The Perfect Boy

He was perfect. I knew it when I met him; those smart eyes and gentle hands, the way he was so self-assured, so confident. It was everything I ever wanted to be - but, allow me to start at the beginning. 

I have always been in love with the idea of being in love. I’ve dreamt of meeting the one for as long as I can remember.

 I’m a rom-com and chick-flick kind of girl.

 A roses and chocolate kind of girl.

 A kiss me on the sidewalk kind of girl.

 I always have been.

 I’ve listened to all of Taylor Swift’s heartwrenching and disgustingly cheesy early discography more times than I would like to admit, and more mortifyingly so, have often confessed love by sending obviously suggestive love songs to ill suspecting boys. 

I’ve always been the “Cool Girl”.

The “Funny Girl”.

 My entire life has been a Manic Pixie Dreamgirl trope. I know it. And I love it. I love taking people back by saying things about myself that they don’t expect. 

“Yeah, I’m bilingual.”

“Yeah, I play drums in a punk band.”

“Yeah, I dance burlesque. I play video games. I love comics, and action figures, and music nobody listens to.”

And when their eyes glitter in amazement, I can hear them thinking it. I know that moment, the moment that that thought runs through their mind; “She’s not like other girls.”

It’s sickening and sweet all at the same time. 

How dare I call myself a feminist, when all I want is to be everything that a feminist should not. It’s not that I don’t want to be like other girls.

 I just want to be better. 

My anxiety, however, has other ideas. 

She thinks I’m a sad girl. 

A break down at the concert kind of girl.

A never good enough kind of girl. And that makes me a hypocrite, right? I think I’m everything and nothing all at the same time. I feel like I’m better than everyone, but also not good enough.

So, I go through boys like tissue paper. It’s the only solution, right? Have fun, and then get out before anything goes wrong; but usually, everything does. 

So, now that you’re all caught up, back to the perfect boy; I’ve finally found him. He’s the one. He cooks for me. He takes care of me. He buys me more than roses and chocolates; he gets me snacks from my childhood, from where I grew up. He supports me in every way; loves me, looks after me, and thinks that the sun revolves around me. 

When I’m not with him, I ache. I look around crowded rooms, searching for him, wishing he would magically manifest. My neck hurts from continuously looking to my phone at work to see if he’s texted. I’m an addict, and I can never get enough. So I know, I know it’s a sure thing. 

Finally, someone has come and loved my broken pieces. Finally, I can be free from the clutches of self-hatred. 

I still find myself terrified of crowds. 

I check my reflection in every street shop window I pass, to make sure I look okay.

 I hold myself tightly when I’m nervous, my nails digging into my arms so hard they mark.

 I still look around the room, but I don’t know who I’m looking for. 

And then, I start to wonder, if maybe, maybe, you’re not the one. 

Maybe I was wrong.

 And I look around me. “I just haven’t met him yet”, I think. The perfect guy is still out there, and one day, he will fill the void. 

We move in together. It’s not everything I thought it would be; I don’t feel in love the same way I used to. I don’t want to be touched, or to be told I’m beautiful or loved. I’m sick of cool girl. I’m sick of funny girl, and different girl. 

I just want to be normal.

I want to feel okay.

He tells me stories about his childhood, about dinners and friends and cherished memories, but I don’t care. I spend time on my own.

I cry. 

I curl up with a blanket in the corner and I read.

And I pick up on things, little things, about me. 

When I cry, I wrap my arms around my legs and cry into my thighs. 

When I’m recovering from an anxiety attack, I like to draw fish; koi fish, mainly, but I can’t really draw well so they end up looking like deformed sea monsters, but I don’t care. 

I love how happy country music makes me. 

I read my favourite childhood books, and fall in love with them all over again. 

I cook a lot, and I love it. It keeps my hands and my mind busy, and the new house starts to smell like my mothers cooking. I had always thought it was some kind of magic that set of that feeling of home, but I start to realize it is not magic, but people. When I make my mother’s classic honey cake, it is no one else but me that is responsible for the fact that it is now sitting in front of me, smelling as delightful as it did when I was five years old. I look at myself in the mirror, and I wonder.

I wonder why I need somebody to tell me I’m pretty, or funny, or that I’m loved. 

I wonder why I never did these things for myself before; why I’ve spent so long looking at everyone else through rose-tinted, storybook goggles, but have never allowed myself that privilege. 

I start to wonder if, when I look around myself in a crowded room, I’m really looking to see if I can find myself. 

Maybe I’m grasping for my own hand, so that I can carry on with my night and enjoy my own company. 

Maybe I haven’t been waiting for someone wonderful to come along and do all of these things for me. Maybe I should have just been doing them myself. 

For myself. 

Maybe instead of loving somebody else with all of my heart, I should have been trying to love me. 

So I look at him, and I wonder if I have enough heart to do both. If I can give him something I have never been able to give myself. He brings me a cup of tea and smiles that big, loving smile of his, and my chest hurts. That’s when I know. I never should have loved him to begin with.