Anywhere you go now, any grocery store, department store, dollar store—you’re greeted with pink, red, and white. Candy, streamers, balloons, cards. It’s always there weeks before the holiday, and once it’s over, we forget about it. That’s always the impression I got at my childhood home. The candy lasted another week or so, but the valentines found their way to a box under the bed the next day.
It used to be cute. We sent homemade cards to our grandparents and made little valentines for each other, which we stuck in a toy mail box and opened after a dinner of pizza and a chocolate cream cheese marshmallow fluff dessert.
But there was always the passive-aggressive competition between my parents as to who could be the most romantic; between my brothers as to whose cards were the funniest. I struggled to make mine in the least way suitable. In my tween years, my skin crawled when I opened cards from my older brothers, not meeting their gazes and avoiding the words that might have a sick double meaning.
Valentine’s Day has always been tricky. I made a valentine for my first crush, trying to design something neutral that wouldn’t scare her off. It either came off too strong or she was just a flighty person, because I never heard from her again. After I sent it I came out to my mom, who convinced me not to tell anyone. She didn’t give me dating advice or help me plan ways to see this girl.
Two Februaries later, my infatuation with a certain asshole cumulated into the two of us claiming some kind of relationship. It was scary, it was exhilarating, it was sweet. It started off happy and ended ugly. There’s enough on this blog about that story, and definitely more to come.
One year later, after that relationship exploded and some of the wreckage was finally blowing away, I’d met another girl. She was sweet, she was funny, she was fun to talk to, and, as it turned out, she was into me, too. We’d both made passing comments about February 14th, that we’d be spending the day single. A little over a week later, we admitted our feelings in a fluster and took the weekend to think about it. What followed was too months of sweet, innocent romance. It ended before things got messy or tense, and after a summer of space, we’ve maintained an amiable friendship that we both value.
And then there’s last year. I joked to my boss that I will never begin a relationship in February ever again.
I’m not going to say much about it. It’s over, and it didn’t end well. We haven’t spoken in months. I don’t know if we will. It still hurts. But I’ll say this: I’ve never felt that close to anyone in my life.
February is coming up again. I have no persistent crushes and no ardent desire to find a partner. I’m still bitter about the last one. And two years later, the first one still eats me inside.
I don’t know what I want in a partner, so I’m focusing on what I want in life. I see young people around me breaking their hearts over unhealthy relationships and pining for a partner at the expense of their friendships. I don’t want to be that person. I also don’t want to be the person that dwells over past relationships and lets it define them. So I’m laying it all on the table, hoping it’ll let out some of the steam. If I can make it past February without getting myself into another fit of love, I’m thinking I might be okay for a little while.