Maybe I don’t need anyone. Maybe I really don’t. This is a thought that started to tick around my head around the middle of April 2009.
I was just about over the idea that I am the worst person on Earth. In the calm after the self-inflicted mental birch tree whipping that I gave myself after the Producer and the Artist, I finally began to feel like I was getting back to normal again.
But it was a new kind of normal. Something that had been bugging me about my whole time with those guys. I had begun to feel like hunting for a boyfriend was a job. Not a chore. But that this was what I did as much as writing screenplays.
And I began to wonder about that. I mean if you hate your job, you resign. And somehow I felt like, I am a single guy, I must be in want of a boyfriend. Husband hunting, it’s a gig. But I wasn’t enjoying the job at all.
This was different, it wasn’t one of those times where I’ve thrown my hands in the air after some guy thing goes wrong yelling, “That’s it, I’m over it, I’m just going to be single.” I was about as convinced as a smoker who didn’t really feel like kicking the habit. I could go for a while, but I knew it’d just be a matter of time before I picked up the habit all over again. The high before the inevitable low, the constant yo-yoing between extremes of emotion.
In fact, two ideas began to sit very well together, who before now had never been able to play nice when my back was turned. I’m Single. I’m living in LA. These ideas I found could now sit on a bench together quite happily.
There was no great epiphany as there had been before on this road. A miraculous mystical event with a stranger in a furniture store, no palm reading from Clare in Sydney, no white knight galloping over the hill.
Instead, I realized that it was OK. I was fine. I could be single the whole time I lived in LA and that would be fine. Really truly fine.
It’s one of those days where you look in the mirror and know that you are a different person. That you’ve felt this way for a while, but not really sure when it started. Which means that it’s real, not something that you hope is going to catch on and take your attention away from the doubt that you have caged up momentarily.
I wasn’t sure what to do with this. It didn’t feel like it needed celebrating. But it was significant. So I took out my post it notes and wrote myself a little message that I stuck up on my bathroom mirror.
“I think you might be happy”
And the note was right. I was. And I smiled everytime I looked at it.
That felt like celebration enough.