“Time is a funny thing. A decade can flash by in an uneventful second, and then, in just two years, monumental things can happen… things you couldn’t imagine happening in a million years.” – Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City 2
I don’t think time is a funny thing at all; I feel enslaved by it. Two years guilted me out of going for whatever might have made me happy. 48 days made me regret letting go of a six-month fling, despite its toxicity. 20 years (21 in February) made me rush myself into a relationship that obviously imploded; it also made me unsure of how I feel about being single.
Last night, I found myself asking, did I really love being single, dating myself for all these years and whatnot, or was I just used to it? After all, I didn’t have anything to compare it to. I wasn’t sure if whatever I had with Diego or with Walt was a valid point of comparison. Walt made it clear that he wasn’t my boyfriend, and everything with Diego was done over the phone because he lived 8,000 miles away from me. And while I’ve had sleepovers with Walt, kissed and held hands with him in my car, those alone didn’t constitute a relationship. I’ve never been somebody’s significant other. I had no other person who put me on his priority list.
It’s scary to think that I might have to get my heart broken really bad for me to find out. I don’t know if I want to spend years with someone knowing that there’s a risk of falling out. At the same time, I don’t know if I can go through life alone. Do I risk it or do I stay safe at the small price of the possibility of loneliness? What I know for certain, however, is that I don’t want to waste my time because I don’t know how much I have of it. It’s easy to say that I should take things slowly because I’m young, but being young doesn’t exempt me from dying by the time I finish writing this sentence.
This line of thought is going to immobilize me. Fear is going to stop me from trying anything, not just from going into a relationship. I began this looking at time as an enemy, but it could also be my friend. It has been, actually. It’s such a cliché to admit it, but time does heal. Rebounding to get over Diego certainly didn’t help. Taking my time to admit that we were never going to be in a relationship did. Not talking to Walt for weeks after breaking up has also softened the blow. In this way, I still am enslaved by time. I don’t know how else to explain it except for this: one day, after I stopped forcing myself to get over whomever it was I was getting over, I just woke up accepting how I feel.