Where’s My White Horse?

I grew up with a mental picture of what I wanted in a relationship and what I wanted in a partner. That shouldn’t be surprising because I spent hours fantasizing about it. Hiding in my room, huddled in the furthest corner from my locked door, I’d dream up beautiful futures where I was loved and able to love in return.

I imagined castles and princesses and flowers and grand dramatic gestures in crowded airports. I figured I’d do my time, take my lumps, and rise out of this soul-sucking, abusive hell-hole not only intact but better for it. I’d go to college, become a best-selling author, and bump into a beautiful woman while buying pet food in the grocery store. We’d giggle, introduce ourselves, and then ride off on my motorcycle (give me a break, I was 10) into the sunset.

Fast-forward to a cube on a noisy floor in central Texas 2008. I’m mid-cyber-sentence with Everclear’s Wonderful blasting steady and tinny into my fried brain. I know what song I was listening to because it was my usual I-wish-the-earth-would-swallow-me-whole-and-please-take-care-of-my-kitty-when-I’m-gone song. My eyes were watering and I had to stare up at the ceiling to prevent tears from designating me as THE most pitiful person in the office. I kept typing though, yelling through the internet at my ex who just didn’t know how to be an ex.

We argued, she called me, I yelled, she hung up, I went home early feeling like I couldn’t breathe and walked fully clothed into the shower with a bottle of some green liquor crap left over from a party.

I was at the tail end of a long and painful breakup. One I initiated because I didn’t feel like we had the same understanding of what makes a romantic relationship. We’d been struggling for a year after our breakup, having made the really bad decision to remain roommates. I was in a good enough paying job, but it wasn’t my dream and it wasn’t that exciting. Nothing was like I’d fantasized. It’d been 10 years since I’d actually seen anything castle-like and forget about the princesses. I didn’t even have a passport anymore.

I was depressed and disappointed and completely upset at myself. How could I possibly think I’d ever have happily ever after? It was a hoax, a lie, a security blanket I’d buried myself beneath throughout childhood. And now I was suffocating under it. I was pissed. No, I didn’t want to hear about everyone’s relationships – it sounded like they were all faking it anyway. And no, I didn’t want to go out and meet new people; they would just end up disappointing me. I was tired. And I was done. Done with trying and done with blindly believing.

Fairy tales had been my religion and I was ready to be an atheist.

But I’d cleaved to that belief from a VERY young age and I couldn’t quite shake the hope.

Two more years pass and 2.5 girlfriends go with it. I’ve been healing super old and festering wounds. I’ve been trying out alternatives to my super gay castle. I’m still hurting and I’ve spent the last two years telling myself two conflicting mantras: that I really just want to love someone; and that love doesn’t exist. This leads me to throw myself into every new relationship. To love before I even like. To care before I even know. To picture a future before the fifth date. I spend the whole relationship just hope hope hoping. Then, when it ends, I immediately step away, step back and tell myself, “That’s fine. Love doesn’t exist and I knew this was going to happen from the beginning.” Which is true. I damn the relationship before it starts, saying it probably doesn’t have a future and that I’m not even really interested, but then I whiplash U-haul it and allow all my actions to completely defy my words.

This dichotomy was killing me. I wasn’t happy in the relationships and I wasn’t happy out of them. I wasn’t happy. And I kept blaming romance. Kept saying that the big-screen love just didn’t exist when two people weren’t faking it.

I find that…sad. And kind of the easy way out. If fairy tales really were my religion, well then I was blaming my God for my own faults. I was showing a complete lack of faith. And I’d forgotten what being a romantic really meant.

It’s not all about the end of the journey. It’s not always Happily Ever After. Sometimes, the villain wins and the hero ends up alone. But it’s usually because the villain turned out to be not so bad, just misunderstood, and the hero wasn’t needing the love of another, she just needed to learn to love herself.

Most of the time, it’s about finding the adventure, the silver lining in the things other, non-romantic people view as sad and bereft. It’s about being able to wake up with a dog glued to your side and a cat purring into your ear and knowing that you’re completely happy. Today could be your last day and you know that you saw the good in what you had, appreciated it, enjoyed it, and that you have no regrets.

I’m not willing to debunk romantic love. It can happen. I choose to believe that. I won’t spend my time pining for it and I won’t try to satiate myself with the false gods of I-don’t-love-her-but-at-least-I’m-not-alone and romance-doesn’t-exist-so-what-we-have-is-good-enough. Instead, I choose to view myself as that hero, walking that path alone and loving myself into a whole person.

And if that misunderstood, totally hot villain bumps into me in some grocery store along the way? I’ll be ready and willing to give it an honest go.

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