Love is a scary, scary thought

Well, the title says it all, somehow. I remember the times when I couldn’t wait to fall in love, and now love has become such a scary, scary thought. Sitting on my porch in the still of the night, I cannot help but feeling queasy at the idea of love entering my home again. And trust me, when I say queasy, I mean a feeling of unsettlement and discomfort. Talking to one of my very best friends this morning, I hear I am not ready. But will I ever be again? I have been alone and on my own for almost two years by now. I feel like the more I wait, the more I will never be ready for the change again, ready for someone to take over my world and tell me how it is. I have become independent to the point that I reject the idea of someone trying to take care of me, and, after all, it’s all I ever dreamed of all my life. I get myself into impossible relationships just so I can feel the comfort of saying it wasn’t mean to be. Yet, I put these guys into situations where I reject them to the point they have nothing else to do but turn around and leave.

With a degree in behavioral sciences, I cannot but admit I have a problem. I am drawn and addicted to the pain. Then, I get over the drama so quickly I never give myself a chance to even question if it were real love or just another disposable fling. I am scared. I am literally shitting my pants. Ironically, I am one of those women who’ll never say never, who takes challenges for the simple opportunity of growth they represent, who never backs down. But when it comes to love, I retreat and back off like a hyena surrounded by a group on lions right in front of the most enticing prey. I am scared to death. There are things I’d rather leave unsaid, and truths I’d rather never know. I cannot hear a man saying he cares for me without questioning the roots of that feeling and wondering how he’s thinking he’s gonna fuck me over. I cannot imagine my life coming back home to someone who’s waiting for me, and having someone to share my bed with every night. Companionship freaks me out. Sometimes all I want is go back home and be silent for hours, and enjoy quietness and solitude. My space is my space. Having to share my space with someone else, their things, their presence, their favorite show, their shoes…It’s more than I can bear.

Yet, all I want is to be loved and share the most intimate side of myself, the one who cannot stand relationships, with someone who will understand it, cherish it, nurture it and stick with it. What has happened to me? When did love stop being fun and started being terrifying? I cannot place the exact moment, not even the year. It just happened. Was it when I moved out here in San Diego, gave my heart away to a man I could have killed for and got a bag of shit in return? Was it when I got my stuff packed and thrown in the middle of our back yard back in Connecticut? Was it when I put all my trust in some 21 year old boy who carefully boxed it and gave it back to me a couple of weeks later saying he wanted to be with his cheating ex girlfriend? Or was it when I poured my heart out to a man who didn’t even take 5 minutes of his time to answer back to me?

Is my heart stuck and clogged for good ready to spend this life on its own with the certainty that nobody can trash my feelings again? I am closed off and guarded ready to fight a war I didn’t even want to start. Emptiness gives me strength. Unattachment is my credo. The more you pull me in, the more I’ll push you out. The more you push me away, the more I’ll leave you behind. It’s a one way street. Or is it?