Fear of falling

This summer, I got to know a lovely gentleman. We even went on a few dates. I enjoyed his company, and always had a lovely time.

But I was scared. I was scared to put a label on it. I was scared to tell people I was seeing him - or anyone, for that matter. So we kept it a secret.

I justified it to myself as waiting until we knew what we were doing, but, deep down, I think it was really all about fear of being judged. I already felt a degree of guilt about being so happy - after all, everyone expected me to spend my days wallowing with a pint of Haagen-Daaz (which did occasionally happen) - and I worried that people would think I rushed into moving on. That someone would tell me I was making a mistake. The idea of a relationship didn't frighten me, but the idea of telling people I was potentially on the path to having one most certainly did.

When you tell people your relationship has ended, the news is always met with a measure of sympathy, followed by advice. Sometimes, this advice is good. The intentions are always solid. But what I seemed to have forgotten was that what works for one person doesn't necessarily work for the next. One of the most common pieces of advice I received was to be alone for a while.

And this was advice I intended to follow. After all, I was perfectly happy living by myself and filling my days with friends, work and re-discovering all those hobbies I had let slide. I felt whole again, and didn't know if I wanted to share even a sliver of this empowered new life with anyone.

But, when you're newly single, men seem to come out of the woodwork. Dynamics shift with good friends - which is always a shame - and people on the fringes of your social circle are suddenly a lot chummier. Suddenly, you're noticing the attention from men in the elevator, on the subway, at the bar, at work, on the street. The attention feels good, but, of course, you're cautious. And I knew that whatever I did would appear, to the outside world, like a rebound, even if it didn't feel that way to me.

But something about this gentleman felt comfortable, and right, so I let him in. Sort of.

I could never find the words to explain to him just where I was at in my life: a place to pursue fun, do what felt right, and a desire to see how our flirtation played out. I needed things to move slowly. I wasn't looking for a 24/7, time-consuming, chat on the phone every night relationship. I wanted a slow build, a reminder of why people appreciate relationships in the first place. Someone to be there for me without overwhelming me.

But these things never came out. Instead, I said we would see how things go. That I didn't know what we were doing. I didn't dare tell him that I was growing rather fond of him. Instead, I would nod when he said how messy my life was - when, in reality, it was getting less messy by the day. The tangles of my old life had largely been undone, and, while there were still a few loose ends to tie up, I truly felt like my new, real life had begun and I was a person again. But I was timid, and, while I've been working hard on being more honest and more open about life in general, I just couldn't find the right words.

So I let it end, without ever really telling him where I was coming from. Would it have made a difference? Maybe not for the two of us, but probably for the way I felt about it. I wish I would have given it an honest try, rather than just tentatively wading in. If given the opportunity again, I'd rather jump in feet first and end up a little bruised than feel like I missed an opportunity for something great.