In the last few months, I have had perhaps half a dozen firsts, a couple of seconds but only one third date. And what happened there frightened me a little. Because the truth is, if it wasn’t him then maybe before long, it would probably have been me.
I get to a certain point and then I feel myself pull away. I put up my defenses: complete bloody independence and self-sufficiency. I start to wonder how it will end, and question if I am really ready to risk the status quo of what is a joyful and fulfilling (and safe) single life. And of course there are the demons of the past who start whispering to me that I won’t be enough. Not pretty enough. Patient, loving, witty. Enough. Because people can slip out of promises as quickly as bushfire spreads. People leave. People die. People fall out of love. And then I find myself worrying over the dumb stuff and I can’t be fully and truly myself. Relaxed, happy, content in my own skin. And granted, sometimes irrational and frightened and vulnerable; sans pom poms. If I show you the crazy, there is a chance you will leave. Sometimes it feels safer to just not take the chance.
I want to be mostly the me I have had glimpses of over the last few years; with courage and contentment at my core. That me doesn’t hold on too tightly to the things I am afraid will slip away. And I am nearly there. Almost whole. I want to be enough for me and for you, my future love. I feel as though I am wearing a sign: ‘please pardon the dust: woman under construction’.
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