You have to believe that as a human being you deserve love and respect and acceptance and that somewhere out in the vast, teeming world of men and women, there’s someone for you who will love you and accept you and be your friend and lover back. And that you are right in your search for that person. That it’s okay to feel vulnerable and silly and maybe even a little stupid at times as long as you keep trying to find that person.
I gave up trying to find that person a long time ago, figuring that my love for Morpheus was beautiful and tragic, and I’d never come across a stable relationship with all those thick emotions felt so deeply for one sole person. It was psychologically impossible. You can’t love that much for that long, every day, all day, for years in a day-to-day normal relationship. It’s too tiring.
I still believe that. It seems fitting then that the next person I turn my gaze to is completely and utterly inappropriate. Maybe it’s just something wrong with me, some psychological track laid out in my brain, making me attracted to men who are one particular way—distant and unavailable. It’s their inability to love me back that makes them so tasty and irresistible. The struggle to get them to love me is the tragedy, played out a few times in my life, most recently by my relationship with my father.
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