I never thought of myself as someone afraid to fall in love. I’d like to think of myself as fearless in all matters, unabashed by my emotions and diving head first into the murky waters of relationships. I’m a strong, confident woman who has never been embarrassed to admit her feelings, something that has been the driving force behind my writing, because being open and vulnerable in front of people I don’t know is kind of my thing.
At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past year, as I cycled through first dates in hopes of finding someone I actually had a connection with. I always knew that things could turn out badly and admittedly prepared myself for the worst knowing that regardless of the outcome, I’m a self satisfied individual with nothing to lose because I love myself and am happy with my life.
That’s what all my blogs have been about this year so far, being happy with being alone. Because alone is easy, I spent most of the past year learning not to be afraid of being alone after rebuilding myself from a traumatizing relationship. So, of course, its at that point where you meet someone and that someone turns from a great first date, to an even better second date and a spectacular 3rd date and on and on and on, and before you know it you’re at the beginning of something and it’s honestly scary and exciting and new all at once.
On one hand I’m in all the feels, a spring in my step, a smile on my face. I have this desire to memorize every little thing; our first date, our first kiss, our first day together because the beginning is the best part, the part where when things get hard you flash back on fondly. The butterflies, the endless flirting, the, “I can’t wait to spend more time moments” that you forget to appreciate in the moment that I find myself playing over and over in my head.
…and on the other hand I’m terrified, remembering what it’s like to have my heart broken, recalling the work and the effort being in a relationship brings. I wonder if I remember how to do this, if I’ll mess it up, if it’ll fizzle before it even begins. I call it overthinking or brush it off as my anxiety talking but in talking with my friends they tell me that’s just part of the deal – the being scared a little part.
The beginnings are all of the things mixed into one. I can’t tell if the butterflies in my stomach every time I see him are the good kind or the bad kind and that feels new and vaguely familiar to me. … and then there’s this, this blog, this giant diary of truths and admissions of intimate moments throughout the past 4 years of my life. I’ve never been worried about living my life out loud, about what other people might think about these experiences we all have, the ones you don’t talk about that just beg to be related to. If it wasn’t all here, laid out in black and white, in writing, in poetry, I would still be nervous to reveal those parts of myself and I am, more so than I’ve ever been before.
So what do I do in those moments? What do I do when I realize that being open to the beginning of things means being brave, and exposed, and just plain scared. In this moment when it feels so new and so great I feel like I’m carrying a piece of china I’m afraid will fall and break, what then?
… and when I’m done, worrying and freaking myself out,I remember once more that this is normal, this is how it’s suppose to feel. And that’s when I go back to savoring every moment, every smile, every stolen glance and tentative admission of feeling because this is the beginning, and this is the best part.