Feeble, Childish, Half-baked Attempts

I have a confession to make. This might sound silly to some of you because it’s so obvious. Something that has been silently screaming in front of my face this whole time. It took me quite literally a couple of decades to finally decode and accept it. Though, to be fair, one of you could have informed me or at least pointed me to the right direction.

You see, I just realised that the little girl inside me—my little compass—that has been screaming for romantic love so loud that Marianne Dashwood herself would envy her actually identified the wrong feeling. She diagnosed it incorrectly. Perhaps due to her childish needy mind—which I absolutely understand that circumstances brought her up to think that way—she did not correctly point out what she wanted.

I suppose it is partially my adult self fault because I should have remembered to recenter myself every now and then. A little check in to ensure whether or not little Nadilla’s needs and wants are still our guidance to make future decisions. Alas, I have not done that. I did not do that up until recently.

To tell you the truth, it is kind of embarrassing to put it in writing. I’m kind of ashamed that it took me this long as an adult to rectify my misguided wants because as it turns out: I’ve never wanted romantic love. Or perhaps, to be precise, I don’t want to be in an overbearingly traditional romantic relationship specifically with men from my country.

In hindsight, I’ve always kinda thought of it weird for me still wanting to be in a romantic relationship after witnessing so many relationships horribly disastrously (oftentimes in its latter days) broke apart. The right response for seeing something catastrophic is to avoid it at all cost. But, ever the rogue riot, tiny little Nadilla decided against that general response and instead decided to pursue those commonly horrible disastrous relationship.

Of course, those feeble, childish, half-baked attempts of being in a relationship with whatever current paramour that I thought would be my perfectly match only ended in endings. Granted, not all endings were bad, but they couldn’t survive. And ultimately it was due to my misplaced idea. Had I identify it differently, I would have given up on long-lasting romance in its entirety. I’m not saying that I condone fleeting insignificant casual inconsiderate hookup culture, but I do believe that stopping any emphasise and idealisation of romantic relationship would take away the urge for fulfilling it.

I think I would have accomplished more if I didn’t have romance as a goal. My sentimental mind kinda digress though, romance was what feeding my writing fuel. It’s the basis of almost all of my writings—the most significant ones anyway. There are so many of my writings that focus solely on romance and love and being touch-starved and being lonely.

Retrospectively, reading it all feels like a dishonour to my loved ones because they have (in their own quirky ways that are not faultless) given me companionship beyond measure, most especially all the female friendships that I have had. I wholeheartedly believe that female friendships are the backbone of my sanity.

How many hours I have spent bleeding on their feet, crying over the smallest simplest woes? How many hours have they spent listening to my insipid retell of my life stories? How much of my intimate secrets have they swallowed after my endless spewing? How many versions of my life they witnessed and they still stayed anyways? How can you not categorise this as love and connection? How can I almost took it for granted for the rest of my life? How could I have wanted romantic relationship over these strong bonds of loving females in my life?

I should have wished, prayed, begged to God another thing.

I should have wished, prayed, begged to God that I am desirable instead.

but of course wanting to be desirable is another shackle that I put myself in. it is a direct manifestation of my insecurity.