I used to be in love with being in love. I’d get high on the possibilities (reality was my comedown) and pursued a happy ending – I wanted the plot that was my life to reach a happy conclusion. I wanted everything I’d been through including unhealthy choices to pay off or even be rewarded with me being loved and validated by my atypical type of partner (typically someone who was unavailable and anything but a ‘partner’).
The idea was that they’d fill up my void and solve my mummy and daddy issues. In all honesty, growth and taking a little time to work out who I was, didn’t factor on my agenda. I assumed that any unproductive habits of thinking and behaviour would melt away with the glow of love or that I’d be able to hold onto the habits because a man would provide a shelter from me having to look too closely at me. I figured that I’d know who I was once I was ‘chosen’.
I wanted to be rescued. I went from being a kid imagining that the king of Zamunda or whoever was going to turn up one day and claim his precious missing daughter, to imagining that someone of the species with a penis variety, would do the equivalent of blazing in on his white horse and whisking me off into the sunset for the happy ending that so many of us have been sold and been reselling to ourselves.
It’s this idea that life and happiness is a destination. Apparently life begins when you’ve coupled up and been ‘chosen’, preferably by somebody who you’ve had to do hard labour for and have had to battle against the odds.
There’s this assumption that people who are perceived to have a ‘happy ending’, don’t have problems or that at the very least, their lives are made easier, so loss such as bereavements, miscarriages, redundancy, and financial woes, plus health issues, conflicts, rejections, disappointments and basically life is made ‘easier’.