The withering rose

I have learned to hate Valentine’s Day. Not because it has become a commercial opportunity, not because it imposes expectations on partners, not because it’s kind of cheesy and dumb and useless to designate a day to show love to people you should be showing love to all the time, even though I feel all of these things to be true, to a degree.

I have learned to hate Valentine’s Day because I have never, not even once, had a lover or boyfriend or partner fully show up for me on this day. The years when I was not in a relationship, I usually did something with my kids, went to a party with friends, or forced myself into super Valentine’s Day hating mode and ignored the whole thing because it was better than admitting I was lonely. If I was in a relationship at the time, one of two things occurred:

1) he did the obligatory thing; got me a rose and a box of chocolates, ate the nice dinner I made, went to bed with me, all as if scripted, yet passionless and involuntary. I was content, yet still felt empty because I knew he was doing it all for my sake and not because it meant anything to him.

or

2) he made it abundantly and often rudely clear that he was not interested in participating in the obligatory, scripted bullshit, and proceeded to spend the evening with someone else, or alone. Or in the case of the psychopath I was with two years ago, he stood over me screaming at the top of his lungs until I was a trembling heap on the floor, then took the chocolate strawberries I made and left for days.

In high school, the boy I was dating broke up with me on Valentine’s Day because he was not prepared to do what he assumed I expected him to do for me. All I expected was that I would have a boyfriend on Valentine’s Day.

A year ago, I had a man living with me who led me to believe he was here because he truly enjoyed my company. But I quickly discovered he was a pathological liar, con artist and parasite, and I asked him to leave a few days before Valentine’s Day so one of the aforementioned scenarios could not play out yet again. I decided that all I wanted for Valentine’s Day was to not be abused or lied to, so getting rid of him ensured that I got exactly what I wanted, for once.

Since then, it has become far easier and more satisfying to reject what obviously I have never deserved: the genuine love, adoration and affection of a man who sees beauty in and honors me.

At this point it seems highly unlikely that I will ever have this.

And so, I go numb on this day, to not feel any tugging of wanting anything I can’t have. I go numb so it doesn’t matter if I ever feel that intoxicating feeling of being drawn close to his heart, embraced with tenderness and kissed passionately as if no one else exists on Earth in that moment. I call that a Disney fantasy and cast it away because it can’t happen to me. I am not that lovable. I am not that beautiful, or sexy, or pretty anymore. What I am gifted in doesn’t enchant anyone or make them want to be close to me. I am well past my prime, invisible, and will continue to watch Valentine’s Day as if through aquarium glass. I feel as if I will wither with every day that goes by not being touched, or held, or kissed as if I matter to someone. My petals will curl and brown and drop to the ground, feed the soil for new seeds to grow into beautiful flowers that people will notice and desire. I am wretched for ever having wanted to be that beautiful, enough for a man to gaze at me with genuinely loving eyes and want to give his love to me regardless of the calendar date or societal dictate. I don’t have the right kind of beauty, apparently.

All I have is to watch my beautiful daughter in love for the first time and being held by a sweet young man who truly honors her. That is what I shall cherish on this day, because it is the only thing that brings me joy anymore. Because although I could never, may never have that for myself, just knowing that I brought into the world someone who can be loved like that makes me feel like I’ve done at least one thing right.