Howl

I Am in Love (Finally)

And I’ve never wanted anyone more

“Look at you. You’re fat. You’re ugly. You’re annoying as hell. No one but me will ever put up with you.”

My first boyfriend used to say this to me regularly. And I believed him.

I was always desperate for romantic attention — particularly from men. There was little I wouldn’t put up with in order to get it.

To say that the desire for someone’s love (or, more accurately, the illusion of love) was like a drug to me would be an understatement. I needed it. I wanted it. I would give up just about anything for it.

As a feminist and a student of spiritual philosophy, I felt the tension of these opposing needs and beliefs at all times. I wanted love and attention from a “special person” but I also felt ashamed for wanting that when I knew it was born from a part of me that didn’t think I was good enough as a woman on my own — or even as a person.

The message I encountered again and again, whether it was in spiritual or feminist theory was that I should be happy with myself on my own. I should love myself exactly as I was. I should feel sexually satisfied and liberated with or without a lover.

I would find these little windows into those experiences — just glimpses — but it felt forced. Like eating chard and pretending that I liked it better than chocolate. Oh my god, I love myself so much, I’d say, through clenched teeth.

My last relationship, which was the center of my life for seven years, ended in one of the worst ways that a relationship could end. My partner left me for a woman almost twenty years younger than I was. And he married her and raised her child with her after telling me for years that he didn’t ever want to be a husband or father. And I was 38, at the end of my fertile years, with little chance of finding someone new and having the baby I had dreamed of having someday.

It was a moment of reckoning, as we all have (in one way or another) at least once in our lives. I was stripped down to the studs.

In the following four years, I struggled deeply to find, know, and love myself again. The early months were horrifying. My self-loathing overwhelmed me and I often treated myself with emotional — and even physical — violence. It was as if I was confirming the message my ex had sent me in the act of abandonment: You aren’t worthy of love.

A year later, having found myself in work relationships with men that turned into intense friendships with that beautiful spark of attraction, I realized that I might actually be lovable — and even deserving of sexual attention, too.

It took me a long time to even admit that I still wanted both — sex and love. Even that admission felt audacious after my ex’s departure. Some part of me worried that I’d have to answer to that — to rationalize why I wanted to be loved and desired and given pleasure after someone else had turned his entire life upside-down to show me that I didn’t deserve that.

But no one actually asked and so I quietly allowed myself to have, and even enjoy, that longing.

What does it mean to be sexy for yourself? I’ve always wondered this, when people shared this #girlpower suggestion with me.

In my twenties, I took belly dancing classes in order to get in touch with my feminine energy, but it felt forced and awkward. I couldn’t stop obsessing over how my body was supposed to look and how it was supposed to move. I knew I wasn’t supposed to focus on what was “sexy” — it was about getting in touch with your body and sensuality.

Yet no matter what I did, I could not stop thinking about what I would look like to a man, how I would or would not measure up and whether or not belly dancing skills would make me a more attractive candidate as a lover. Even in the absence of men, I could not escape the male gaze.

In my mid-twenties, while experimenting with serial dating, I struggled with how to present myself. I was at a weight that made me feel good about myself (though I hadn’t gotten there in a healthy manner) and I felt spellbound by my own body in a way I hadn’t since I was 12. I loved to dress in tight jeans and ballerina tops, or low-cut tank tops and skirts slit up to my thigh. It was almost as if I wanted the whole world to be my lover and appreciate that beautiful, sexy body of mine.

But just as when I had been a teenager, that came with a price. The men I dated constantly critiqued my weight and my wardrobe. I was still too fat for them. My boobs weren’t big enough. My clothing was a little slutty, yet not slutty enough.

I began to feel like I was in a pageant. As if I was on a stage, waiting for the judges to hold up cards with numbers on them. But I didn’t know what to do with their feedback. Change how I dressed? Lose more weight? Pad my bra? Act sexier?

All I wanted was for them to love me. To want me.

As time wore on, I began to return to the filter in my brain that showed me nothing but the flaws my partners saw. I stopped feeling so in love with myself and my body.

I felt lost yet again.

In 2019, I did something that changed my life: I started publicly expressing my sexuality however I wanted to without apology. I posted nude and semi-nude photos on social media. I wrote about my sexual experiences and desires. I dressed how I wanted to dress and spoke up about what I wanted.

Only then did I notice how radically things were starting to change.

I felt bigger — like I took up more room in the world. (And what a beautiful feeling that was.)

I finally felt like I could do what I wanted despite knowing I might be judged, shamed, or criticized.

Though I still struggled (and maybe always will) with my appearance, I often have been able to not only admire my reflection in the mirror but to seek it out. To dance for myself. To look at myself with desire, as a lover might do.

More than anything, I’ve felt like I’m breaking free of the male gaze more and more. I see my sensuality and sexiness for me — for myself. Not worrying what a man might want or prefer. I see what I want, what I love. I post my photos because I see the art and beauty in my body not because I want to titillate or seduce someone else. That, for the first time, doesn’t even cross my mind.

I finally understand what all those messages about being your own lover meant. All the encouragement to love yourself, first. I finally feel it and am starting to live it, without going through the motions or putting a fake smile on my face.

I am in love.

This woman (me) is everything I always aspired to be.

And yet I even desire her as if she is something outside me. I stroke her thighs when I’m in the bath. I play with her hair when I’m lying in bed. I bake cookies for her and lick the melted chocolate chips off her fingertips.

I want her. I desire her. I love her.

I still have my moments of struggling with being single. And though rare, I still sometimes find myself face-to-face with the fear so many past relationships have planted within me: that I’m not lovable or desirable.

But mostly…even on the hard days…I feel that love for myself growing a little stronger each day.

Finally, finally, I could say that yes, I want a lover, but I don’t need one. Finally, I can say that I feel more and more complete within myself — no “special relationship” necessary.

I have hungered for this for so long and finally I am here.

I want me.

This article was written for Howl by Yael Wolfe, a weekly column. © Yael Wolfe 2020

More hunger from Howl by Yael Wolfe: