The sort of illness that keeps me awake well into the wee hours of the morning. How accustomed I’ve become to see the dark blue of the sky turn to a fresh morning, teeming with morning dew and chirping birds. Everyone awakening, while I, barely shut-eye for an hour. I have an ailment that completely encompasses my every thought, no matter how grandiose or minuscule a thought may be. I have a malady that gives me anxiety, the sort you create based on unrealistic happenings and creations.
Many may call it a hopeless romantic or a sentimental dreamer; I refer to it as a curse. I hate it. I consider it by far my most pressing flaw, that sticks to me like a piece of toilet paper at the bottom of a shoe. This hex has caused me to dislike so many of my thoughts, constantly encouraging myself to think differently and change. Yet, I don’t entirely blame myself for thinking, what seems differently from so many of my generation. I blame a stream of aspects in my life, happenings, and upbringings. I blame Sarah Dessen for her sappy teenage novels where romance always triumphed (thank goodness I didn’t latch on to Nicholas Sparks earlier). I blame the love movies I clung to, where all the odds were against the protagonist but alas love conquered! I blame the old classic rock songs I grew up with, that solely praise peace, LOVE, and happiness. Most importantly, I blame this “hook-up” generation, in which a single night of intimacy can mean as little as buying a pair of shoes. Scratch that, buying a pair of shoes can be more exciting than a one-night stand. I blame the praising of having multiple partners, and even better when none of them are aware of each other. I blame the facility of creating and destroying romantic relationships. Somehow, in a short amount of time, we have managed to stain the definition and foundation of love. We’ve managed to (excuse my French) shit on anything as beautiful as love. Despite all of this, rather than changing, we’ve stayed behind, such as I have. Perhaps it was my only child upbringing that permitted my spare time to be spent mostly with myself, allowing me to create a world where heartbreak, loneliness, and fuckboys don’t exist.
Whatever the reason, I need a cure, and I need a cure fast. I am no longer a budding preteen/teenager with innocent ideas. You’d think that after tripping many times I would’ve learned (and oh the many times I’ve fallen). But I also damn myself for letting it happen over, for being blinded initially and disregarding my gut feeling.
They say the first step is admitting, correct? Well, I admit I am an addict of love, of being and wanting to be loved. But as an addict may say, it could be worse. Mom, if you’re reading this, at least it’s not heroin.