It’s somewhat embarrassing to admit this, but I recently discovered that my “Cinderella” is still alive and well, much to my dizzying astonishment!
What do I mean by this? Well, that deep inside, and after many broken hearts, I am still susceptible to the illusion that out there is still ‘the one’ with whom I will find ‘happily ever after!’ Idiotic, I know, but Cinderella will not be easily assuaged, and has to be gently but firmly put back into her silly girlish box!
It is possible, but it takes time! And if, like me, you are happily sailing along in a contented life, very grateful for wonderful friends, engaging interests, good health, more than sufficient material needs, and all defences down: wham – it hits like a sledgehammer! There it is: unexpected, undesired, in a Prince Charming so unlikely: the possibility of true love!
So, at first, the rational me stood back and said no, this can’t be happening, I’ll just ignore it and it will go away. And so it continued for a while, until Prince Unlikely said, look I’ve found this slipper and I think it could be yours; don’t you want to try it on?
So, before I could shut her up, Cinders stuck her head out of her box and said hell yeah! And the next thing I knew, it was on! And it was lovely. For a few, (too short), weeks. And then: nothing. Prince Unlikely turned into Prince Distant, and everyone knows that Cinderellas do not chase princes! Mystery unexplained, and will probably remain so. I don’t even bother to ask the questions anymore as to why – there is no point, there will not be answers, there never have been. I know that I will ‘get over ‘it, sooner probably than later, that is one advantage of being older. But still…
But still… today the yearning is excruciating; the despondency overwhelming. Is it too early for wine? The urge is for relief from the collision of these two old enemies, joining forces against me. No matter how many lovely things I have filled my life with; there are still gaping chasms that cannot be papered over. I seek reassurance but I know there is to be none…the only respite is to write and write, work through it until I can gain some traction and gradually pull myself back to an equilibrium that will allow survival.
Triggers? Yes.
The hope revived of finding the one love, or at least a deep and reciprocated love. The shock of its rapid departure, gone in a nanosecond. So fleeting, and with such massive repercussions. Anger. How could it be so illusory? How could wiser me be so quickly deluded? Guilt at the anger. Not many of us are rocks: most have feet of clay, and some of finest sand. Were my expectations too great?
No, indeed, I am not special; I am as big a fool as ever.
What can I do now? Just sit and grieve and try to hold on to what was lovely about it: the sharing of the languages of intimacy between two people totally focused on each other, the sense of connection that surpasses anything else. Is it good to realise that it is still possible; or bad to resurrect the hope, previously quietly put to bed, that it might still be possible?
I tell myself it is luxurious of me to allow myself to think of this so much, to desire it so intensely, when I already have so much. But while acknowledging the truth of this, I can’t rationalise myself out of something that is not rational. It’s like being in a bad dream, knowing that you’re in a bad dream, knowing that it will end, but not being able to wake yourself out of it until it ends of its own accord.
I know this is all probably drivel, but believe me, writing the drivel helps.
As does wine!