When I was eighteen I fell into love heart first without hesitation.
Back then I had less emotional baggage. I hadn’t been lied to or cheated on yet, and I had no idea what it felt like to have a broken heart.
All I knew of love was what I had seen in the movies or read about in books, and those movies and books never mentioned the messy parts.
They always had happy endings, therefore I willingly went into my first serious relationship not hoping for forever, but actually believing it was forever.
I had no doubts.
I loved without fear.
But like most first loves, that relationship didn’t last. And unfortunately for me, it ended seven years later in a devastating way that left me severely heartbroken.
I remember how much my heart literally ached, for weeks on end, and how I begged my parents to tell me how to make it stop.
Of course they couldn’t.
But eventually it did.
That heartbreak was pretty clean. Afterwards, I put the pieces of my heart back together and they somehow fit perfectly. Any scars that remained were virtually undetectable.
I chalked my bad luck in that love to just that, and despite what had happened to me I miraculously moved on with an open heart that was ready and willing to fall in love again.
Then along came my son’s father, and we had a whirlwind romance – although romance is pushing it because there was nothing romantic about it.
It was lusty and it was hasty and I can look back now and see so clearly that I was in no way ready to go looking for love. Had I really been ready, I never would’ve closed my eyes to the red flags that presented themselves early on in our relationship.
I didn’t go into that love believing it would be forever, but I had hoped it would.
Of course it wasn’t and when that love ended it was ugly.
That heartbreak changed me.
When I tried to put the pieces of my heart back together they just didn’t fit, so I put up walls to protect the vulnerable parts where the cracks remained.
Over three years later and they’re still there.
Since the end of my last relationship I’d decided that unless I met a man I could picture myself spending forever with, doing the work to take down my walls wasn’t worth my time.
But I think I was wrong.
Holding out for a man that inspires forever is self-depricating.
Forever is bullshit.
Because in-between now and forever is something magical that I deserve.
It doesn’t matter if it’s not forever. What’s happening between us right now is enough.
It’s time to start moving some bricks because he’s worth it.
And so am I.