What I want from falling in love
Sometimes I hear people in movies describe gentle touches, and I feel like I am disappearing for a moment, like I am melting into a moment in which I was touched that gently. It feels that way sometimes, doesn't it? Like the way that we reminisce is the same way that reminiscence is portrayed in film. You blink and the scene in front of you doesn't have your full attention anymore; your mind's eye is elsewhere.
Do things always seem better in hindsight? Do people fall in love with me the way that I fall in love with them? Do people love me because I am caring, because when they are happy, it makes me feel happy? Do people get afraid they will lose me, they won't get the experience of seeing me again?
I've written a bit about Mark, but in the way I wrote about Dra right after we broke up; in the kind of overtly rational tone, devoid of art, of feeling, more dedicated to reflection, to processing. The days in Hawaii with him felt like a gift; like each day I revealed more of my personality and my intelligence to him, the more he valued me. That isn't something I've felt before, when it is accompanied by mutual physical attraction. And certainly not something I have felt after the sex has already happened. Sometimes the fact of my physical appearance is so tiresome, so devoid of meaning, so easily misconstrued at the worst possible times.
Falling in love feels like going out to dinner, like conversation you never want to end, like each moment feeling easy, like something that doesn't make much sense, but doesn't need to. We went to Bubba Gump Shrimp, and I didn't want to be anywhere else. I think that's a bit what falling in love feels like, like not wanting to be anywhere else but in that moment, a complete sense of peace, and of feeling like you are exactly where you should be. I don't remember what we talked about, but I remember feeling like that with Dra, I remember feeling like that with Max, I remember four-hour long phone conversations with Dani when we first started dating. I remember feeling enthralled by a person, I remember moments of feeling like exactly the girl I had always dreamed of being.
Dani and I went to the zoo, we went to a tea shop in D.C., and there was no one I would rather have been with. We sat tangled together on a park bench near a construction site, we kissed furiously, desirous for privacy, thrilled by the lack of it. At his high school graduation, I sat alone away from his mother because I wanted to be there, for him. I hated being at his house, but when he got his wisdom teeth out, I sat next to him on his bed, I stroked his hair, I didn't eat when he didn't.
Life allows us these little moments, I guess, when everything feels alright, when we feel entirely satisfied, when we recognize the sensation of being loved and valued like people in the movies. There's something so intimate about having someone's head in your lap, about hugging someone without being asked, about having someone kiss the top of your head. The way holding hands can feel so natural, the way your voice changes when you are talking to someone you really like.
In other circumstances, it became obvious that the love I have had was not the kind that's built to last. It hasn't been the kind that can surpass distance, that changes to combat drifting apart. It's been the kind that changes me. And I don't know if that makes me happy.
I think back to the way I was strong enough to push Kevin away my freshman year of college, and I still can't entirely believe I accomplished it. I think of kissing him on the bench behind the library, of him touching my lips gently, and I remember feeling outside my body, hazy and willing to follow him anywhere. I think of staring at him across the table at Maxie's, of following him in a cab, sitting soaking wet next to him on a bus, of listening to him talk about his youth and his dreams, and I remember the stars in my eyes. A bit of me loved him. But he wouldn't stay. And so I was strong enough to push him away. I doubt my ability to do that again, and that makes me sad. It makes me sad to doubt my worth, my ability to bounce back from hurt, my ability to find someone new who makes me feel strong and valued.
I'm not entirely sure what I'm writing about here anymore.
I want to fall in love without the desperation. Without the terror of loss, the slow losing of myself as I dedicate it to another person. The idea that to be in love with someone means slowly being less in love with myself. I want a romantic love with someone the way I have familial love with my mom. I love her every day, and never once has this felt like subtracting from my love of myself. In fact, it feels like something that strengthens me. I love who she is, I love all she has done, I want to give her parts of myself because to add parts of her in those missing places is only to make me better. She is every beautiful part of me, of the world, and she is different from me in ways that are beautiful, and imperfect, and in ways that I love. She makes me feel like a beautiful person, a brave person, a strong person. She is the first person I want to talk to when I am happy, the first person I want to talk to when I am sad, the only person I want to talk to when I am scared. Every good thing in my life, I want to share with her.
