My history with boys has been kind of a long list of people you should not be involved with and things you should not allow yourself to experience. I’m not talking about the boy who chooses another girl over you, or who gets drunk and phones you at three in the morning; I’m talking about the boy who refuses to meet you for nine months, who posts too many selfies to mask his towering insecurities. I am not criticising these boys for having their own scars, mental and physical, for we all have a past that persistently haunts us. This can be caused by an underlying self consciousness, a lifetime of having people see you only for your race, or your financial upbringing. This can also be a physical pain that you learn to cope with, white scars tracing your veins.
To look at me, I do not seem strange or mentally unstable, I am healthy and self aware in almost all areas of my life (or I at least try to be), but I still have this unconscious addiction to boys who make me sad and it is a twisted kind of relationship. It has been funny up to this point, picking the wrong ones, always ending with disappointment and a good anecdote to tell. It is fun to tell my friends about how I was pushed up against a tree in Hyde Park one time, or hung out with some guys who had just got out of prison, or smoked a joint with some guy who only cared for my body and not for my mind, but it is the same pain again and again. I am left with these stories, but my esteem becomes fragmented. Why is it that I am this human lighthouse for the damaged and disturbed?
It is becoming more and more difficult to sell myself that lie, that it is these boys who find me and not the other way around. I am the one going back to the commitment-phobes and narcissists. I must find some kind of perverted pleasure in trying to fix people who are not only broken, but enjoy the damaged lifestyle. This damages me too, the darkness rubs off on me, slowly at first so that I do not notice, and then suddenly I am not the same person and I start to enjoy the damage too. This bad habit is debilitating and although self inflicted, I am mature enough now to see how I hurt myself.
I suppose it is a kind of self sabotage, and there is no doubt that I could sit at a shrink and they would trace it back to my childhood or my insecurities blah blah blah, but I don’t think this is necessary. I know that in the past I have allowed myself to be with these boys who need me more than I need them, because it has made me feel wanted for a short while. I also know that at points that has been all I thought I deserved, mentally ill, anxiety ridden, boys who need to be told by someone that they are alright, and that things are okay. But I feel better now, and I am starting to realise that I deserve more than this lovesick mentality, this false belief that there is romance to heartbreak.
The ‘nice guy’ myth needs to be broken because I have tried too many times to fix something that does not want to be fixed. It is about time that I allow myself to be with someone who makes me happy, like genuine happiness. I need to stop letting niceness have a negative effect on how I view boys, because I see my friends and I see that they are happy, I just can never imagine being with someone who treats me with respect and with kindness. I know that sounds super sad but it is the truth. I feel bad that I have judged guys for their softness, for maybe it is that softness that I am missing.
This is my bad habit, worse than drinking or smoking, it is an attraction to disorder, and I am sick of being made to feel less than what I am worth. I deserve happiness, and I deserve someone who sees me and knows that I am important to them, I deserve that decisiveness. Romance should not be dictated by mysterious, bad boy types, and with maturity I find myself welcoming in the light. Everyone deserves someone to make them a better, happier version of themselves, and I am glad I am realising this now, even if it is a few boys too late.