From an early age, most of us are told that “drugs are bad.” There’s a whole variety out there, but the very worst of all of these has to be oxy. I’m not talking about oxycontin, either. I’m talking about the truly damaging stuff–oxytocin, aka the love drug.
Most little girls can’t wait for the day that they grow up and find their “prince charming.” I was not most little girls. While others dreamt of white dresses and bridesmaids, I dreamt of touring with bands and recording studios. I had real dreams. The mention of marriage made me hyperventilate at age 17. No, seriously. “Love” was not something that I cared a bit about.
When I say that I’m a bit different, I’m not exaggerating. I have trouble expressing my emotions, crying makes my skin crawl, and I’d rather give the left nut I don’t possess than have to discuss the feelings that I have towards another individual. At the tender (aka common sense-lacking) age of 19, I met a guy and immediately started sleeping with him. One month later I was pregnant. One year later I was married. I at no point in that relationship felt love. I felt a sense of loyalty and obligation, but not anything I’d call love. Yet, I exchanged the obligatory three words semi-regularly and thought little of it until it was over, just under 7 years later.
In 7 years, I’d stifled my personality. Gone was the music-obsessed weirdo. She’d been replaced by a fake Betty Crocker with tattoos. She was a whisper of who she used to be. Once that sham of a marriage was finished, I swore that it would never happen again. I spent three-and-a-half years “finding myself,” as I should have been doing when I was 19 years old and becoming a mother.
While all of this change and discovery was happening, though, I noticed that I felt something that I couldn’t quite name. I eventually learned that it was loneliness. Still, the last thing on my mind was any kind of romantic relationship. As far as I was concerned, I was supposed to be a working single mother for the rest of my life. Multiple people attempted to set me up to no avail.
During a late night chat one evening with my best friend, she excitedly declared that the knew the perfect guy for me. As expected, I had zero interest. However, she assured me that we’d hit it off and insisted that I meet him when I showed up for her daughter’s sixth birthday party which he’d also be attending. Despite my best efforts to avoid attending, I did the good friend thing and showed up.
I was blowing up balloons when an adorable blond man walked in and fucked up my life. I mean that in the most loving of ways–now, anyway.
I did not want to like this guy. I did not want to enter into a long distance relationship which would suddenly leave “give me space” Emily wishing that there was no space at all. And believe me when I tell you that I did not, under any circumstances, want to love this man. Or any man. Or anyone whom I hadn’t created, myself. I spent months in denial. Then I had a Cher moment. Not “Believe” Cher. We’re talking Clueless Cher Horowitz. You know the scene, “Oh my god…I love Josh! I am majorly, totally, butt-crazy in love with Josh!”
Because it was so surprising to me, I expected others to be equally surprised. Yet, my “news” was met with different versions of “duh, Emily.”
You see, in previous relationships I’d never once felt compelled to say the words. With him, though…I found the words nearly fell out of my mouth a hundred times. It. Was. Terrifying. I’d never experienced that before. I’d been in a 7 year marriage and never felt compelled to say I love you. I’d never felt love.
Months passed and before I knew it we’d been together for a year. Two broken, emotionally-stunted weirdos had made it to a year. Neither one of us said it. There were moments where he’d look at me…I mean really look at me and I’d feel it. I actually felt loved. There were moments when I felt like I physically needed to say it. I didn’t, though. I held back.
I held back until a week ago when we were in the middle of a fight. And since I’m a broken freak, I couldn’t even say it in a sweet normal way. It was something like, “Listen–you need to shut up. I don’t mean that in a hateful way, but like…shut up, okay? I know we don’t say this because, like, science and whatnot, and we don’t need to talk about it again after this, but…I love you.” He didn’t say it back. I can’t say that I’m shocked, given the fact that I told him to shut up and never mention it again, in addition to the fact that we were wrapping up the tail end of a pretty intense argument.
And maybe he’ll never say it back. Maybe he doesn’t feel it back. I don’t know. I’m Cher, after all–totally clueless.
This isn’t even a blog. This is…this is catharsis. I don’t even believe in being “in love.” I believe in love. Yes, it is a chemical thing. It is the result of some shit happening in our brains. However, not just any person can jump start your brain and make your oxytocin go all wonky. He makes my oxy lose its panties. No one else ever has. And maybe I’m alone in my feelings. Maybe I will be forever. There is no rehab for this shit. I know that much. There is no quick fix. I may not be sure of much in my life right now, but I am certain that I love this man. I am certain that it makes me feel like a walking vagina.
I am certain that it makes me wonder why I ever wasted my time with anyone else. I am certain that it makes me think of so many things I never thought I’d be thinking of.
Send help. Please. Drugs are bad.
musicaloblivion87 