Ok, so I have to admit something. I might be the happiest I have ever been in my overall life now, but I am also the least inspired.
I have so many things in life that I would never, ever want to say goodbye to: a wonderful husband, beautiful and hilarious loyal friends, the cutest puppy in the history of the planet, a comfortable home, food, travel and a body that does what I want it to do. The life experience of a 33 year-old Dutchstralian.
My life is so full of goodness. I can only gush about what good things have come my way, least of all the power and strength to stand in this life and face challenges knowing I will be ok and come out stronger than I was before. My wonderful mother has taught me so much already that I am wiser than she was at my age.
I know there are people who find comfort in talking to me - it is one of the things I am most happy about, that I can be there for people and give them support. I have faced times when I craved friends like that and didn't have them.
I am incredibly level-headed now. I give sound advice. I see the world in a realistic way. I know good things come to an end and it's ok to let things go. It's better to have enjoyed something and say goodbye than to long for it forever. I know sometimes it seems life is ridiculously hard, but that if you just hang on, things do get better.
But to my romantic spirit is dead. Honestly. As a teenager and in my twenties I was possibly the most wistful and melancholy person ever. Every song was about me. Every romantic love story resonated with me. The world was cruel and beautiful and there were angels out there who would one day come and take me away to a world in which I belonged. I believed in the kind of love you read about in teenage fiction. I was easily in love and as easily devastated when it didn't work out. I believed there was a soulmate out there for me.
I knew how to pine for someone. God, I was good at that stuff. I wrote and wrote and wrote diaries full of poetry. I wanted to live in a castle in the woods with billowing curtains in the full moonlight, with a handsome angel-prince who would sweep me off my feet on a daily basis.
Now when I see castles, I wonder who would vacuum all those endless amounts of rooms.
I do not have a diary. Or write poetry.
I can spend months away from my husband and know that when I get back, we are still totally fine and our life together will be full and warm and wonderful. I love him endlessly, but I know I am ok and whole without him. I am not half a person without the man I love, and he is ok without me. I don't think he is my soulmate, because we are very different people who just happen to connect in a very strong and certain way. I don't think he understands my soul. But that's ok. I realise I don't need a soulmate. I have many beautiful friends who each support my soul in their own way.
It makes life easier, but maybe less...I don't know...beautiful?
I have had all that romantic lovesickness in my life. I have received painful love letters. I have sent them. Written in pencil, written and rewritten. My tears have smudged the words. I have been physically sick with heartbreak after being rejected by beautifully fucked-up boys. I have slammed doors and screamed passionately in rage.
But that's not me anymore. I'm pleased in a way. I have something that so many long for. Something people pine for in the way that I used to pine. I have a happy marriage. I have a man who stands by me, who lets me be me, who travels with me, who builds me a house with everything perfect for us, who wants me to be happy, who is there with open arms every time I come back from Europe in all my Dutchstralian duality.
But it takes effort to step back to see what I have. When you're content, it's easy to lose focus and concentrate on the little things that are nothing important, like bills and getting the car serviced and buying dog food.
But I miss writing. I miss not being able to live without writing. I miss having my diary full of poetry. I miss words coming into my head, forming sentences and not being able to carry on until I had written them down, considering words, finding exactly the right ones to say what I felt.
Now I often just need three words: I am content. Life is good. I am lucky. I am loved.
Or four: I never feel lonely. I like my own company. I am good at stuff.
But sometimes I find her. That girl I was. I find her in songs by London Grammar. I find her in teenage fiction. And I love her. I pine for her. I want to hang on to the moments that I am her again, because it feels so passionate. It feels so beautiful. But she's not real.
I am her right now, writing this. It feels good. I wish I could do this more often. But reality does not allow adults to wallow like teenagers. There's bills, cars needing servicing, dogs that need food bought.
But that's life. It's no fairytale.
I have so many things in life that I would never, ever want to say goodbye to: a wonderful husband, beautiful and hilarious loyal friends, the cutest puppy in the history of the planet, a comfortable home, food, travel and a body that does what I want it to do. The life experience of a 33 year-old Dutchstralian.
My life is so full of goodness. I can only gush about what good things have come my way, least of all the power and strength to stand in this life and face challenges knowing I will be ok and come out stronger than I was before. My wonderful mother has taught me so much already that I am wiser than she was at my age.
I know there are people who find comfort in talking to me - it is one of the things I am most happy about, that I can be there for people and give them support. I have faced times when I craved friends like that and didn't have them.
I am incredibly level-headed now. I give sound advice. I see the world in a realistic way. I know good things come to an end and it's ok to let things go. It's better to have enjoyed something and say goodbye than to long for it forever. I know sometimes it seems life is ridiculously hard, but that if you just hang on, things do get better.
But to my romantic spirit is dead. Honestly. As a teenager and in my twenties I was possibly the most wistful and melancholy person ever. Every song was about me. Every romantic love story resonated with me. The world was cruel and beautiful and there were angels out there who would one day come and take me away to a world in which I belonged. I believed in the kind of love you read about in teenage fiction. I was easily in love and as easily devastated when it didn't work out. I believed there was a soulmate out there for me.
I knew how to pine for someone. God, I was good at that stuff. I wrote and wrote and wrote diaries full of poetry. I wanted to live in a castle in the woods with billowing curtains in the full moonlight, with a handsome angel-prince who would sweep me off my feet on a daily basis.
Now when I see castles, I wonder who would vacuum all those endless amounts of rooms.
I do not have a diary. Or write poetry.
I can spend months away from my husband and know that when I get back, we are still totally fine and our life together will be full and warm and wonderful. I love him endlessly, but I know I am ok and whole without him. I am not half a person without the man I love, and he is ok without me. I don't think he is my soulmate, because we are very different people who just happen to connect in a very strong and certain way. I don't think he understands my soul. But that's ok. I realise I don't need a soulmate. I have many beautiful friends who each support my soul in their own way.
It makes life easier, but maybe less...I don't know...beautiful?
I have had all that romantic lovesickness in my life. I have received painful love letters. I have sent them. Written in pencil, written and rewritten. My tears have smudged the words. I have been physically sick with heartbreak after being rejected by beautifully fucked-up boys. I have slammed doors and screamed passionately in rage.
But that's not me anymore. I'm pleased in a way. I have something that so many long for. Something people pine for in the way that I used to pine. I have a happy marriage. I have a man who stands by me, who lets me be me, who travels with me, who builds me a house with everything perfect for us, who wants me to be happy, who is there with open arms every time I come back from Europe in all my Dutchstralian duality.
But it takes effort to step back to see what I have. When you're content, it's easy to lose focus and concentrate on the little things that are nothing important, like bills and getting the car serviced and buying dog food.
But I miss writing. I miss not being able to live without writing. I miss having my diary full of poetry. I miss words coming into my head, forming sentences and not being able to carry on until I had written them down, considering words, finding exactly the right ones to say what I felt.
Now I often just need three words: I am content. Life is good. I am lucky. I am loved.
Or four: I never feel lonely. I like my own company. I am good at stuff.
But sometimes I find her. That girl I was. I find her in songs by London Grammar. I find her in teenage fiction. And I love her. I pine for her. I want to hang on to the moments that I am her again, because it feels so passionate. It feels so beautiful. But she's not real.
I am her right now, writing this. It feels good. I wish I could do this more often. But reality does not allow adults to wallow like teenagers. There's bills, cars needing servicing, dogs that need food bought.
But that's life. It's no fairytale.
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