationship which ends in marriages and babies and a house with a picket fence. It just seems—-absurd. Unimaginable. How do people meet people, anyway? I certainly don’t meet anyone as I go about my days. Not a single person catches my eye lately, and even if they do, it never leads anywhere, it’s not as if they’ll just suddenly fall in love with me sitting across from me on the train or the bus and sit next to me and introduce themselves like in the movies and books. That doesn’t happen.
And I’m picky. Incredibly picky. The guy for has to be—well, he doesn’t have to be good-looking. He doesn’t have to be rich. He just has to have that special something about him, a kind of innocence and purity, kindness and gentleness, creativity and uniqueness. I’m a sucker for very pure-hearted and innocent guys. He would remind me of me, before I was tainted by society and other people. Worldly guys, wise guys, super-brave tough guys, smart guys—they’re all well and good. But give me a simple and innocent man any time of the day.
I just don’t know if it’ll ever happen and that’s depressing on one level and downright miserable on another. I’m getting older. Not too old, but old enough to start dating, to have that sweetheart and plans for marriage in the offing. I’m not a little girl anymore, or a teenager—-I’m an adult. It’s about time. All my friends are pairing off, left, right and centre, I’m left alone, unmoored, wondering when my day will come.
I think the movies lied. I think books lie. I think I’ve been lied to, you know. I don’t think the fairytale ending exists, and even if it does, I don’t think it happens to everyone. It’s just mathematically not possible. My “soulmate” might be wandering on the planet somewhere but what are the chances I’ll ever meet them and actually get the chance to fall in love with them? Very low, I’m assuming. Sure, heaps of people fall in love and get married everyday, but there are also heaps of lonely and unloved people, who never find their prince or princess. Who live their lives until the end of the days without ever experiencing what it’s like to be in love.
Yes, I’m in a foul mood. In case you couldn’t tell.