Resistance

In advance, I say Forgive Me just in case these ramblings don’t seem to make much sense; I am having a harder time today putting into words what I am thinking. Possibly because the problem is so pervasive and common, that even trying to think about it starts a spiral of all the what ifs and should haves that we all suffer from. See, I said it would be confusing but I should be clear: I am talking about the unrequited love trip that we all go and we all have sent one (or more, depending on your hotness/lovability quotient) people on.

I myself know I am guilty of inspiring love (or at least, longing) in many a boy who mistook my brash manner (read: bold) and flirtatious (read: lovingly sarcastic) manner as a sign of something more. I have ended up at coffee shops and bars and restaurants, sitting across from someone, as the slow realization dawns on me that it is a date. Or, at least, they think it is a date. To me, it is just a random meet up with someone I consider a friend (sometimes acquaintance) in order to chat and laugh and share a good time.

And, sometimes, depending on my mood, it is has either spiraled into a hasty retreat or if I am feeling particularly desirous of being loved, an ego boosting exercise at the expense of someone else’s feelings. Shake your head if you must, but I never said I always played the good girl. Nor am I the only girl (or boy) who’s guilty of keeping someone hooked and available for that temporary assuage of the voices and thoughts that tell us we are not desirable, lovable, want-able unless someone is hanging off our every look and word. Narcissism, thy name is human.

But for all the times I have been on the giving end of inspiring feelings in others, I have been inspired to feel more than I perhaps should for others. I have played a lovesick idiot, boring my friends to death with myriad conversations about the meaning behind words, phrases, looks, and promises. I have spent nights comforted by a fleeting touch or glance, and been crushed by what I interpret as a lack of return and what others, perhaps more sanely, see as simply a busy schedule in a life already loaded with responsibility. I have been the one to want more, to survive on morsels of kindness of compassion – perhaps out of that person’s boredom, general insensibilities, or perhaps –w hat attracted me in the first place – their kindness. I have been the one who is hooked, like bait for the sharks. And loved every second, in an otherwise dull existence.

Idea of March

To me, March seems to be a month of change. For a second, let’s forget the fact that it is the start of spring, that according to colloquial wisdom “it comes in like a lamb, roars out like a lion”, or all the other trite things that become attributed to the month of change and growth and rebirth. Let’s pretend it is all about me. Because, frankly, it is.

March has been the month that seems to always bring the greatest changes to my life. March was the month I flew back home in order to spend time with a friend that I cared for and was falling in love with; and yet, it took a whole five months to elapse (from October to March) for us to decide that we wanted to be in a relationship. And, so in March, we had a semi-serious conversation about where things were going when I lived in America and he lived elsewhere. And, perhaps, with all the imagery of spring in mind, it seemed like possibilities were endless. But, unfortunately, there are limits.

Fast forward through two years of my life, where I am now living in the same country as said acquaintance/friend but neither of us is feeling the love for the other. I am dating, I am feeling hopeful (after all, spring tends to bring a renewed zest for certain pursuits) and looking forward to a week off with my current beau. But March is the month of change; March is the month of “I changed my mind; I do not love you – I just thought I did”. Is it any wonder I was stumped throughout most of March how one could spend time planning to be in love and share love only to hear the next day it had all been some temporary psychotic break for my beau? As a side note, March is also the only month in which I have ever had my heart broken, rather than the one to do the breaking.

Skip forward another year, to an airport scene: longing glances from the cabin window, regrets and sighs, and the winds of March bringing more change. March is the month I left my home to make a new one back in America – March is the month that brought more change, more heart break, more questions. And so here we are, in March yet again, and I am looking back on a year of change.

Change has not always occurred in March, but for me, happiness and disappointment will always be tied up in this month. If I had not loved or left, then I would not be the person I am. But sad comfort when I mark the passing of the month as just another year spent, another year far away from where I have been and where I want to be.