Romancing Myself
Hello! My name is Catherine and I am a recovering codependent.
Codependency is an acquired mental health disorder, based on social conditioning and upbringing.
At its core, codependency means that I don’t didn’t love myself. I was taught not to. Instead I was taught that to give of myself to others made me a good person, and keeping myself to myself made me a bad person.
I was taught that self-love is shameful; by people who themselves had been shamed not to love themselves.
I’ve had enough. By not loving myself I have treated myself and others badly. No more.
I now practice self-love.
Romancing Myself
I was thirteen years old when I slow danced for the first time. I didn’t know how to do it, but I’d eavesdropped on a conversation between some older girls on the bus ride home after school one day, so I felt somewhat informed on the matter when my first slow dancing opportunity arrived.
I had a friend who was the first in our group to turn fourteen. Her parents arranged a party for her at the beautiful and upmarket Royal Cape Yacht Club. There were around a dozen girls and around a dozen boys. We ate, chatted, flirted, danced and as the evening drew to a close, the deejay announced the slow dancing set. To my surprise the oldest boy there, who’d been acting cool and aloof all evening, walked over and invited me to dance. I was delighted.
As Seal’s Kiss from a Rose started to play, I rested my hands gently on the nape of his neck, he placed his hands - just like the girls on the bus had described - on my lower back and we began to sway our bodies and shuffle our feet. Occasionally we’d give each other a little smile but we were both distracted by our feet, our friends, the deejay and the birthday girl’s parents who’d turned up from the restaurant to make sure that no snogging occurred, so there was no gazing into each others’ eyes or resting my head on his shoulder as one of the girls on the bus said she’d enjoyed doing when she’d slow danced with her boyfriend. We were too distracted and self-conscious and, well, childish for this to be any kind of heady romance. I enjoyed it though. I liked the closeness of his body and the warmth of his hands on my back. I found myself wanting to stroke the back of his neck but it didn’t feel right to do it with this boy because I didn’t know him and I felt that that level of affection should be reserved for someone I truly care about. When we finished dancing he gave my hand a little kiss and said, “Thank you” and that made me feel appreciated. Altogether I felt content and happy with my first slow dance experience.
When I returned to my girlfriends, all except one were pleased for me. The displeased friend was also my lift home and on the half-hour drive between Cape Town and Hout Bay, this friend criticised me and insulted me about what a skank I was and how dorky and awkward I’d looked. Every aspect of my appearance came under fire and even my intelligence came into question. Her mother barked at her a few times, shocked by her daughter’s behaviour, but there was no stopping her. This “friend” of mine was pissed as hell at me and when I asked her, repeatedly, why she was being so mean, her answers were always along the lines of because you’re a stupid cow, that’s why.
I found out a while later from the birthday girl that the displeased friend had made eyes at this boy all evening in the hopes that her buttering him up would result in an invitation to slow dance and she was pissed that he hadn’t asked her. I found out even later from a relative of this boy that he had deliberately asked me to dance because he’d recognised her jealousy of me and asking me to dance instead of her was his way of snubbing her and insulting her. I’d been so busy enjoying the party that I hadn’t noticed any of this social tension building.
I’d gotten ensnarled in a mess of other people’s shame monsters.
I was left wondering if “romance” was actually just manipulation and social politicking.
A Second Helping
About a year later I went to my first Social at one of the wealthy Boys’ Schools - a dance event held in the school hall that allowed the boys to socialise with girls. Being as it was over the mountain and my parents hardly ever lifted; I again caught a lift with the Displeased friend because her mom was awesome with lifting. (Thank you for allowing me to catch a lift with you so often; I’m grateful that you enabled me to have so many interesting experiences.)
The evening went fine. We danced in an awkward-circle-around-the-bags like teenage girls do; copying each other’s dance moves, eyeing out the boys, whispering about the boys, and trying to catch the eye of the boy we liked. It was all quite thrilling and invigorating and teenager-ish.
When the deejay started playing Every Breath You Take by The Police, all the kids scattered to the edges of the hall, girls on one side and boys on the other, and I was left dancing all by myself in the centre of the hall. Because this was my first Social I had no idea that when a slow song came on, tradition had it that the kids would separate by gender and then the girls would wait for the boys to ask them to dance, maybe, if the boys plucked up the courage. I didn’t know any of that. I just thought that everyone else felt like taking a break from dancing at the same time and now I had the whole dance floor all to myself. Awesome.
“Cathy!” Displeased hissed at me from the girls’ side of the hall, “Get over here you idiot!”
“But I like this song!” I said and continued to dance.
