I’ve been pillaging book stores looking for a book that will move me. I’m lucky, I found one, it was Call Me By Your Name. But now that’s done, and I have to move on to find the next book that will affect me in that way. I’ve spent a lot of time looking for the right book, and I’ll go on hiatuses of reading for months and months if I’m not passionate about the book in my hand. Until I read Call Me By Your Name, it had been a long time since I had read a book like that.
Reading, and books, and literature have been my lifetime loves. I would crawl into any secluded, quiet space, and tear through books at record speed. The wanderlust of books had voided the feelings of living for so long. Books had made me smart and witty, and prepared my brain for any challenge. My heart, in a way, had been lied to. I read the Symposium through idyllic eyes, not realizing that the book was about grown philosophers trying to decipher what love was. If Plato can’t figure it out, how could I? The promise that in whatever world I was in before this I shared a body with the one I was meant to be with was a beautiful notion, and one I could more easily grasp than likening myself to Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy.
I’ve turned away from writing about love, because there’s nothing more cliché than being a young woman looking for love in all of the wrong places. My writing has been hardened because of my inability to love myself. So often I’ve told myself that I am unworthy of another because of how I feel in my own body. It’s not right. I doubt that there are many of us who can love themselves as unconditionally as they love another. Comedy has been a tool to put my insecurities on display and capitalize on them. I have to stop it. We need to stop it. We are strong, we are beautiful, and we say thank you to (warranted) compliments.
At the dawn of my adulthood I must push myself to be softer, not for men, but for me. I need to recognize that love is a need, not a want, and I must deeply pursue it. My strength is derived from searching for love, not rejecting it. The singletons in their early twenties are flippant in negating their wants, their needs. We see our friends get engaged everyday, and it’s ok to want that for ourselves someday. Not right now, for most of us, but someday.
Young women like myself will continue to rifle through Barnes and Nobles before we find the story that fits us. Some of us will be writing our own love stories. I hope to author one that’s realistic, and reminiscent of all the melancholia that we experience in our lives. I do believe that there is some strange and deeply troubled man out there for me, for all of us.