I have an entire category dedicated to creating your own happiness. I’ve written post after post after post about how you are in control of making yourself happy. You have the power to do this for yourself.
I truly believe this — that you are accountable for your own happiness. But, with the on-boarding of a new(ish) boyfriend, I’m beginning to re-learn that other people can contribute to to it too. That your happiness doesn’t have to be all you.
I wrote about how 2011 is my year to let go, and I meant it. And, while it’s been a seemingly impossible and daunting task, I’ve been celebrating every little victory. I’ve been relaxing a bit more and reading again. I’ve been leaving my perfect little downtown studio and venturing around the city again. I’ve been exposing myself to new experiences and having fun. I’ve been trying new restaurants, taking more photos, visiting new places.
I’ve been letting him in.
I’ve let him plan surprises (that I tend to spoil), cook breakfast (even in bed), say sweet, sappy things (sometimes without cringing). I’m beginning to accept the idea that making me happy, in turn, makes him happy.
I’ve spent the past three years of singledom trying to figure out what exactly makes me happy. How I can make myself happy. How to be blissfully happy with myself. No matter what anyone else tells you, that’s the best form of happiness. The self-certainty and awareness is irreplaceable. And when you depend on yourself and no one else, this happiness becomes easier to achieve.
I can safely say that without that knowledge, without knowing myself, I wouldn’t be able to let someone else try to get to know that same part of me.
The reality: happiness is fragile.
And putting your own happiness, that you’ve worked so hard to truly feel, in someone else’s hands, is paralyzing. I’ve reached my own sense of euphoria all on my own, and giving even just a little bit or power to control that…no thanks.
But every moment that I am myself — silly, goofy, real — every personal anecdote or past experience I share, every time I let him comfort me when I’m stressed or sad, every time I listen without pushing away, every time I let him trace the freckles on my back, is a victory.
And slowly letting my guard down isn’t equivalent to going back to any place I may have been before. It’s not opening myself up to past experiences. It’s vying for new ones. And while the fear of the unknown is instinctual, I’m determined to shatter it.
He says he likes me better when I’m disheveled anyhow