For some reason I thought it would be a great idea to watch both Bridget Jones’s Diary movies back to back today, and in the process of that, I fell in love with Colin Firth. Or maybe Mark Darcy, but either way, whether it be Colin Firth the actor or Mark Darcy the perfectly boring and adorable human rights lawyer, one of them put a spell on me today and made me yearn – I mean certifiably ACHE – for a boyfriend. And I kept thinking, if Bridget Jones can do it, I can too, right?
One of these days, I tell myself. It’s not something that I’ve mentioned here, or to anyone out loud, because – embarrassing! I haven’t dated anyone in five years. FIVE YEARS. Sex, well, ugh. I don’t really want to go there. Let’s just say I’ve been lucky enough to get laid a few times in the interim, but. There’s something to be said for having a man in your life you can call up at any time and they will come over and happily fuck you. Hence, I yearn for a boyfriend so that he can give me sex.
I wish it were deeper than that. Being an “adult” now, I realize that what society thinks I should be looking for is a partner, a mate, a husband. Not just some dude who will cater to my sexual whims and occasionally take me out to dinner and a movie, and who will lift heavy things for me as the need arises. Even I wish that is what I wanted, but I just don’t now, and that’s okay, because I know why.
There’s a man out there in the world who I am still totally in love with. He’s thousands of miles away from me and I haven’t seen or spoken to him in years. Actually, it’s been four years, eight months, and seventeen days.
I still love him. So it makes it hard to even really want to date anyone – partly because I feel like it wouldn’t be fair to whoever I date for them to know that they aren’t getting my full hearts attention. Partly because I don’t believe yet that it’s possible to love anyone else as much as I love him.
It’s so sick, right? I know it is. I know it’s sick and it’s crazy and it’s ridiculous and it’s honestly fucking pathetic. I feel like a fourteen year old.
But I still love him. I still want to marry him and have babies with him and get old and die with him. I met him when I was sixteen, and all I ever wanted to be when I grew up was his.
It’s his birthday today.
I haven’t cried. Since I have been going to hours and hours of therapy a week, since I’ve been taking a handful of pills every morning, I haven’t really even been able to cry. But from the moment I woke up this morning, painfully aware of the date on the calendar, I’ve felt a hollow pounding in my chest and I have a lump in my throat that just won’t go away.
I still love him. I still want to wish him happy birthday, like I wished him happy birthday for twelve years in a row before it all fell apart.
All I can say is that I don’t know what to say about this anymore, because I am pushing upward while looking downward and it’s funny to me that I am plunging into all of these news habits and routines and intentions while struggling with a self doubt larger than any I’ve dealt with in the past.
In the last month of recovery, I have felt furiously alive in a place that feels very dead, I have been living parallel to the way that the monsters inside my head are telling me I deserve to live. I feel like everything that has happened since the day of sedation, of being stripped of everything but my shaking skin – everything that has happened has been meant to be. For the best. A whole list of other trite, common phrases that translate to: okay. I feel hope in front of me, I feel a hot sun waiting to peek over a hill. I feel an ocean of possibility that can include anything – everything – including a new boyfriend, another chance.
But I still love him. And I’d love to start a day, just one single day! born without regret, but after four years, eight months and seventeen days, I am starting to think that just isn’t possible anymore.