I had an unpleasant epiphany the other day. One of those moments of clarity where I wanted to sink down out of sight even though there was no one to be embarrassed in front of but me.
I recently acquired an admirer named Holly. We have little in common other than a love of hockey, but her two sequential "good morning" messages followed by asking me about my day and telling me about hers when those messages went unanswered suggested that her interest in me may be romantic, as did the big doe eyes she flashed me after the game when she wanted to give me her phone number. She is very available and has no shame in showing it. An admirable quality, really, even though I did turn her down.
Having someone express an interest in me makes me horribly uncomfortable.
Part of my discomfort stems from memories of getting pulled into relationships I didn't want to be in out of a sense of erroneous obligation to "give them a chance because this could be it, they could be the one." Another part of it comes from saying yes to things I would otherwise have said no to in order to get needs met because I didn't know how else to do it.
The other part, the one that disgusts me, is the memory of my obsessive behavior of the past towards those whom, at the time, I had considered to be purely romantic interests.
Once upon a time I imposed so much expectation on these individuals, these emotionally unavailable and only mildly interested dudes, to say and do the things I needed to become whole again. To make me feel safe. Things that I would later learn could only be done by myself and for myself.
Memories of this behavior feel like a storm. A dark, swirling current inside me. I don't like remembering how normal my crazy felt. Lost, sick. For so many years.
Walking the dogs through their neighborhoods as though drawn there by some magical loveforce, hoping for off-chance meetings that, fortunately, never happened.
Laying catatonic in bed for hours, daydreaming about a perfect future with someone I refused to believe when he said he didn't want that with me.
Checking likes and comments on social media, looking for signs online and in person, no matter how obscure, to confirm that my obsessions could be rationalized, that the feelings were mutual, that I wasn't just some crazywoman on the edge of becoming a stalker.
DAMMIT, THAT WOMAN WAS ME.
I am that woman that believed the next guy could save me, or if not him, surely the next, and the next, to the point where I completely obliterated my oldest and deepest desire to simply be alone, strong, and independent. To be safe, just being me.
Holly's unbridled interest triggered in me a memory of my own insanity, and my default reaction was to identify the root cause of my extreme discomfort as her, the other person. I created a threat out of someone benign, just as I had created saviors out of unavailable men.
I escaped a cult of my own making, and only now am I beginning to see the unpleasant and sometimes revolting lifestyle in which I participated.
But to truly learn from, grow from, and forgive myself for my past, I must be completely honest about what it is.
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