Sometimes when it’s wrong, it’s right.
I have a confession to make: I am a commitment phobe.
Throughout my entire life, I’ve always done things the “roundabout way”. Friends have said this, family, teachers, mentors, therapists, even an astrologer. I’ve often been told I need to just “get out of my own way” (as if it’s really that easy). I’m a dabbler. I hop from one thing to the next, always initiating, hardly following through on the majority of projects I start, especially when manic...I become insatiable, yet I still somehow manage to accomplish an incredible amount of great things.
However, when the flighty, ambivalent itch really gets tricky is when it happens in relationships. I’ve noticed I get the urge to jump ship only a few months in. At six months, I almost always have both feet out the door, unless my partner endures and actively fights for it. Which has happened more than not, and for those people I will forever be grateful. They’ve taught me what it means to stay…just a little longer. It’s interesting being a human who melts over films and books about overwhelming romance and eternal love, but never has the courage to experience it fully... Someone who aches for it, yet repels it in the same breath.
Why are we the way we are? Some of us would like to blame the stars, but it’s likely something as simple as loss or abuse during early attachments. When we can no longer blame the stars, we’re forced to take responsibility. We’re forced to be held accountable for pushing our lovers away even if our issues reside in the deepest layers of our psyche. We should at least attempt to make some progress, even if the steps are the babiest of baby steps.
For this reason, the majority of the time, I fly solo. I keep to myself and dedicate the entirety of my time to raising my daughter, finishing college and working to serve. This seemed to serve me well… until I met someone who made me come alive even more than I already was. Someone who managed to help me pull myself from the depths of an existential crisis just by being a goofy heyoka (among the Lakota people, the heyoka is a contrarian, jester, satirist or sacred clown). He’s silly and wild and playful and free. He’s a fuzzy bumble bee of a man, always buzzing and creating and doing his best to provide for the whole of the hive. It’s impressive on so many levels.
That being said, I’ve always believed you must be whole on your own before you can be in a healthy relationship. What I’ve come to realize is, I AM whole on my own, but this particular person seems to fill spaces I didn’t even know existed within me. It’s like a limb you never knew was missing, but the whole of you operates better now that it’s a part of you. Neither of us is perfect, we have faults and flaws like any other human and our connection isn’t flawless either. That’s the beauty of it though, right? He’s taught me what it means to compromise, to maybe not dig my heels in quite so hard, to not be so furrowed-brow serious. He’s taught me how to accept the love I deserve and taught me what it means to be loved, unconditionally. He's helped me identify and correct negative self talk, to let go of what does not serve me. Simply put: he's helped me unfold the petals of myself I didn't know were tightly shut.
One thing I’ve failed to learn time and time again is to hear, really hear, someone. To trust what they say and to trust that they’ll stay.
Whether or not this person and I make a relationship work for the length of our lives, he will always be one of the major influences who uplifted and propelled me forward. He will always be the one who highlighted the better parts of me, the forgotten parts of me. The one who says he’s proud of me even when I struggle to face the day. Whose face I can still see outlined by the dusk trickling though the window of a dark hotel room. He licked my wounds and loved me deeply without hesitation, always kissing me softly through the crumbling and emotional whirlwind I am. It was all beauty and gratitude and laughs in the beginning...
Then came the day I put both feet out the door. And this time, he didn’t protest. The days following were days of blankly staring my “roundabout life” in the face. My fear of commitment should never inhibit another human from living the life I know they deserve. After a lifetime of telling myself to always let go, to live without attachment… I’ve come to realize, sometimes letting go is the wrong medicine. Staying too long used to feel wrong. Staying too long felt so wrong so many times that I didn’t know if staying would ever feel right. It’s a visceral tug, to move, to migrate, to flee. I wish I could calm it just this once, but I know it’s too deep to change with the flip of a switch. I know I’m not alone in this either. Our society seems to breed fear of commitment... but there is hope.
I still can’t help but wonder…
What if I stayed this time? This one time, what if I stayed?
