Doubting, Aching, Healing

I don’t actually have commitment issues. Instead, the issue with me (relationship-wise) is something much more insidious, so ordinary that I overlooked it for months. What I suffer from is a simple fear of the end.

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Last semester, I sabotaged a relationship that had just barely taken off its training wheels in the name of what I thought was an inability to commit — the (stereo)typical remains of a break-up I’d experienced over a year ago. I justified rejection with a label, claiming icks and a lack of passion. I buried myself in the weak emotional padding of what felt like one of the most common personal reasons for not agreeing to a partnership. I joked about having commitment issues because they were an easy label to wear. I unknowingly used them as a disguise for the true reason I jumped ship from a burgeoning, healthy relationship.

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He had read all the articles I’d published in the last three semesters. He had listened to my Spotify playlists. He had sent me Edward Hopper sketches from his day trip to the Whitney. He studied with me, watched movies I wanted to watch, slept in my common room as I pulled an all-nighter to finish an essay. It felt right to send him every thought that popped into my head at any given moment, but, still, an alarmed voice in the back of my head screamed that he was just too good to be true.

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It didn’t help that my past relationship left me reeling and stinging. A full year with someone I’d come to truly love and dedicate myself to — gone. I couldn’t help but feel in the darkest part of my heart that the loss of something that once brought me so much joy and security meant it wasn’t worth getting into it in the first place. Stitched into me was the belief that no relationship lasts. Ever.

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I was stuck over whether to a) get in a situationship/relationship/thing with someone who’s too nice — too good — for an unknown, likely short, and almost definitely heartbreaking amount of time or b) throw the whole thing out the window before any real damage could happen.

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I chose option b. I wrapped up my fall semester alone. I thought I’d done the right thing for myself, for both of us, and so I didn’t miss him. At first.

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The return for the spring semester found my mind wandering to sweet memories of how considerate he always was. Many of my singular thoughts — the underrated beauty of the color chartreuse, the appeal of scarves, the influence of Ebenezer Howard’s garden cities on Disneyland — became messages I’d start typing out only to backspace into oblivion, banished by the fact that we were no longer together. I ached for what I’d lost, and then I felt ridiculous for aching. 

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Time did what it always does. The ache gave way to realization: even if I see the end as inevitable, it’s not a good enough reason to destroy. My requirement for entering a relationship — for committing — is not a promise of eternal partnership. At least not primarily. What I want to feel in a relationship is dedication to integrating someone into my life. To allow them to become an owner of my time, energy, and love. To give up a little them-shaped space in my heart.

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I want to accept the fact that nothing is guaranteed when it comes to love. Committing to someone doesn’t mean committing to a breezy forever together; I should commit to communicating, empathizing, compromising, sacrificing. It’s not a worthless commitment just because there’s the risk of falling out of love. Taking a chance on vulnerability in exchange for happiness, regardless of how long it lasts, is worth it. 

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This semester, I’m left sewing together the tattered parts of myself, finally healing, and growing into a vulnerability I’ve denied myself for months. In articles, songs, and tweets, I feel a pinch of sorrow at having no one there to share them with. I’ve walked out of Bass just after sunset when the evening is cold and gray and imagined what it would feel like to walk in the direction of my partner’s warm embrace. This semester, I’m dreamily floating toward a future where the stomach-sinking fear of reaching some inexorable limit doesn’t outweigh the comfort of being someone’s and having them be mine.

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