I Finally Found Her!

How I met the love of my life.

Throughout my early childhood until I was in 7^th grade, I longed for a best friend. Someone to share secrets with, to laugh with, to play with. A sister of the heart. I never had that person. I spent time, yearning, grieving, and confused as to why I couldn’t connect to another. I didn’t understand why it was so hard for me, so fearsome, so thoroughly daunting. At eight, I developed a seizure disorder––epilepsy––and it was a frightening thing for the other kids to witness; me, having a grand mal seizure, in front of them. Convulsing, peeing myself, unconscious, fallen from my seat and lying on the floor. It happened twice, about a month apart, but I think it left a lasting imprint on the kids, a trauma scar etched in their memories, the result of witnessing my jarring incapacitation. They didn’t understand it, and no one came to their aid, to comfort them, to answer questions, to put them at their ease. I was other. I frightened them. I frightened me.

Kids usually don’t have the skills to negotiate things that happen in their lives that are scary, they need support. I needed support. The kids were wary and self-protective, they stepped away from me and sometimes they were cruel. I know now they were afraid of what they didn’t understand.

The more alone I felt, the more detached I became. The grief was exhausting, and it morphed into anger. Anger didn’t sap me the same way that grief did. But it lit a spark in me that backfired. I began to push people away; I didn’t trust the ones who tried to get close to me. There were some kids who were kind; they included me and maybe even genuinely liked me, but at that point, I already felt like an outsider. In my mind, I’d never measure up to the standards I perceived they held, no matter how inaccurate my take might have been.

Occasionally, I’d let my guard down, and with a hope for something different, I’d let someone come into my world, only to have it fall apart, as kid connections sometimes do. I’d be crushed and would secure the ramparts of my heart again, building my walls higher, retreating to the solitary world I inhabited. But I suffered there, I grieved even more. And I turned the grief and anger against myself. I didn’t realize I was doing that, so I didn’t know how to refrain. With each disappointment, the grief just multiplied, my anger grew.

I became a bit of a weirdo, I embraced my otherness, to compensate for or cover up my loneliness. I thought my worth could only be validated by the world outside of me, instead of by simply loving myself. So much easier said than done. As humans, social interaction is imperative to living a full life. I didn’t have the tools.

It’s only in retrospect that I can see the dynamics more clearly. Parsing it took years of stops and starts in therapy, questioning, trying to sort it all out. I only understood recently that others weren’t isolating me, I was making that choice, to tuck myself out of harm’s way. I chose to withdraw because it was the only way I could see to protect myself from the pain I experienced in rejection. They were kids. And they weren’t all bullies. I used isolation to create what felt like safety. I did that. I can’t imagine that I was a sophisticated enough thinker to come to any other conclusion but that I was a victim. I had to grow all the way up to discern that I had a hand in creating my loneliness.

As a kid, I was drawn to adults, because they were kind. They saw something in me that I couldn’t recognize; they offered unconditional love and attention, and I began to lose interest in people my own age. There was a part of me that wanted different parents, so I glued myself to the loving adults I felt safe with. And in the innocence of my youth, I fell in love with each of them, wanting to have those grownups all to myself, forever.

As I aged, I started making friends, but what was a desire for friendship in my childhood turned into an overpowering need for romance, for partnering, for finding a more mature, more intimate version of the “sister” of my heart I longed for as a child. Someone who would––pardon the overused expression––complete me.

I searched and searched, looking for women who were smart and attractive. I’d meet someone who seemed interested in me, and because of their interest I’d fall instantly in love, my minimum criteria satisfied. No other qualifications required. It didn’t matter to me if they were passive-aggressive, or alcoholics, or liars, or underearners, or gas lighters, or humans (just like me) with low or no self-esteem. They’d nod in my direction, and I was all in. I was committed to ignoring red flags, not trusting my instincts nearly enough to honor my worth, my needs. I didn’t know that I was allowed to have needs. The only thing I was clear about was that I needed someone else to make it better, to make me better.

The classic joke, for those not familiar, “What does a lesbian bring with her on the second date? A U-Haul.” Bah-dum-bum. They wrote that joke about me. I would bond to my fantasy of who the other person was. It wasn’t so bad. I only did the second date move-in thing twice. As you might guess––neither worked out––but we ARE still friends. Another cliché common to the dyke community.

As I wandered through my life, I looked and looked. I went to bars, I’d beg friends to introduce me, and when online dating arrived, you could find me banging on the door of match.com, bringing my best self forward, wondering if the person I described myself as was accurate or wish fulfillment. I was writing a vision of the person I wanted to be. And I failed and failed to make that intimate connection with a special someone. A forever one. There was a crucial piece missing. The crucial piece missing was me.

I was tired of hearing that old saw, “You can’t love someone else until you can love yourself.” I’d roll my eyes, nod, “I know, I know.” But I didn’t really. I didn’t know how to connect to the self underneath the negative beliefs I carried, I couldn’t break down the armor I put up, not just against the world, but against truly meeting myself, digging up the gifts I’d buried so early in life. I didn’t realize how much I didn’t love myself. I believed the negative self-talk that played in my head, only occasionally seeing glimmers of my true self. I couldn’t imagine what really loving myself would look like, and I persisted to look to others to fix what was broken in me.

Until I couldn’t anymore.

I was tired of letting myself down. Of living half a life. Thinking that I didn’t deserve to ask for what I needed and repeatedly putting others before me. I didn’t even know what my needs were. All I could focus on was everyone else. I tried repeatedly to fit myself into other people’s boxes. Other people’s definitions of what a good relationship is. I didn’t know I could have a box of my own, one that fit me. I’d become resentful of these people, but really, they weren’t the problem. I was. I couldn’t access my truth.

After years of therapy and medication, of being hospitalized for depression so intense I feared I’d never recover, I landed with a therapist who truly saw me, and helped me see myself for who I really am. And after embracing the work of a 12 Step program, I’m meeting myself in all my messiness, all my loveliness, I’m meeting that person who shines, who glimmers, who laughs and cries and rages, and I’m taking her in my arms, and I’m loving her. I’m loving me. I’m seeing her the way others do. As a kind, caring, smart, talented me. A worthy human. A lovely human. A flawed human. Before, when people complimented me, I thought they were lying. I was suspicious of the people who told me I was good. I’d wonder instead what they really wanted.

I’m letting the compliments in, though it’s still uncomfortable at times. But I know there’s truth there, because I’m seeing myself differently. I’m getting there, day by day. I’m surprised and delighted by how often I catch myself saying warm, loving things to myself about ME. I no longer curse myself when I make a mistake. If I did something as minor as overpouring my morning coffee, I’d riddle myself with harsh insults, “you’re a stupid klutz, a loser. I can hardly believe I talked to myself that way for most of my life.

Now, I just laugh and mop up the spill. It’s a very small example of an enormous shift.

I’m seeing and connecting to that wounded little girl and I’m holding her as close as she needs to be held, whenever she needs it. I’m present, I’m strong, I’m tender, I’m real. I’m cheering that kid on, I’m parenting her in a way I was never parented. And me, the sad little girl, the angry teenager, the yearning adult? I’ve also fallen in love. I’ve found my beloved at last.

My beloved is me.

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