Since moving to New York, I've only dated guys that are wrong for me. It's been a defense mechanism. My heart was so brutally broken that I've built a brick wall around it. After nearly three years here, I feel like I've finally gotten to a place where I know who I am and exactly what I want. I'm slowly breaking down the wall, brick by brick, but the road here was long and far from easy.
The truth is, I've seen the other side. I lived with a guy whom I very much believed was The One. In a spacious two bedroom with granite countertops and an untrained miniature dachshund. I have a very vivid memory of standing in the bathroom, running a Frederic Fekkai brush through my hair while the boyfriend was yelling and the dog was barking and thinking to myself, "Is this my life?"
Our breakup was heart-wrenching. There wasn't a standout argument or specific incident. No one cheated and there was still an abundance of love. We both knew that it had to end before it began. We came to a crossroads and one path had Lexus sedans and Boca Raton and the large possibility of divorce in the distance and the other was unknown. We did what Robert Frost would've and took the one less traveled by. I moved into the guest room and cried at every stop light. I was miserable. I couldn't comprehend how something that was once so wonderful could completely unravel. I just didn't understand. Honestly, I still don't.
My life is nothing without irony. What I once believed to be the worst thing to ever happen to me has likely been one of the best. I became free, I stepped out of the box and I took chances.
I am eternally grateful for this, for now. That I left Florida and moved to New York City not knowing a soul, and have built an incredible life for myself. I took lemons and make them into lemonade and DAMN, it is sweet.
I shall believe.