(My intention is to write about my evolving concept of love and relationships; it just happens that my one real experience with the subject involves someone many who read this know and love. I have never really allowed myself to discuss this here, not since the break was first made. Over the months that followed I gained so much understanding and grew in so many ways that's just lost to these archives. I feel I have gained enough distance to speak about this candidly and objectively. So is it still inappropriate to talk about this here? In the spirit this is intended, I don't think so.)

The story picks up where I left off here.

In dealing with people I am on some level attracted to, my MO has always been to run. No matter how much I said I wanted a relationship, whenever the opportunity to actually engage in one presented itself, I ran. I became quite adept at flirting, at making promises I had no intention of keeping, at becoming suddenly indifferent and cold. This is how I operated. No matter how much I wanted a relationship theoretically, the prospect was too terrifying in reality; it was never worth the risk.

Sometime during spring semester of my freshman year, however, it was clear to me my usual games were not working. No amount of running or outright fighting could have prevented me from getting into a relationship that time -- believe me, I tried. You shouldn't bother with me because I don't believe in God. Don't waste your time: Benjamin is still a part of me, and Matt IM'ed me yesterday. But for every offer I carelessly turned down or ignored, curiosity drove me to accept another. At some point, I couldn't have put the brakes on. It was gravity, it was a tidal wave. I had never felt so out of control in my life. I didn't like the sensation. But it was inevitable.

For all the faults and shortcomings I could point to now, it was then exactly what I wanted. I can't remember the feeling now -- indeed it has been displaced by something entirely opposite -- but I do know that at the time those first two weeks were perfection. We both wanted the same thing: I made a New Year's resolution to fall in love that year, and he told me he would have dated anyone at that point. (Romantic, I know.) And we felt the same way: both awkward and embarrassed and inexperienced, perhaps too old for such things, perhaps revelling in our ability to still act like 15-year-olds. We would have (or did) annoyed the hell out of you: there were pet names and in-jokes; we were not to be found apart; we couldn't fathom sitting on separate pieces of furniture. We started sharing a bed almost immediately and did not kiss for almost two weeks. It was crazy and confusing and so, so immature, but it was all I wanted.

But it was only those two weeks. It took me another three and a half months to understand my changing feelings, but that change was final -- after the initial magic, after the difficult goodbye, and after only three weeks apart, it was over. We saw each other -- was it only once? over the summer, and I knew it didn't feel right then. I was going through the motions and convincing myself to feel what I ought to feel even then. The phone calls became forced and there were long periods of silence; by the end of the summer I mostly joked with my mother and read my brother's Magic cards while his cell phone minutes wasted away. We made these insane plans to live together the next summer, putting "our love" above everything else and already expecting it to last forever. This became increasingly urgent on his part and increasingly half-hearted on mine. I began to resent him for it. Yes I made excuses not to go to the beach house. I did not want to be there alone with him. Still, somehow, I couldn't figure why.

When we returned to campus, I knew why. One look at him and I knew it was over. I realized all summer I had been making him and us into something we were not. Yes, it is as much my fault as his: I said "I love you" first, and I did it in a letter. I invented it and packaged it and sold it to both of us. He did the same. The products never matched up. It would never have worked; it stopped being real very early on. It was obviously over. I spent two days wondering what to do; when I knew what to do, how to end it; until he couldn't stand my distance any longer (would I have kept that up indefinitely?) and asked me: and I told him, and I could not cry (I willed myself to) and I had no real explanations, and I lied and said maybe my feelings would change again (I knew they couldn't), and I walked out of his room rather ungracefully.

This is where that story ends. The months that followed and what went on truly have nothing to do with our relationship. Those were his personal issues he had to sort through; they ceased to have anything to do with me or the reality of the situation. At some point you have to wash your hands of it.

But these are my personal issues I had to sort through in the aftermath and for the most part couldn't through this forum. These are my issues, quite independent from him but, I hope, increasingly grounded in reality. And, at some point, you have to take responsibility for these things.

My first reaction was: I am a heartless bitch and I should seek some serious psychological counseling before attempting a relationship ever again. I was so guilt-ridden, and at the time, I still didn't understand my reasons. It was some time before I realized why I had ended it: because it was never founded on anything real to begin with. At first, I thought my feelings had just died; I didn't realize there was no basis for my feelings to start with. It was nothing but self-loathing in the beginning.

