Today I feel tender. There are only so many wounds that the body can handle.
I also feel proud. Of being able to protect myself in a way that doesn’t feel like I’m building a brick wall, but rather a shield that I can raise and lower again. Something about not cutting myself off from the whole world the minute something hurts.
Perhaps the reason I’m not ready to extend my love to a new partner just yet is because I need that nourishment for myself. Not that I think my capacity for love is finite; more that with the time and resource I have, I want to focus inward. I’ve shown myself love in so many ways over the years. Learned how to make beautiful meals, dress my body in a way that delights me, turn four walls into a sanctuary, go out dancing, make new friends, clean the house every weekend, form a relationship with my craft, worked in a way that earns my own respect. So much of this love was grounded in creating stability. In shaping an environment that meant I would be able to open up a little, a bud in bloom.
I also used to romance myself, once upon a time. Take myself out for dinner, go see a film, walk along the river at night, wander to the flower market alone on a Sunday afternoon. I’d like to show myself that tenderness again. Undress myself the way a lover might, rub lotion over my legs with the same care I would for someone else. The last few years in a relationship meant that I stopped doing this for myself - but not because my partner did it for me. And that kind of romance quietly disappeared.
Another time, I’d like to write more about what romance could mean. For now, I know it’s a few things:
A new love put me on the kitchen counter once. I sat next to him while he made crepes, him refusing to let me lift a finger, even to eat. He cut the crepes and fed them to me with such tenderness, it made me shy. Then he took my hands and danced with me by the stove.
Another love tried to help me do a tie. He stood behind me and put his arms around me because he only knew how to tie one on himself. I felt electricity zing up my neck every time his fingers brushed my skin.
Another was ill in bed. I brought him medicine and soup and rubbed Vick’s on his chest. Half delirious, he ordered me a cab home, insisting that he wanted to see me home safely. Once, he ran through Bank station to catch the last train to mine before they stopped running. On our last night together, we pretended we were strangers in a bar. Our characters drank mezcal while sharing the truths we couldn’t say when real.
It’s all so bittersweet. I feel broken, and empty, and as though someone has scooped a hole from my stomach. One moment these memories give me hope that I will dance with someone in the kitchen again, the way I once danced on my father’s feet when I was small. Then I feel this ache. The truth is that the absence of romance in my last relationship - the fact that I accepted it for so long - shocks me a little. It’s so easy to disappear. Part of you slips down a side path and no one ever sees you again.
And it’s hard to do what needs to be done to protect myself, to heal, to let those forgotten pieces find their way back home again. I’ve wanted to be out in the world dating, though I’ve said ‘no romance,’ but I do want romance. I’ve always wanted romance. I just don’t want long-term, serious, monogamous relationships right now. I keep getting asked why I don’t just stop seeing people for a while. I’m not sure - part of it’s definitely a misguided attempt at curing loneliness. Part of it is because i genuinely like it and believe in the importance of it, for my wellbeing, for my ability to love people, for the learning…also for the plot. I don’t feel the desire to stop. I feel that it both helps and harms. And I’m not a ‘complete cut off’ person. I don’t often block people, for instance. But perhaps all that’s needed is to listen to my body and check in on what it is telling me.
Tonight, I’m protective. I’ve remembered that there are men who will conjure up a magical front, pretend at power, but who are deeply lonely, deeply broken. Better not to give them access to my light. There are people who I do not love and who do not love me who are still tender in bed, who stroke my hair and hold me close. One brought me flowers, held me through a panic attack, then fell in love with someone else while I was away for a few weeks. Another promised to buy me a photograph from one of my favourite artists, but never calls. None of it makes sense. They’re all just facts, just marbles rolling in the hand. No big insight about The Story; this is just how it is. For some people, out of sight becomes out of mind. Others are more elegant in their approach to humanity.
I’m looking for those elegant people. The ones who can be romantic, talk about art, spend a Sunday in bed, share a meal, talk about the other dates they’ve been on without any desire to inspire jealousy. I want easy companionship, grown-up, mature. I want people who know these kinds of entanglements are fleeting, and magical. They’re about remembering that love is possible. That relationships don’t have to be hard. That it’s not even about ‘practicing for a serious relationship’; it’s practicing being a human being connecting with another human being. These are the people looking to write a beautiful story.