How A Witch Falls in Love
by OneTaste New York Jun 25, 2014
Falling in love is marked by a deep shame for me. The entire process feels like I’m naked in a circle of people who are judging me and waiting for me to fail so they can chuck vegetables at me or something. Naked and then also like I’m shrinking underneath the weight of my own fears. Somewhere in here I’m not entirely certain that love exists. Somewhere I wonder if it’s just all addiction, if I even have a lover in here or if at the bottom of it, like “Heeeeeeeeeere’s Johnny!” there is just my junkie, ugly with decaying teeth, the joker that pops out of a jack-in-the-box leering.
Well-meaning assurances mean nothing to me here…they may even convince me more that love doesn’t exist. Or ok maybe it does, I mean I know that it does, it is everything really, it’s all that matters. Maybe it’s just the box of “falling in love” and “true love” that I have a problem with. How can this huge force of life all be focused and bottled up into one little scrawny box. What, and then if you are open or you are forward-thinking, you work to expand the relationship to contain it all? Ok and still…does it highlight love like laying out diamonds on black velvet, or does it diminish it into a lesser version of itself, contained and stuck like soft ample flesh and delicate bones laced up into a crushing corset?
So there are my sharp poky questions, and then there is my actual behavior. My questions say I don’t believe in these things and imply that falling in love is beneath me somehow, but my behavior is the opposite. No matter how many times I get spun out and flung off by that horse, I go back in again as soon as the impulse whistles to me like that questionable man on the street under a cap who doesn’t give a shit about societal spacial norms or etiquette. Why yes, I WOULD like to go back into this experience, thank you for asking! Please, strip me naked in public again and pelt me with vegetables of shame.
Evidently I am a masochist.
Cue the endless testing of this poor man who I have again decided to entrust my heart to, here.
“Just so you know, I could have anyone I want. Let me demonstrate by flirting with everyone near me in front of you as often as possible.”
“Just so you know, I am a free woman who cannot be made small. Let me shove this in your face relentlessly by disconnecting from you when you say something I don’t like and see what you do with that.”
“Just so you know, I am NOT like other women. I am independent and powerful. I will be demonstrating this by showing up as cool and hilarious and amazing as possible around you but while pretending that I’m not paying any attention to you.” And so on.
Evidently I am a sadist as well.
And then there comes a point, sometimes, where he has passed enough tests where I let him in. I let him call me out on my ego, on my insecurities and my off-plays, rather than pretending his noticings had no impact. I begin to slip into my involuntary more in sex and relating, not the sexy kind but the I-genuinely-don’t-know-if-you-will-like-me-after-this kind. And somewhere in all of this, there is a moment where I see a window to surrender to the experience of falling in love and I take it. Nowadays i take it consciously, knowing full-well how this game ends: in growth, in grief, in gutted shock, in heartbreak. Even if we go 18 more rounds that last 27 years, every big peak still ends in heartbreak.
The truth is, I am a witch, and I am a courtesan at heart. I can neither own nor be owned for long. My spirit is wild, my vision is vast and calls to me relentlessly, and my desire is to breathe with the earth and to feel all of existence enveloped inside of my body. To consume it all, every drop of this life, the way I suckle from his body after midnight when I’ve earned my offline-time for the day. And although all relationships end, in a sense, in my experience anyway, they also never end, but rather percolate warmly on the fourth dimension, awaiting the tides of time to reopen them again in some new form.
This, to me, is as sober as falling in love gets. “Maybe this one will be different…” is such agonizing finite play. Fuck that. I want to touch the infinite when I am in love. I want it to last forever, and I want the mess and the pain and the down of it along with the romance and the little iridescent bubbles of couple-y-ness. I’ve always been a woman who wants to have her cake and eat it too, and falling in love is no time to be ordering short.