My second reaction was: All love is a sham and cannot last; there is little point in love at all. I was infatuated with my newfound singlehood and freedom (once I'd released myself from the guilt) and I took it to an extreme. I decided there was no such thing as love. I believed it was a baseless, weak bond. I favored the concept of friendship plus sex then, with no attachment nor commitment nor jealousy, and absolutely no cohabitation or sharing of property. Relationships are not meant to last, so don't tie yourself down. I felt I had liberated myself from romantic notions of soulmates and destiny in favor of this bleak yet empowering "reality": accept human interactions and emotions for what they are (fickle) and create your own way.

My third reaction, at first an extension of the second and then deliverance from it, was: feminism. Because as soon as I began to understand everything that had been wrong with our relationship I began to realize everything I had myself done very, very wrong. I realized that I had made myself into such a girl for him. I overexaggerated my physical weakness; I became much less assertive; I cared much more about my looks. Worst of all, I began to change my very belief system for him: one day I know I don't want marriage or children; all of a sudden I'm in a relationship and I'm idealizing domesticity. When I say "for him" I don't mean to imply he every wanted or expected me to change these things about myself; just that on an insidious, subconscious level I chose to because of him. And moreover, I realized that I've always done this, around guys I have always made myself seem more girly than I have ever truly been.

At the same time I realized this ugly truth about myself I was discovering feminism. Which was empowering and fueled the personal rebellion I was in the middle of. In my initial and immature reading of feminism, I cast off parts of myself, my experience, my system of thought wholesale. I was too in love with freedom and a new vision of gender expression; I took it too far. But I learned and grew, and now it's clear to me that my passive submission had to be balanced by active resistance before I could get to a more centered place. I will never look down upon those days when I rigorously questioned everything I did and believed in. I had to do that.

And now, now I am more centered. I know why I do what I do and why I believe what I do. I have relented somewhat, but I am still commited to my freedom. I don't believe love is a waste, but I still don't believe in marriage. I would like to be in a relationship, but only on my own terms.

So yes, I have reached the point where I would really love to be in a relationship. Where I really think I know what I mean when I refer to the vague notion of a "healthy relationship." Where I would not run and I would not play games, and I would not forget who I am. Of course, it would still be hard for me, it would still be terrifying. I would have to consciously stop myself from running. But I do believe finally: it is worth the risk.

I don't think love lasts forever. But it does exist. With whatever chances and persons you're given, you have to make the most of it, you have to love where and when you can. That's the main thing. I don't believe in being "completed" by another person, I don't believe in even ideally going through the rest of my life with one person. Neither do I believe that love is worthless if it doesn't last, or that if it doesn't last I may as well have nothing but meaningless sex. For me, both viewpoints are limiting.

But why is it, tell me, now that I feel somewhat sane on this issue and I know what I'm looking for, why now is there no prospect for a relationship in sight? Yes, I am very picky; and around here there are slim pickings. I will never, never be the sort who "needs" a relationship. I don't even know if I'd prefer a relationship: I do so enjoy being single. I'm just saying, it would be nice. It would be so nice.

If nothing else, at least here's to a new, now fully-realized, MO: keeping my eyes open, taking my chances as they come, and loving loving loving when I can.

I know having children is not for me, but oh, how beautiful and faith-restoring is this?

For me, having a child was an everyday miracle that transformed the landscape as completely as death transforms it, and it was as profound an experience as death, which was the only thing I had to compare it to.

It's extraordinary. It's like a thunderbolt. It's like a meteor hitting your world. Nothing's ever the same again and there's this bloody great crater of motherhood out of which you are never going to climb. And, you know, it's fabulous. It's the best thing.

My child teaches me everything about being human. People say that children can be cunning or naughty, but I don't really think they can. Children are remarkable and incredibly balanced and unbelievably just and extraordinarily kind. And if you can preserve that, they are liable to grow into human beings that have some sort of chance of being fully human. You just have to try not to interfere too much and to allow their humanising influence on you to take its course.

-Emma Thompson

And then there's something like this, which is just too immobilizingly terrifying to even contemplate bringing a child into this world.

It takes a lot of love these days
To keep your heart from freezing
To keep your spirit free
David Gray