Suddenly all my girlfriends’ eyes went wide and I turned to see that a boy was approaching me. He was one of the boys from the older group who’d been hanging around outside acting cool and aloof all evening. He held out his arms to me and I smiled shyly at him and stepped forward, placed my hands gently on the nape of his neck, expecting him to put his hands on my lower back and dance with me at arm’s length, as I’d experienced before. Instead he put his arms around me and pressed our bodies together. My eyes went wide as I stared into his eyes from the distance of a breath away. He moved our bodies for the both of us because I was incapable of doing anything except staring at him as he smiled charmingly, disarmingly, looking at me with such longing and hope, looking at me like I was the most special girl in the whole world.
I exploded a bottle of honey in the microwave the other day while trying to melt the sugar crystals. It reminded me of how I’d felt in this boy’s arms; like I was filled with molten sugar, ready to explode and splatter the inside of that school hall with my sweetness.
When that song ended, another love song began. I think it was Aerosmith’s I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing but I was slightly distracted at the time. More couples had joined us on the dance floor and the lights had been dimmed even further. A disco ball speckled the dark hall with shooting stars. My budding Romeo whispered in my ear, “Can I kiss you?” and in response I allowed my lips to brush across his cheek gently and our mouths found each other and I had my first kiss. It was marvellous, delicious, exciting and blissful.
We kissed for a good couple of minutes, and then we slow danced with my head on his shoulder while he gently stroked my back. When I returned to my group of friends, all except Displeased expressed happiness and excitement for me. I was ecstatic. I’d had my first kiss.
Romeo asked me for my number before I left that evening, but he never called. I found out later from my nemesis that her brother - who went to this Boys’ School - knew the boy in question and that he was something of a serial kisser. He liked to pick a girl who’d never been kissed, give her the most epic smooch of her young life and then get her number as a trophy, without ever intending to call her. He’d asked girls associated with my group if I was as yet unkissed. He’d targeted me for my naivety.
I was left feeling disappointed, tricked, objectified and hurt.
Displeased gave me hell for weeks afterwards and told me it’s no wonder he didn’t call me; I’m so pathetic.
I began to believe that I wasn’t worthy of romance.
Not Worth the Effort
The two experiences I described above were just two of many shaming experiences I had surrounding romance. I had plenty of women and girls in my life who shamed me for getting attention from boys, and when I got hurt by a boy, these same females would tell me I deserved it and pile more shame on me.
They put in my head the idea that not only was I not worthy of romance, I deserved to be mistreated by my partners.
I chose the least romantic boys to date. I claimed that I wasn’t into all that sappy romance stuff to protect myself from being disappointed again and because I didn’t believe I was worth their effort. I didn’t gush. I didn’t dare enjoy sensations like longing, yearning, or anticipation - trademark romantic emotions.
I didn’t believe that I was worth the effort of being romanced.
I cringed when my girlfriends sang along to love songs and I refused to dance to love songs.
I refused to dance to love songs.
Starting over
I bought myself a Jibble; a portable speaker by the manufacturer JBL. I bought myself a satin gown and an LED lamp with the power of a single candle and positioned it on the glass that separates the shower from the basin in the bathroom.
I began pampering myself by treating my body to long showers and moisturising massages, with Jibble playing my favourite music at my side wherever I am in the house, with scented oils in my diffusers, with complimenting myself and flirting with myself in mirrors all over my home, and with dancing.
A Hopeful Romantic
I felt corny at first; kinda lame, like I was being silly, but I persevered… I began romancing myself with slow dancing in the kitchen.
I started by listening to other people’s slow dancing playlists on Spotify. Then I started collecting my favourite songs, just a precious few, in a private playlist. After a while, the playlist had grown and I dared myself to make it public. So I made it public.
And do you know what happened?
Nothing.
Nobody called me names or put me down or criticised me.
So I continued to romance myself.
I am learning that the way I treat myself teaches people how to treat me. I am also learning that the more I value myself, the more others value me.
What I am learning that the more sweetly I treat myself, the sweeter I become. I have welcomed home this shame monster called Unworthy of Love and I am healing her with love, compassion and gentleness. The crystallised sugar in my heart is starting to melt. Some days I can feel my love for myself expanding until I feel ready to burst and splatter the world with my blissful sweetness, just like a bottle of honey that I forgot I’d put in the microwave because I was so busy slow dancing with myself…
I love myself.
May I slow dance with myself forever more.
May I always have someone I truly care about to slow dance with.
The more sweetly we treat ourselves and each other, the sweeter we become.
The more I love myself
the more loving
I become.
ᓚᘏᗢ <3
