A few days ago, I said that I was scared of unicorns. Of love, and of unicorns, and of anything that threatens to spike you through the middle. It was a big declaration, it was elaborate, and it was stupidly over the top. When that was dramatically and emotionally announced - and I knew he would read my blog - I promptly took myself off and dramatically and emotionally announced my feelings to the person I claimed I was 'falling for'. When that was done, I announced myself a few more times. And - when he didn't really flinch - I upped it a notch. Then I upped it another notch. Finally, when he was still relatively unfazed, I whacked the crazy on full volume, dialled up the angst and the emotion until I could barely hear my own rantings, and blasted love and anger and unreasonable demands at him until he made a squeaking noise and skipped - whimpering - into the distance. (I believe he is currently still there: peeking over a tree stump and wondering what the hell has just emotionally assaulted him.)
As soon as he was gone, of course, I retreated back into myself: heartbroken, exhausted and wondering why the bastard legged it. I was furious: was this, I thought, what happened when you declared your love for a man? Couldn't they handle a little bit of emotional inconsistency now and then? It didn't occur to me, of course, that I had done it on purpose: that the overblown declarations, and the bizarre, unpredictable behaviour, and the ridiculous demands, had all been done on purpose. It didn't occur to me, that is, until I sat down and I realised that - under the heartbreak, under the exhaustion - I was relieved. Because, simply, there is nothing left to be scared of anymore. All the emotions that had frightened me - all of the vulnerability, all of the need, all of the potential for hurt and for loss and for rejection - were tied up in him, and by blasting declarations at him at full volume - louder than they actually are, very possibly - I knew he would run and he would take it all with him. And the louder I blasted them, the crazier I got, the more I demanded, the faster he would run. Until I'd got that damn unicorn and I'd popped it on the fire, screaming, and I'd burnt it until it couldn't hurt me anymore.
And now I'm safe. I'm miserable, and I'm lonely, and I miss him, but I'm safe. And I'm not proud of it, but there you go. I wore my heart on my sleeve for 'daws to peck at, and then I got the 'daw by the throat and I throttled him for it.
You see, I've just realised that there's a fourth option. If you're frightened of something, you can hold your ground. You can put your hand out, and you can try to stroke it; you don't have to run away, and you don't have to run towards. You can just be there to greet it, gently, and make friends with it, and maybe - given time (and when do I ever give things time?) - it won't be as scary. You don't have to make as much noise as you can just to prove that you're brave.
Which is an excellent realisation, but a little too late for this one, obviously. He's still behind his tree trunk, and he now thinks I'm bonkers. But if - please God - I'm ever lucky enough to find another animal with a spike coming out of its head (a rhino, perhaps), maybe by then I'll know how to handle it.
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