For years I tried to be the perfect girlfriend: bright, funny, engaging and fragrant. Then I stubbed my toe, and my ferocious roar of pain showed me I could be myself
In 2008, I was in my mid-20s and single. My relationships until then had all been fun, flirty and conflict-free – which was unsurprising, given I expended so much energy on male approval.
Depressingly, this seemed normal in the 00s and demanded a specific type of vigilance. As well as trying to look perfect for every date, there was also the effort of trying to be perfect: bright and funny and engaging and fragrant, but also vaguely unavailable. Endearingly kooky was OK; but I didn’t want to come across as weird. Misery and anger were off limits. I never risked showing I cared. No wonder love had failed to launch. Continue reading…
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