His Eyes are of the Ocean

I used to believe I was a princess, as most little girls are inclined to do. I believed my father was a King, my mother is a Queen, and myself to be the beautiful princess who'd one day marry a handsome and loving prince. Happily ever after, the end. I don't think I told you that I liked to be rescued, in playground games where the princess was kidnapped by some fiend who intended on making her his queen. The whole time I knew I could "escape", it's not like the princess wasn't smart just because she was beautiful, but I didn't want to escape. I craved the feeling of being wanted, even just for anything. 

As I grew older, the King changed into a pumpkin, a tenth of the man he used to be. The King had love affairs with peasants from far away lands and the Queen found out. I soon realized, Dad wasn't a King, my strong mother was most certainly a queen, but I was no princess. I certainly didn't feel like one when we left the castle one day. A regular townhouse in the middle of an ordinary military base. No fairy Godmothers to take the pain away, no singing mice, no daring adventures, just a girl with a head full of fantasies and make-believe and a woman who wanted true love for herself and her daughter. 

She found the former, in a man who had eyes like a summer sky, hair-like Rumplestiltskin's golden thread and words like a silvertongue. He seemed to be her knight in shining armor, her one true love. He was good for us, took care of us, so she married him and he became her King. But I never felt like a princess again. Not when I went to school with my friends and played, not when I read books, and not when I returned to that townhouse, to an empty white room stripped of everything that was once mine. It used to be pink and white and green, where I dreamed and danced and sang. Where my mother tucked me in, where I heard their arguments that led to the divorce. 

Now it was bare and white. Naked. I felt naked. Alone. Like the memories of a princess' life weren't mine, simply borrowed memories to fill in the gaps and cracks of my life like new mortar over old bricks to keep everything from crumbling. They were in a way, the princess and this new pauper I felt like, were two different people identical on the outside but very different within. 

Years pass and I accepted being a pauper, even acting like one. Lashing out at the tiniest things, my poor mother trying her best to fix something that had already broken, but no one, least of all myself, saw the extent of the damage. Her king grew cold and manipulative, weaving his words to benefit any situation to his advantage, knowing she'd never see or if she did was too invested in him to care. She wove the threads of her heart so tightly around him it was impossible to cut them. Not even the fire of my self-hatred and disgust would burn them.

She grew distant, the once kind, loving mother I knew changed as if she too was replaced by some doppelganger made of weaker stuff than herself. Like the plague that infected me now had her drowning willfully. Like she wanted to lose any part of herself that was once tied to her past life, and that meant cutting down the parts of her that weren't meant to withstand my heat. 

Looking back, I question whether he changed her or me. Perhaps both, perhaps he manipulated her and my defiance against him, against her was what led to her metamorphosis. Truthfully I don't think I'll ever know. I had tried everything I knew to escape into my own head. I read tales of fantasy and adventure, I sang, drew, wrote. But time after time he'd cut me down, tell me that to escape was what was poisoning me, that he could fix me, he just had to break me. He managed to succeed. 

You know how when you break a bone and don't receive treatment, it grows back in a weird way, how it's never the same? That's how I broke. I fused back into this person that sought a man for comfort. We were only two years apart in age, but miles between us. I met him in an online chatroom. 

You may be rolling your eyes and about to call Chris Hansen, but I can assure you he was exactly who he said he was. I saw his face, spoke to him, wrote with him. I thought he loved me, that there was no one on this earth I wanted more than him. He did love me, but that love was paired with lies and cheating, the same things my mother went through with my father. I left him, after finding proof and confronting him. My spirit didn't break, but my heart and confidence most certainly did. 

We tried again, and he was faithful, his love pure and apologetic, but as time went on I was tormented by the past. I couldn't stop questioning whether his female friends were only that. If I was even deserving of love. I left him again, but his actions still haunt me. He was and is a good person, I'm just too childish to let go. I forgive, but I doubt I'll ever forget. 

I suppose saying I never felt like a princess again is a lie. My true love has the brightest smile, the softest lips. His eyes are of the ocean, his brain of stardust. He is my starlight. But the one thing he is not is my prince. Princes in stories seem to only exist to save the princess, so why compare the love that is kind and pure and mischievous and likes to pick on me when he's bored to something so one dimensional. He is so much more than a caricature. He is intelligent, he cheers me up when I cry, he holds me when my anxiety swells in my chest like a caged bird screeching to be released from its prison. He is strong, his arms capable of holding me while I sleep, to keep the nightmares of the past from pulling me under the bed like a monster I try to hide from like a child. He is witty, he uses my words against me when I'm acting like a brat to humble me, remind me that I'm in college and that there's a time and a place to act a fool. He is kind, he tends to me when I'm sick, knowing he will without a shadow of a doubt he'll contract whatever infection or virus I have, just to make sure I eat, I sleep. 

He is childish sometimes, he longs for attention just as much as I do, he wants to be held, to be coddled sometimes. He wants to hear my soft morning voice coo to him in the pale morning light, the kind that dust motes dance in. He wants to be romanced softly just like any other human being. 

He brings reality to my fantasy, which can be annoying sometimes, but most times is exactly what I need in order to be a productive member of our relationship. That may sound harsh, but he does it in a way that doesn't crush my spirit. He does it in a way that reassures me, reaffirms me, makes me feel confident and brave. 

Heres the best part of my true love. I don't need him. 

I learned how to fix myself bit by bit, that salt in the wound stings and heals. All these wonderful things about him are just that, wonderful things. He balances me but he doesn't complete me. I don't need to be kidnapped to feel wanted. I don't need to be broken to feel worthy. I am enough for him just as he is for me. I complete myself. He loves me for who I am, cracks and all. 

I'm not a princess. I'm not a pauper. I'm not some broken china vase that needs meticulous around the clock care. I'm a girl who is in love with a boy. Sure, every cliché starts like that I suppose. But I think I'll make an exception, just this once.