In high school, I knew a couple who had a very sweet relationship. I believe it to have been genuine love and admiration. They made a deal- if one was going to break up with the other- he or she would gift, her or him, a yellow rose- a sign of friendship. This is my yellow rose to my- him.
I got caught up again. To be fair- I was rather suckered in- I DID make a choice- whether subconsciously or not- to play the sucker- though I tried not to, I convinced myself I wasn’t going to- I even said it out loud to him. But… he was even more convincing and who doesn’t want to live in a fancy fairytale? I told him- I don’t fall head over heals in love- especially not on the first date- or the second. But he was 41 years old and an avid dater and he was adamant that this was special in a way that was “special.” He said, so much of what he had done in his life had prepped him for this relationship. In just the first couple weeks he had already started worrying that I wouldn’t have enough time for him, that he wouldn’t be a priority. My logical, more emotionally evolved, more relationally realistic side knew this was a lot for just the beginning. He doesn’t know me, but he is certain he does. This is alluring and exciting. And no matter how much I thought I was holding onto being realistic- I was swept away. And now, just one month later- I am not a priority.
We have intensely good sex. Like- stupid good sex. Could I just be his girl on the side? I probably could have been- mostly likely it would have been just fine. Except, I got whisked away into some fairy tale idea of what we will be and now I’m here alone. And I wouldn’t feel alone- had I not been carried here- or I suppose- gone along, since I made my own stupid choices to follow storylines that didn’t yet exist. Now I’ve lost my fantasy appeal and he doesn’t call me every night anymore and I feel sad and left. I don’t have his attention like I once did and when I ask for it- I must seem neurotic- how could I expect that much attention? Well I wouldn’t- except at one time I had it and now it’s gone and I miss it. I bet he’s now messaging other ladies, onto new romances. He’ll replace me soon, like I replaced the other. And really though- I don’t entirely care and yet somehow I’ve been obsessing about it.
I’ve been stuck thinking about it for days.
I have a lot of feelings about it.
One points me to the need to feel special- or more accurately, worthy of love and attention. But I’ve worked on this and I don’t need him to feel special. I have me, to know that I am special and I can make choices that put me in situations that show me I’m worthy of love and attention.
I’m not in need of companionship. I have another. I could think about how wonderful he is. I could even find others.
I’m not bored- I have fun with myself, I have classes to take, friends to visit, stories to write, books to read.
So why am I stuck here?
And then it finally hits me. It was the story. I really loved the story. And it’s not coming true. I have to mourn the death of a story. And I’m mad. I’m mad at him- for making a story- at 41 he should have known better. But more accurately, I’m mad at myself- for allowing myself to believe that story, for starting to live in that story. This is another lesson in being present and living in the present. For accepting things as they are, not as they will be. For making choices and setting boundaries around what really is. I am freeing us of the story so I can have gratitude for our reality. Even writing this is helping me erase the fiction.
Now I can accept things as they are and as they were. I can reminisce about what did happen. Cause it WAS fun. He IS awesome. He IS super cute. We flirted GREAT. We fucked GREAT. We did care for each other.
I’ve buried that story and on it’s grave I have set this yellow rose.