I Love Me, I Love Me Not

Might be lonely.

Might not be.

Can’t work it out at the moment.

My love life is like one of those optical illusions, where sometimes you see a vase, and sometimes you see two people kissing. And sometimes you feel so jealous about them kissing that you want the image to change back to a vase so you can smash it over your own head.

But then, sometimes you see the two people kissing and you say to them, “Hey, are you guys looking for a third? Is this an open thing?”

You’ve gotta take risks. Put yourself out there. Live on the edge; the middle is too crowded.

Maybe the therapist running this experiment is down to fuck? Maybe they’re so impressed by your comedic riffing on the optical illusion, they’re willing to risk their entire career on asking you to go for a hot cup of java with them. And I’m not talking the burnt tasting instant stuff they have at her practice – I’m talking a barista-made latte from a high-street tax-evading chain. I’m talking a coffee that could easily be followed by a stroll around the shops, maybe a perusing of a bookstore which acts as a vehicle to discuss common interests, furthering your emotional bond.

Do therapists do that vase test thing? I dunno what I’m talking about. In my head it’s something to do with psychology, but I’d be fuming if I’d paid for therapy and they showed me that. I’m here to talk about how my childhood has affected my attachment style, not get shown a novelty picture. That vase thing was in the book I’d pick up in primary school reading time when Captain Underpants was unavailable.

“Mr Rushton, do you see a vase or two people kissing?”

“I see I’m being shafted. Now do you see my account number and sort code? Because I’d like a refund.”

Okay, just googled it. Apparently the two people kissing that I remember in the illusion is actually just two people in profile. Instantly undermining the premise I’m building this blog on. Uh oh.

Or…

Does me remembering it that way say something about where I’m at emotionally? Maybe. Or maybe you need to start inferring shit for yourselves for once.

I got love on the brain. I love it. Love love. People say men think about sex once every 7 seconds, but I reckon I think about who my soulmate is once every 2 or 3 milliseconds. And the person I think about sexually on the 7 second intervals isn’t the soulmate because I have deep issues around intimacy, and I don’t want the love of my life to have to deal with that.

Love is all around me. I’m currently in a high-street tax-evading coffee chain (alone). Looking up, I see two people in profile, and the way they’re looking at each other, they may as well be kissing. They’re kissing with their eyes. Okay, now they’re no longer in profile. They’ve spotted me. How long have I been staring?? Arghhhhhh….

Not in a relationship myself. I’m single. I have been for 987 days now, but it’s chill. 1000 days of solitude approaching. A lot of my friends have gotten into relationships in that time. In my main group chat, every other member is in a relationship. I see their profiles, and they’re smooching in them.

I’m 29, which according to the laws of arithmetic, is one year off 30. Fine. The passage of time is fairly consistent. It runs like clockwork. Can’t complain. But I do worry that I should at least be in the middle of my first failed marriage by now.

I always thought by this point I’d be looking into the eyes of the woman I swore I’d grow old with and realising we’re complete strangers.

Tbf, most of the people I think about growing old with are strangers. I’m a big fancier. I fancy people. When you’re feeling down about your love life, you can always just fancy someone.

Fancying someone is actually class. It’s a great work out for the imagination. I’ve lived thousands of lifetimes with people in my head. Marriage, kids, rescuing dogs together with traumatic histories that make them incredibly violent – the lot. All simulated via my trusty grey matter.

I know those daydreams aren’t the same as a relationship. When you fancy someone, you don’t really know them, so you take the data from the four seconds you spent walking past them, the list of everything you want them to be, and you combine the two.

It’s not all good. I fantasise about the bad bits too. I imagine the silence at the dinner table after we find out our child hasn’t got his first-choice secondary school as if it’s somehow my fault rather than a function of a broken bureaucratic system.

I used to get down about all this fancying. I’d think I’m out here seeing purity in the impure, turning ordinary people into extraordinary emblems of romance. Is anyone doing that for me? Is anyone turning me into an unrealistic version of myself I can never live up to? Does anyone hold a perfect Eric Rushton in their mind? A platonic ideal, rather than a platonic friend.

“You are what you love, not what loves you.” What a quote.

 I heard that in a film I saw with my own eyes.

When I remember that quote, it causes such a perspective shift. Sometimes I think my tendency to over-romanticise is just the wild misfirings of neurons inside the broken brain of someone who knows nothing about love. But then sometimes I just think actually I’m a sweet boy with a full heart.

Also, shit, just realised, if you are what you love, that means for me to be me, I have to love myself.

Maybe I’ve gotta fancy me. I need to be the one holding a perfect me in my mind. I need to be the one creating a version of me I can never live up to. Let’s direct some of this delusion inwards for once.

I think you can tell when someone is really feeling themselves. That’s attractive, init? What I love is someone being truly themselves and having a truly big ass. I’m very drawn to people who are unapologetically themselves. I’m myself, but apologetically. I’ve never started any social interaction without warning the other person they’re gonna hate talking to me.

Maybe I should stop being so very dreadfully sorry.

The great thing about trying to figure out who you are and becoming that fully, is that it doesn’t matter what other people are doing. It doesn’t matter if they’re already in their first of many failed marriages, or if they fancy you back, or they understand the relevance of optical illusions to psychology – it’s all about doing you as best you can do it.

Sometimes I feel I’m smashing being me. Sometimes I walk around thinking, “No one’s doing Eric Rushton like I do Eric Rushton. I’m on some goated king shit right now.”

Part of that goated king shit for me is fancying people and writing long blogs pondering the significance of that.

Woah. Did this blog just go from being about romantic love to being about self-love? From worrying about people smooching, to realising I’m vase that deserves some flowers? How cliché yet satisfying. This is exactly the type of thing I would write.

Saying that, I still am massively looking to bang. I’m desperate to penetrate. But the importance varies. As does the importance of every worry in my life.

Sometimes I’m happy with my life, sometimes I think it’s a disaster. Sometimes I love me, sometimes I don’t.

Sometimes I think my whole 20’s have been wasted being heckled by idiots on stag do’s; sometimes I think, ah, that’ll make a great clip.

Perspective shifts all the time. Keep your eyes open and things can suddenly look different.

I remember my favourite moment of being in love ever. It was when I was with my now ex-girlfriend and my then current-girlfriend. We were spending Christmas at her parents, and we were playing board-games and having a class time. Then we both went to the kitchen to get a drink, and I remember we looked at each other and did this squeal of excitement. We were absolutely stuffed with turkey, but we both felt weightless. Buzzing to be together.

It was a mutual expression of not being able to believe our luck. How we saw each other and how we saw ourselves all lined up and everything felt perfect. We were both in a blue dress, in profile, screaming yanny.

I worry that was my romantic peak. Nothing will match it. Give up on love. But then, a better way of looking at it is, if that happened once, it can happen again.

You just gotta keep looking.

Chances are I’ll have another moment like that.

With someone I don’t even know exists yet.

WOAH.

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