Ever have one of those moments? One of those human moments where you ponder on your own life? And not in a sentient, “where did we come from?” kind of moment. More so a “what’s out there for me?”
I have been told I’m a good writer and I struggle with believing it, mostly because I’m a woman and I believe many of us have been socialized against compliments. It’s like, the line between confidence and arrogance is so thin, even toeing it is implicitly forbidden.
What I can say I’m an expert in is pushing men away. And, when I’m too close to push, I simply just run. I can’t say exactly why. I mean, I write romance novels so I must believe in romance to some degree. But there’s something overwhelming about having someone close. That is why I write my characters, especially my men, with so much devotion. With flaws. As you’ll see in Julien’s book, his love for Ari is surreal and I think we like books like that, not because we want to f*ck a former navy SEAL (…much), but because we can’t see into the minds of men.
Men are socialized not to be emotive. Or, if so, in secret. Many are also socialized into being utter and complete assholes. There is the entire, “Men weren’t made to be with one woman” ideology when the man telling you that would never come close to fitting the alpha role befitting of that status.
At some point, I think we are raised to be polar opposites of each other and then somehow, tasked with coming back together and creating a life. Those of us who dance a little outside the mean, who have slipped one “two” many standard deviations away from center, we dance alone.
Me, I’ve been broken. I am flawed and I’ve been damaged. There is the saying, “I’m not what happens to me,” but awareness is fleeting. One day, you feel like you are stronger than those who stole your innocence and others, you feel like you let it be taken. And it is in those moments, in these moments I ask myself…what’s out there for me?
Do I get to have the hot guy (at least, in my eyes)? Will he be able to look past things about me that won’t change? Will he be able to love me in the way I love myself? Will he have hands large enough to, those moments when I stumble, when I fall, catch me? Take care of things? Let me take care of him? Will he allow me to worry when he has to fly or drive long distances or even if he gets ill because, at the end of the day, I want him in my life? That I’d fight fate to keep him? Will he pull me out of my shame and remind me, in those moments, these moments, that I’m not what happened to me?
Or is that all best served in fiction?
It feels unfair, really, to have a heart that beats in fear, beats in anxiety, and beats searching for love without being able to control the “when.” Or the “why.” And damn sure not the “how.” And it feels unfair for asshole-ry to be a transient thing, leaving you wondering why the “asshole” is married with kid(s) and you’re alone, stepping on the broken pieces that keep chipping away from your heart. If his life is seemingly going well and you have to tie a rope to heaven in order to prevent yourself from slipping too far into depression, wouldn’t the logical answer then be that the problem is you?
So, this is where I am. I’m the girl who sees love through my binoculars, dancing like Rumpelstiltskin in the middle of the woods, but I never approach. And when possible love approaches me, I run…run like hell. I’m the girl who has made pushing men away into an art form. Art that can be sculpted and put on display in a DC museum.
For all the girls like me, the women like me, the men like me, don’t fret. There are tunnels, there are ladders. There is always the possibility that love is simple, that it possesses an inner child that, when you decide to run from it, it’s more like a game of tag.
You’re IT and love will chase your ass until it wraps you up in a world, a feeling…the world, the feeling you knew you needed, but could have never imagined.