Love, I cannot seem to get it right. And obviously, I am referring to the sexual kind, surely the most complex channel of the heart. I don’t necessarily see my past relationships as failures, but certainly not right. At times, I question if I’ve ever really truly loved and at my lowest, I find myself convinced that I am indeed impossible to love. Marriage to see me feels like an impossibility and I am usually overcome with a vague overwhelming sensation, very similar in fact to the way I feel whenever I find myself scrolling through Nasa’s feed on instagram. Outer space and marriage evoke the same emotive response from me. Both very alien, very faraway and mind-blowing in a way I cannot quite convey. On one hand it feels like a terrifying commitment and on another, it feels like the safe path, a direction that would most likely lead me to boredom. You simply haven’t met the right person all my married friends sigh at me over wine. I’m almost 30, I have dated many, many men – where on earth does a woman meet the right kind of partner? I have been notoriously active on dating apps, I hang out at the sophisticated places, I also have no qualms with talking to absolutely anyone, even the 80 year old with a cane, alone at the bar. Hypothetically, if the perfect man did propose, I would probably, very awkwardly say, well no. I am beginning to believe there are wife women and then there are women like me, who will never be a wife. I don’t mean that statement to have any negative connotations; we live in a society where opting out of marriage is acceptable. My abortion last year shone a harsh light on my priorities, I always flirted with the idea of motherhood and a husband, but given the opportunity, I quickly backed away with little hesitation. I’m not ready for children, but then I wonder if I will ever be? I also, truthfully, find meeting men to be absolutely exhiliarating. Some of my closest friends have been with the same man since University and while I salute them for the great love in their lives, I cannot help but prefer the very varied mirage of experiences I have had with many very different men. I could fill an entire book with my relationships and there would most likely have to be sequel too. Love for me is quite like a drug, for the first few months I heavily romanticize whoever I’m with, up they go on a pedestal which inevitably crumbles slowly, concluding in a break up. As soon as the rush of falling love is done, so am I and I hate to admit that but I’m proud that I did. Last year saw me the most eager for love and my loneliness spurred me on to act in rash, embarrassing ways; I was eager for an emotion I am now sure I don’t know the value of. It is more lonely forcing a love than living without one. Last year taught me that. I’ve only been dumped once, I am always the ‘bitch’ who ends it. And so is that really love? I think not. I have no idea. I am absolutely useless at loving a man for any length of time and as I get older, more confident and less vulnerable, I’m quicker and better at walking away. And then I wonder why no one will love me in the way I demand to be loved. How horrible is that? I am also highly inflexible and fiercely independent, I cannot remember the last time I asked a man who wasn’t my father for help of any kind. I don’t need your help, I’ve said so many times with irritation to past boyfriends. But in true Audrey style, I take it to the next ridiculous level, by insisting on paying for everything entirely which eventually leads to the worst kind of resentment: financial. A man paying makes me feel uncomfortable, the silver lining here is that a gold digger I will never be. During the year (2015) I intentionally stayed single, I never really felt alone or lonely ; I’ve always found a quiet solace in my own company. Saying that, I don’t trust my own heart; love confuses me, and here I am in this haze, questioning every single one of my actions and reactions to men I meet. Do I really like him or is this just me chasing another high? I can’t help but wonder, do we as women need a man to make us happy, especially in this highly fuelled feminist era we are living through? And life without the role of wife, is that the path I am unintentionally walking towards? Am I happy with this? And am I alone here in a sea of ended relationships wondering what might be next, if anything at all or just another series of the same? I am sure a psychologist would have a field day analyzing my thoughts expressed here, but then again, love shouldn’t be analyzed, simply felt so why haven’t I felt it in the way I always expected I would? I’m tired of the delusions and the forcing that come with the inadequate love, which really I suppose, is the only type I have ever known. I’m not pessimistic or disheartened, I’m actually happier than I’ve been in a long time, content alone and holding out for the great love. No more making do with a half sufficient emotion, I’ll wait for the whole damn, mind-blowing, soul-churning thing. And should I never find this great love? That’s okay, there are infinite pomeranians looking for a home. But why does something so instinctual, so basic to human life feel utterly confusing and quite impossible to me? Why?