[I chanced upon this post languishing as a draft in my blog. It was written around a year ago now.]
I've spent a lot of my 20s so far trying to recalibrate myself as an independent person. I was 23 when I broke up after a long (and mostly immensely fulfilling) relationship that started when I was 19. I wasn't sure how to go about my newly-single life around then.
The shakiness of being by yourself, the singular texture of feeling when you're the only one at a girls' night out who doesn't need to whip out her phone and text someone or check for texts from someone, rushing into and forcing love out of people and situations that may have thrived beautifully in lower intensities; I cannot wish them away.
But then all these experience slowly percolated and collected into something that changed the way I looked at things. By 2015, my head was in a much better place. I've had to grow up and be there for myself and by myself for the last 8 months -- necessitated by a lover who could not and would not be there to pick up my pieces for me -- so I'm getting really good at finding emotional fulfillment within myself. Being around couples in love throws you off so much though, because if you let it be, every gesture can become a judgement of the lack of it in your life.
I now think, even as I prepare to go to Canada -- that you can seek physical intimacy any time you like. It is easier than emotional fulfillment. For that, you have yourself.
***
I'm borrowing from stories that aren't only my own, but also partners from my past:
I used to joke with K. about how he could sleep through a nuclear explosion in our initial days. When the months turned to years, the affability of that joke changed into a proto-complaint. "If there was a robber who broke into our house, you'd sleep right through it" I'd tell him. But soon enough it hit me: why did I need anyone to protect me at all? People used to joke about how K. was slender, waifishly thin and short and I think the implication always is that someone like that will not be able to protect you. But why should anyone else be responsible for my body's safety? I think we take that on, out of love, as lovers, as partners, but I do not think it is the basis of a relationship or a marriage that the other person "must be able to protect me from danger". You're dating a human, not pepper spray.
I've spent a lot of my 20s so far trying to recalibrate myself as an independent person. I was 23 when I broke up after a long (and mostly immensely fulfilling) relationship that started when I was 19. I wasn't sure how to go about my newly-single life around then.
The shakiness of being by yourself, the singular texture of feeling when you're the only one at a girls' night out who doesn't need to whip out her phone and text someone or check for texts from someone, rushing into and forcing love out of people and situations that may have thrived beautifully in lower intensities; I cannot wish them away.
But then all these experience slowly percolated and collected into something that changed the way I looked at things. By 2015, my head was in a much better place. I've had to grow up and be there for myself and by myself for the last 8 months -- necessitated by a lover who could not and would not be there to pick up my pieces for me -- so I'm getting really good at finding emotional fulfillment within myself. Being around couples in love throws you off so much though, because if you let it be, every gesture can become a judgement of the lack of it in your life.
I now think, even as I prepare to go to Canada -- that you can seek physical intimacy any time you like. It is easier than emotional fulfillment. For that, you have yourself.
***
I'm borrowing from stories that aren't only my own, but also partners from my past:
I used to joke with K. about how he could sleep through a nuclear explosion in our initial days. When the months turned to years, the affability of that joke changed into a proto-complaint. "If there was a robber who broke into our house, you'd sleep right through it" I'd tell him. But soon enough it hit me: why did I need anyone to protect me at all? People used to joke about how K. was slender, waifishly thin and short and I think the implication always is that someone like that will not be able to protect you. But why should anyone else be responsible for my body's safety? I think we take that on, out of love, as lovers, as partners, but I do not think it is the basis of a relationship or a marriage that the other person "must be able to protect me from danger". You're dating a human, not pepper spray.
