When I was a little girl, I thought the most important love you could ever feel was romantic love.
I was always that girl in love with love. It started with fairy tales–I was such a Disney kid. For some reason I honestly believed that life wasn’t complete until you met that prince, and he made your dreams come true. Even as a teenager, I thought that as soon as I found that person, everything would finally fall into place, that I would be happy. I spent a lot of my teenage (and young adult years) unhappy: with my body, with my life, with myself. I threw myself into what I thought was love, hoping that one person could fix everything. Make me whole; make me happy.
And I did find love, real love. But here was the thing about it that I didn’t realize until after we had broken up. He was never the one to save me. For four years of my relationship with him, I was still cutting, hating myself, suffering through low self-esteem and high anxiety. As much as I wanted love to save me, it couldn’t. Sure, it brought me back to earth when I was panicking, comforting me at my darkest, protected me from myself. But I still wasn’t happy. No, it wasn’t until I made the choice–myself–to save myself that things changed. Slowly, of course, and not without bumps in the road.
Sometimes I feel like because I’m still single, people feel sad for me. It’s been almost two years since Andrew and I broke up, and there hasn’t been that one defining person to come into my life, and sweep me off my feet. My “prince”, so to speak. And the thing is I’m starting to realize is that I don’t need that, hell, don’t want it. I don’t need a guy to be happy, or complete me. I’m perfectly content and happy being on my own. Guys are nice, and fun, and yes I miss cuddling terribly. But I don’t need a guy to save me anymore, and I don’t need a guy to be happy. I’ve survived the worst possible moments on my own, and I appreciate that more.
Screw being a Disney Princess. I want to be Wonder Woman now.