I've been a self-confessed serial monogamist. I began dating at the age of 12 when a girl of my same age courted me. I believe it was just a dare. The subject of my sexuality had been bothering other students and they were very curious to know. I myself didn't know what being a lesbian meant. I had found my desires very unnatural since I began crushing on my teacher at the age of 5. I grew up with my grandmother who doted on my early showing as a bright student. Naturally, my clan loved showing off my academic awards. But I have always felt awkward not knowing why I didn't act like my girl friends and why I loved hanging out with boys in my neighborhood, climbing walls, playing ball, wreaking havoc in the neighborhood and looking for gangs to fight with.
At the age of 12, I began to look at myself as attractive, my looks found affirmation in the eyes of those who would form a string of affairs. At one time, in my junior year in high school, when I went on a spiritual retreat as was required in Catholic school, my 2 roommates took note that I had an impossible heap of letters from well-wishers. I was then living with my father and mother who never told me I'm beautiful. And the attention from those well-wishers saved me from more complex self-esteem issues.
Serial monogamists are not necessarily clingy. In my case, perhaps I grew too wily in the game. In three instances, in different relationships, I've had affairs with other women. I became so adept at the stages of relationship that I developed a three- to four-year cycle and learned when was the best time to start affairs. I was a love crook. One lover even moved closer to where I was living with my partner so that I could just walk to her home anytime I felt like it.
I'm turning 45 in a few weeks. I've been single for more than a year. This is the longest I've ever not been moved by anyone enough to pursue or charm them.
When my 7-year and longest relationship fell apart in 2011, I felt old, worn, ugly, and useless. I was obese, jobless, and crabby. For the couple of years after, I forced myself to rediscover and remake myself. I forced myself to go clubbing even when I hadn't done it in more than a decade. I developed a liking to sports and the outdoors again. During that last long relationship, I wallowed in my introspection, reading, studying, avoiding friends, satisfied in my lover's gaze and her ability to love me for whatever shape I've taken.
So it is ironic that my friends constantly comment that I look more happy than I've never been before although I still wonder why I have no craving for love anymore.
For the first time in my adult life, I'm the one who fills my home with warmth and light, I take my own time, I reside in my own thoughts, and I make my own goals. I don't get excited buying something for someone except for me. I don't hurry home for anyone, except for me. I don't represent a couple in my voice, my temper, my stand, my actions. I stand only for myself. I fall only for myself. And everyday, I look forward to me.
I look forward to how I shall unfold in the challenges when there's no one to vent to. I am amazed at how I let myself win more when no one nurses me in my victimhood. I love how I can go out feeling the evening cold, the noises that startle me as I walk, and the distractions that I don't entertain even if there's no other to attend to but my own feelings and thoughts.
I serve myself and feel my skin. I cry unremarkably and even forget about how often it happens when playing a sappy song for the sake of it. I can treat myself royally without having to explain why and I can also starve days just because I'm tired of the regular choices of food. This person is no stranger - this self. Yet, it rarely talks back and doesn't always analyze me or break apart my choices throughout the day. Although there is a big chance that I will be invisible to myself when the crowd goes away, it is easy to do and invisibility takes much with it. The crease of my eyes that make them look like they twinkle more - no one sees that. I look at the whole wall that is made of mirror in my kitchen and I make faces to see my own smile, but I will never discover how I look when I bow my head, when I turn my back, when I look down or up, or close my eyes. I just have to know that if I had a lover, it wouldn't matter, I'd feel loved.
And that feeling is how I know my lovers have seen me. And that feeling of being loved is my purpose at this time. That I am so happy with myself, though it's not even romantic. I feel loved because I've taken care of me as they would have. They have given me freedom, confidence, and affirmations.
In the painful beginnings after my last breakup, which was with a four-month fling with a Filipina neighbor who went back to the US where she is based, it was a struggle to feel no one's presence but mine - the stranger that was me. But memories of her were beautiful. For us both, the end was clear --- we always knew she wouldn't be staying here. Yet she cared for me in my sickness. She soothed me in my doubts and praised me for my day's victories. She was graceful as she was gracious in receiving what I could give. We didn't have drama. I'm fortunate for having her as my last affair. When weeks later, I came to Vegas, she made sure to send me a package of gifts from her place in Arizona. A watch, perfume, and some vitamins. She was still nurturing. She gave me so much trust in myself that has left me with this wealth that is hard to compromise for a whim.
If she sees me again, the commercial model that she is, she will tease me about my weight, but even that wouldn't injure me. I'm too happy to be put down. Thanks to her, and also the many lovers who came to love me. Growing up lesbian in a Catholic country is very trying and I could easily have been one of many lesbians who have taken their lives, like the classmate of mine who never turned around to accept who she was.
Finally, my lovers' lessons no longer fall on deaf ears. "You're fine", the last one would always say. I've finally learned to be like her and the others - to see Tet as lovely and fine.
