Things I Learned About Love This Year

By Audacia Ray

Last summer and fall, I went through an epic heartbreak. The kind that had me crying randomly in public. The kind that made it impossible for me to get out of bed some days. The kind that often made me feel like there was something heavy sitting on my chest, making it impossible for me to breathe. The kind that made me see how cruel and unfair the world is when I knew the relationship had to end but our mutual love was still (and stretches on) alive. At the end of this powerful and defining relationship, as I let go and then dipped back in and let go again, I was stricken with the fear that I would never again know a love so big and understanding and accepting. I still feel heaviness in my chest as I write that.

I am not a person who has frequently been single, especially since I launched myself into the world of non-monogamy six years ago (wow, has it been that long?). I’ve probably only been unentangled sexually and romantically for a few collective months (added up altogether) since I was a teenager; the last five months have been more aloneness than I’ve ever had. I *like* being partnered, and in recent years it’s also become important to my sense of self and self-value. Essentially, I felt that if I could be an outlandish woman in oh so many ways, but also be loved, I had success and meaning. I needed to be loved by a partner (or partners) in order to prove to myself and the world that I have value, that I hadn’t fucked up all my chances by being an outspoken ex-ho, blogger, woman of the world. Typing that out now it seems kind of embarrassing, but still also very real to me.

With my last relationship, I thought I knew what I wanted. I fought really hard for it. And it crashed and burned and made me weep. I emerged feeling like I just have no idea what I want, what love should look like for me, just that I was missing it and felt a big hole in my heart and soul. I felt alone and panicky. I felt the skin-hunger something awful, felt like I just needed to be touched (in a non-sexual way, even) and that would help make me feel real and more whole. I felt pained thinking about our bodies, mine and my ex’s I mean, and how well we just fit in bed, in life - and how lying alone at night, my weight rolling on a big empty mattress, I felt like I was swimming in a big empty nothing. Since last fall, I’ve shared a bed overnight exactly twice, both in non-sexual contexts.

Read the rest of this piece on Audacia's fantastic blog: Waking Vixen

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