The Price of Vulnerability

Being vulnerable in relationships is something I don’t know how to do, and if I once did I completely lost the ability by the time I turned 19. Well, maybe I lost it during the course of my relationship with my ex and I can’t quite pinpoint the moment it happened. All I know is that there was always trepidation, some emotional safety net, and some fingers clasped around the possibility and what I thought was the inevitability of everything to blow up in my face. Perhaps this has something to do with my high adaptability to new scenarios, which is partly because  I moved around schools so very often and was forced to make what I quickly learned were temporary friendships, the less I rooted down, the easier it was for everyone else. I bet my fickle, transformative nature has something to do with it, as well.

On the surface, this seems like a good defense mechanism, always prepared, always having the upper hand in the relationship. Perhaps because I do not like relinquishing power –which makes me working in groups so FUN (not), just very bossy--, I came to the very painful realization that in order for anything to work out, I have to let go. I have to let go of my fears, I have to let go of my hopes, and I have to let go of how I expect others to act or react. I cannot control every scenario, even though I wish I could.

Proof of my defensive nature rests on how I handled the sudden, inexplicable, phone-induced disintegration of what was, at one point, an engagement and a six-year-long relationship. I had encroached myself in so many protective layers and considered the possibility of heartbreak that once it happened, I was crushed but not broken. During the next few months, I was able to hold on to my graduate career, my friendships, and my sanity –whatever was left of it, anyway—in a manner that surprised those who thought I should be a blubbering mess.

Perhaps this proof is enough to advocate for my method of handling relationships to be the standard, but I have the nagging sensation that if I live always waiting for the other shoe to drop, then it inevitably will. In that relationship, I waxed poetic about being in love; at times, I thought I was very much in love. Now, after months of the breakup being a very real event and after two years of essentially living on my own, I begin to question if I just wanted to be in love or if it was a very real thing. Undoubtedly, I broke down a few times and felt empty. I was lonely, scared and almost anyone would do to fill in some kind or role. I don’t think that was love. That was wanting to fill a void.

I was only able to differentiate this after a long conversation with myself, a grueling one sometime in February.  I cried my fair share, admitted things that I wouldn’t have admitted to anyone (not even to myself), and I realized that if I was able to sustain myself for two years, I would be alright even if the plan had shifted. I then accepted another truth, there’s nothing wrong with needing someone else, and there’s nothing wrong with wanting a future with someone else; that’s when I stopped punishing myself for wanting things and when I started to realize that in order to give myself and someone else a fair shot I would have to be open to vulnerability.

Now, I’m not saying I’m there already, but at least I’m trying to abide by these realizations in my new relationship. In the three months we’ve been together, I’ve had to let go of my defensive nature, trying to predict his next move, and let go of that nagging sensation of wanting to manipulate his reactions with my actions. I’m trying, I’m not saying I’m perfect. There are times where I’ll become a bit panicked and tense myself up once I realize I feel safe and relaxed once I’m in his arms. This panicked feeling also comes and washes up on me when I realize I’d come to need him, not just want him there. I become cautious at that time, wanting to give him as much space as I can spare, not wanting to overwhelm him, even hoping that there aren’t reasons that he’d want to leave. Laced with those are the realizations of my vulnerability, but that doesn’t make me any less strong. At least I hope not.