The “why her won’t marry her” bit raised some comments and questions on where I’m coming from. Am I bitter because he wouldn’t marry me? Well, no, if only because I’ve been quite careful to avoid a he, to date only guys whom I knew I could do without. This doesn’t mean they all aren’t lovely (too lovely) in their way, just that I’ve chosen men that I don’t quite want forever, so that saying the inevitable goodbye wouldn’t break my heart.
I’ve finally figured that this doesn’t work. It’s not strength. It’s not living. It’s the behavior of a weak and frightened soul who clings to a semblance of control, keeping safe distance from others to avoid feeling that incredible pain of loss again. But did I even feel it properly the first time? Or did I sense a tinge of the pain and reject it, bury it, let it grow into cold and fear? Perhaps finally feeling it, living it, grieving it will let it go, give it up, so that I can breathe fully again.
On some level, my mind and body always wanted to be rid of the grief, to finally feel the pain. The casual relationships with the guys whom I’d never meant to be mine magically transformed into bad relationships that kind of hurt and then inevitably ended dramatically, short-lived but always too long for I’d never intended to be there with them. In these patterned relationships I provided myself a chance to see, to feel, to release the abandonment and pain I’d stuffed deep down into my being, yet I preferred to be strong, closed and unemotional. I’m amazed—frightened even—of how well I’ve managed to fool myself. To hurt myself. Anger was the only emotion I allowed, and it grew hotter by the year.
So you see, no, I’m not aching to get married. Even as a small kid I don’t remember fantasizing about a fabulous wedding. When I was about ten I told my dad at dinner that I never wanted to get married. Even then I sensed the potential loss of personal freedom in the whole game, which lives in my genes related to but apart from my fear of grief and loss. Even now, when I wake up in the night with one of my boys beside me, it seems that my giant bed has lost mass and I feel panicked and suffocated. Trapped. Are women supposed to feel this way? Not according to the headlines, we aren’t. This, I find irritating. And in this, I know I am not alone.