Eleven years ago yesterday, Valentine’s Day, I met my husband. He was a twenty-eight-year-old virgin. I was an eighteen-year-old not-virgin. I was in a position of both influence in sexually available sort of way and simultaneously highly vulnerable to influence. In four weeks and one day I will turn the age he was when I left him. Arbitrary numbers really. It was all signed and done and finished over eight and half years ago.
I’m much more sad and heartbroken about my lack of writing and the failure to make a man, a different man, love me after five years. Especially only to realize in hindsight that if I had of succeeded I would’ve hated myself and my life. You can’t make someone love you and if you could, would you really want to?
If I’d had a Valentine this year, it probably would’ve been the end of me.
Progress is failure.