Seduced by Solitude
“I just hope you can figure yourself out.”
He found three different ways express this thought. That me putting an end to the relationship meant that there was something inherently “wrong” with me. I needed to “get it together,” “figure it out,” oh and my favorite, that I’m “so used to dysfunction.”
None of the above was true. Nor was there anything wrong with him.
For two weeks the word “Alone” sat in the forefront of my brain. Glittering. Gleaming. It started out as a seductive whisper and became an authoritative scream. I wanted to be alone.
Not that I didn’t enjoy those quiet evenings spent on my couch with my feet in his lap. Or the sweetness of his kiss. Or the little chill that went up my spine when his hands–strong, artist hands–met my skin. Or the time spent on the phone laughing about everything from Eli Manning’s idiot savant winning ways to quoting Justin Timberlake’s hilariously horrible math skills in the movie Friends With Benefits. Or the synchronicity of being paired with a fellow peace-loving, creative-souled Libra.
It was all cool. All fun.
But in the end, I was seduced by the notion of solitude.
Suddenly, I was Samantha Jones, having to tell her attentive, adoring tenderoni that for reasons she couldn’t explain, she just didn’t want to do the relationship thing anymore.
And there it was. The notion that this choice somehow meant someone was flawed. And since I’d insisted that he was indeed amazing, the flaw had to be me. I needed examining. And figuring.
In reality, I’ve simply become the woman I blog-ranted about. The one who could choose singleness, instead of embracing it by circumstance. The occasionally wild-haired, free-thinking, writer auntie with her bag of crazy ideas stating that women should be able to do whatever, and be whoever the fuck we want.
And you know what? I’ll take it.
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