Do things always seem better in hindsight? Do people fall in love with me the way that I fall in love with them? Do people love me because I am caring, because when they are happy, it makes me feel happy? Do people get afraid they will lose me, they won't get the experience of seeing me again?
I've written a bit about Mark, but in the way I wrote about Dra right after we broke up; in the kind of overtly rational tone, devoid of art, of feeling, more dedicated to reflection, to processing. The days in Hawaii with him felt like a gift; like each day I revealed more of my personality and my intelligence to him, the more he valued me. That isn't something I've felt before, when it is accompanied by mutual physical attraction. And certainly not something I have felt after the sex has already happened. Sometimes the fact of my physical appearance is so tiresome, so devoid of meaning, so easily misconstrued at the worst possible times.
Falling in love feels like going out to dinner, like conversation you never want to end, like each moment feeling easy, like something that doesn't make much sense, but doesn't need to. We went to Bubba Gump Shrimp, and I didn't want to be anywhere else. I think that's a bit what falling in love feels like, like not wanting to be anywhere else but in that moment, a complete sense of peace, and of feeling like you are exactly where you should be. I don't remember what we talked about, but I remember feeling like that with Dra, I remember feeling like that with Max, I remember four-hour long phone conversations with Dani when we first started dating. I remember feeling enthralled by a person, I remember moments of feeling like exactly the girl I had always dreamed of being.
Dani and I went to the zoo, we went to a tea shop in D.C., and there was no one I would rather have been with. We sat tangled together on a park bench near a construction site, we kissed furiously, desirous for privacy, thrilled by the lack of it. At his high school graduation, I sat alone away from his mother because I wanted to be there, for him. I hated being at his house, but when he got his wisdom teeth out, I sat next to him on his bed, I stroked his hair, I didn't eat when he didn't.
Life allows us these little moments, I guess, when everything feels alright, when we feel entirely satisfied, when we recognize the sensation of being loved and valued like people in the movies. There's something so intimate about having someone's head in your lap, about hugging someone without being asked, about having someone kiss the top of your head. The way holding hands can feel so natural, the way your voice changes when you are talking to someone you really like.
In other circumstances, it became obvious that the love I have had was not the kind that's built to last. It hasn't been the kind that can surpass distance, that changes to combat drifting apart. It's been the kind that changes me. And I don't know if that makes me happy.
I think back to the way I was strong enough to push Kevin away my freshman year of college, and I still can't entirely believe I accomplished it. I think of kissing him on the bench behind the library, of him touching my lips gently, and I remember feeling outside my body, hazy and willing to follow him anywhere. I think of staring at him across the table at Maxie's, of following him in a cab, sitting soaking wet next to him on a bus, of listening to him talk about his youth and his dreams, and I remember the stars in my eyes. A bit of me loved him. But he wouldn't stay. And so I was strong enough to push him away. I doubt my ability to do that again, and that makes me sad. It makes me sad to doubt my worth, my ability to bounce back from hurt, my ability to find someone new who makes me feel strong and valued.
I'm not entirely sure what I'm writing about here anymore.
I want to fall in love without the desperation. Without the terror of loss, the slow losing of myself as I dedicate it to another person. The idea that to be in love with someone means slowly being less in love with myself. I want a romantic love with someone the way I have familial love with my mom. I love her every day, and never once has this felt like subtracting from my love of myself. In fact, it feels like something that strengthens me. I love who she is, I love all she has done, I want to give her parts of myself because to add parts of her in those missing places is only to make me better. She is every beautiful part of me, of the world, and she is different from me in ways that are beautiful, and imperfect, and in ways that I love. She makes me feel like a beautiful person, a brave person, a strong person. She is the first person I want to talk to when I am happy, the first person I want to talk to when I am sad, the only person I want to talk to when I am scared. Every good thing in my life, I want to share with her.
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