What If I’m Incapable Of Falling In Love Again?

If you didn’t know better, you’d think I never slept.

I am always one foot out the door right after we finish. I am always pulling my shirt on, tossing my hair up, and thinking, “I will worry about that later” in regards to getting home right after we fuck. I laughed out loud at that scene in Trainwreck where Amy Schumer boldly walk-of-shamed on a ferry but internally cringed because I’ve been there. Literally. I’ve been the girl in last night’s cat eye and swollen “Please kiss away the pain” lips wishing she still smoked on the deck of the water taxi.

Because I’d rather freeze on the 30-minute ride back to the city with no jacket then dare to snuggle up next to someone overnight and humanize them.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think I have never been infatuated.

I am always rolling my eyes about The Notebook, claiming that Noah and Amy (was her name Amy too?) should have taken more time apart because then maybe no one would have had to waste their time building some stupid house. I am the girl that everyone warned you about. The one who “functions like a guy” who “doesn’t get attached” and will inevitably “break your heart without even meaning to.” I don’t understand people who can say the L Word without mapping it out, without mulling it over for weeks, months, even years.

Because I would rather swallow my tongue whole than say something before thinking about how it may be heard.

If you didn’t know better you would think I wanted to be single.

I am content doing my own thing, being my own person. I do not get jealous at girls with boyfriends or find the idea of ANOTHER wedding invite tedious. I’m fiercely and unapologetically independent. I do what I want, when I want, and I only worry about the consequences when and if I need to. I love being responsible for me and only me. I don’t think about what someone else is doing and why they are not involved in my life and that’s okay.

Because I’d rather be sleeping alone than be responsible for someone else.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think I was emotionally dead inside.

And you know what? I don’t know better and I think you might be right.

I use people. I march to the beat of my own drum and do not worry about feelings because I’d rather they not exist. It is easier for me to just get exactly what I want from people and then drop them because if I keep them around, I will break when they drop me. So I keep them as far away as possible and pretend like I don’t give a shit if they text me back because obviously, I do not care.

But really, I want to care. I want to be the person that they think about before they drift off to sleep at 1:30 AM. I want my phone to light up with notifications that will in turn make me smile. I want to want to spend the night, to graze my fingers affectionately across someone’s back, to be the girl who is open and loves without abandon, but instead of I’m the girl who is leaving without so much as a goodbye.

I want to care; I just have stopped for so long that the feeling is now too foreign. It bites at me like when you can’t remember the name of an actress being interviewed on E!. It sits at the back of my teeth and in the pit of my stomach like when you want to follow up the inevitable, “We need to talk” but do not know where to start. I want to verbalize what I’m feeling, but instead I’m apologizing for overstaying my welcome even though I have been invited in to make myself at home.

I say that I’m emotionally damaged. I joke that the part of my brain that releases oxytocin has gone on a permanent sabbatical. I nod along when people tote the, “You just haven’t met the right person” banner while I silently disagree.

Because I’d probably even run from the right person.

If you didn’t know better, you’d say that I run away from love.

And you’re right; I’m just hoping that one day someone will chase me.