First things first, I must insist that this is a love story. Misdirected though it may be, love flows freely in this tale. We had all the essential elements. We had attraction, rescue, turmoil, passion. We had chemistry. We were a pair: a boy who loved a girl, and a girl who loved the love she received.
Once upon a time he was out of my league; a football player whose thigh I tickled for a reaction during quiet time in our sophomore theatre class. A cutie who made his rounds through my more emotionally developed friends. He told me everything about his fights with Becka and Brittany, Brianna and Janelle. He unraveled his tripe tales of teenage love while I untangled my earbuds. With one bud in my ear, and one in his, I let my 4th generation U2 iPod classic teach him what he didn't know about the love that looped around in my head.
One day we left the high school stigmas of jock and nerd behind and called ourselves falling in love. But I never really loved him. I loved that he loved me. And that was enough to make me want to be whatever woman was worthy of his love. I bent for him. I hit a blunt, and hung out with his friends. I initiated make-out sessions because he wanted to feel wanted too. I put my prudishness away, balancing on my bed on wobbly legs trying to take a requested “sexy” legging picture on my grainy HP Pavilion webcam. Once he proclaimed that the way I said oops was cute. I made a lot of mistakes after that.
I was his baby, his mama, his friend. I was his homie, his teacher, his everything. And he loved the me I projected for him. I juggled his favorite aspects of a woman before him to keep his interest. The synopsis of our story was simple. I was his first love, and he was my first lesson: bend like that for anyone else ever again, and you will surely break.
What you get when you juggle the way I did is a man in love with your act. What you get is day in and day out of being 12 different people, none of them really you.
And when you tire of tossing facade after facade in the face of the one you love, and they come face to face with the real you, they feel like they’ve been duped. Gypped. Like they didn’t get what they paid for. And all you can do is pocket the blame. You weren’t you. Therefore, you weren’t loved.
No one likes unsolicited advice, but take it from a veteran juggler, it is up to no one but you to channel your love properly. Love you so much that you want the world to see. Love your partner so much that you give him all of you. The real you. Be a homebody. Put a ten question FAQ on your dating profile because you hate small talk. Don’t sit through another blessed conversation about whatever it is that grinds your gears.
It took me three and a half years to learn the ultimate lesson. God made me. God made me with my homebody tendencies and my cut-to-the-chase demeanor. God made me with my open mouth and closed-off heart. God made me with my continuous curves and crude sense of humor. But He didn’t make me for him.
I ain’t for everybody. And neither are you.
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Roconia Price is a storyteller and creative spirit, running on sunlight and sisterhood. She writes at eversoroco.com. She is very tall.
Honoring the collective voice of womanhood, the Lessons From Love series was created to provide a community of support for women currently in love, or healing from love. The series will use personal narratives + testimonies to empower women to make effective dating decisions and to pursue the love they rightly deserve.
If you're interested in being a last minute contributor, submit your 700-1000 word piece to z@dearqueens.com. Please include your name, website (if applicable), and brief bio.
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