So tonight, I wrote Dana a short story (more of a drabble really) about her meeting her very own dreamboat and it got me started on the same road that I have visited several times over.
WHY DON’T I HAVE A BOYFRIEND.
I think sometime over the past few years, I have just kinda subconsciously accepted the notion that I’ll never actually have someone; that I’m never going to have that special ending. Even now, the idea of someone loving me that much, loving every part of me so much that he’s willing to spend the rest of his life with me is ludicrous and hard to accept. Right now, I honestly can’t see that happening, it just seems too unbelievable.
And that’s really bad. I seriously need to work on myself, and change the things that I don’t like about myself. Only then will I genuinely feel that I am someone worth loving. If not, even if I somehow stumble into a relationship, I will always doubt myself, I will never feel like I am good enough for the other party.
This is why I give the other party too much power I think. Cause when you don’t love yourself, you can’t expect someone else to. And when you can’t do that, you start trying too hard, and not expecting anything in return. WHICH IS BAD. Because you do deserve it, and you need to start believing it.
We look at all these amazing fictional male characters and wonder why we don’t have someone like them. Well, if you want a Sexy Shang, you have to be a Mulan.
So I need to work on myself first. Once I achieve that, it will happen. I think I just achieved the emotional maturity to truly understand and appreciate this beautiful poem.
Love After Love
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.