From the ground up

The first time I experience something, I lose myself in the activity. As my thoughts and feelings fixate on this mystery, all else disappears. I am now part of this newness; nothing else interests me.

It’s a fine habit when discovering a new Animal Collective record or bingeing a season of Real Housewives. (Yes, my tastes vary.) But what if the new-new in life is that, for the very first time, you feel intense, prolonged passion for a living, breathing human being? And what if this person lives and breathes 1,500 miles away?

This is a story about entering my first real romantic relationship at the ripe old age of 29, temporarily losing myself in a storm of obsession and slowly rebuilding my core identity, which I found could never resemble its appearance before love busted down my door.

A first love is a storm that sweeps us into its suffocating embrace. Unlike a tornado that signals its impending destruction with a whistle, love creeps silently. You gasp when it reaches you.

“I never feel lonely,” I used to tell my friends. I spent my entire twenties molding a sense of self rigidly built on the premise that I don’t need no man. I couldn’t feel any gaping wound in my heart, saw no hole to fill. I’d go on Tinder with the highest hopes of going on 0–3 dates with a man who would sleep with me once or twice before moving on. I would have sex while facing the wall instead of my partner, because it was all interchangeable anyway.

Just about when I had given up on finding a man with whom I would want to have both conversation and sex, someone from my distant past walked back into my life. We spent five invigorating days together in our shared beachside hometown over Christmas break of 2018, and when he flew back home to the frozen north, we kept things open-ended. Sporadic texting turned to marathon phone calls to video chats to a real-life visit full of snow and ice. Before I knew it, I had a bona fide boyfriend.

We connected effortlessly on many levels. I felt accepted and appreciated as I truly was. When we chatted on the phone, he accurately guessed what face or hand gestures I was making from simply hearing my tone of voice. When I couldn’t find the words to express myself, he understood and finished my thoughts.

After a few weeks, I found I had no desire to think about anything other than the sound of his voice when he’d make up little songs, the shape of his nose and mouth as he spoke or the slow, graceful movements his fingers made as they explored my skin. I felt ravenous; I wanted to consume everything he offered me and then some.

As fierce storm winds carry my feet off the ground, I look down and my limbs and torso are no longer visible. All I see is a bleeding, pounding heart being pummeled in the strong currents.

Last spring, we went two whole months without seeing each other in person. Starved for direct contact, I lashed out at him for the smallest things. Days before our next reunion, we got into an argument and discussed parting ways. The guilt and shame of potentially driving away the person I wanted to be closest to drove me mad. I ended up not sleeping for three straight nights, that initial anxiety snowballing into a blizzard that decimated my trust of my mind and body. Being alone terrified me.

The weeks following my breakdown I spent getting clean from the over-the-counter sleeping pills that I had used nightly for years, the safety net that recently failed me. Without these antihistamines signaling sleepytime to my anxious body and mind, I felt utterly without a paddle. My skin itched. My brain was mush. My emotions were unpredictable. I lost 10 pounds in a couple days. I turned to my boyfriend, frightened and raw, believing he could deliver me from my suffering.

He was my guru, urging me to think critically about the negative ways I viewed the world and my abilities. I tried to take his advice but neglected to believe him when he said I could get through this. At one point, I believed I couldn’t fall asleep without a bedtime call from him, tying my experience of internal relaxation with an external source.

I had lost sight of who I was and felt emotionally dependent on a disembodied voice over the phone. I was so tied up in feeling so much for someone else, I didn’t save any love for myself.

Time passes, and storm winds reach a place of calm. More parts of ourselves regain their old permanence. I see through the gentle breeze and find legs that carry me each day, arms that keep me balanced, eyes that peer into the mirror and process a familiar shape.

After months of slowly rebuilding my self-trust through meditation, I’m reacquainting myself with myself. I’ve resumed my practice of dancing to Beyoncé alone in the living room. I sleep full nights more often than not. Spending time alone feels less like a death sentence and more like a gift, a chance to recharge and reevaluate my surroundings.

Some days, I wonder what I could’ve done to avoid the breakdown that brought me so much grief. Could I have not completely lost myself in my obsession? Could I have seen love’s strong winds coming and taken shelter to avoid getting lifted into the vortex?

The reality is, who I am today is a different person precisely because I lost myself in love. I am more complex, fluid and accepting of both myself and others. The process of finding myself may never end, but these experiences provided a foundation on which to rebuild myself stronger and more vulnerable to others.

There’s nothing like a first time.

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