This is the problem...

He was trying to give me Cinderella and the prince and the glass slipper or some chick flick idea of the perfect romantic comedy version of our life.

But my idea the perfect romantic comedy is a little askew. “Benny & Joon,” “Chasing Amy, “ even “The Fisher King” is my idea of romance. Dark, twisted, slightly off center, with red knights and comic book geeks and men who twirl hubcaps.

And you can’t take Sandra Bullock type of romance and try to combine it with Johnny Depp type of romance. The two just don’t work. It seems like they should. After all, Johnny Depp and Sandra Bullock sound like they would be perfect together.

And it’s funny. You would have thought he would have been the Johnny Depp, dark romantic side with his brooding and his anger and his fear. But he wanted to be Prince Charming for me and I guess that should count for so much.

And I thought that’s what I wanted. I thought I wanted to be Sandra Bullock and smile that crooked, goofy, sweet smile and be swept away by my prince.

But I’m the one with the dark side that never got to see the light. I’m the one who needed just a little twisted instead of sweet and charming. I was trying to be the sweet, light, funny one and never let the darker side out.

I don’t need to be rescued. I don’t need to be charmed and coddled and chastely kissed. I need to be allowed to see the wounds that are there, the pain that is in the heart, the real essence of you, whoever you are out there, whoever comes into my life and chooses to stay. I don’t need the gloss, I need the reality. I’ve been wounded beyond repair. I have almost no heart left. The very thought of opening myself up again makes me want to vomit and makes me hurt down to the soles of my feet. I want someone who feels that pain as well and finds a way to share that with me. Someone like Perry in “The Fisher King” who can stand on my doorstep and not be able to keep his feelings in any longer and his words come out in a torrent because, despite the pain, despite the wounds, he just has to tell me how he feels. And it breaks my heart just to hear him speak because I know how wounded he has been and it hurts me to share that with him but we do.

I don’t know if any of this makes sense to you, dear readers, but it makes sense to me. We live in a world where everyone thinks the ideal is light and grace and beauty and rescue and safety. In my world, the ideal is just the opposite. It’s dark, it’s dirty, it’s afraid and it’s desperate and it’s scared and scary and so incredibly dangerous and unsafe. But the one thing it is – passionate. I always loved him, I always adored him, but I don’t think I was ever passionate about him. I never felt that swell of emotion when he walked in the door because he was safe. He never put himself out there for me, never put his real wounds, his real self out there for me. He tried to be light for me and I wanted his darkness.

So, dear reader, if you are the one who holds my heart – or one who will eventually want to try – know that I do not seek the fairy tale. I’ve had that and it was awful. I’m seeking the reality of your heart, the shadows that cover your wounds, and I don’t want you to fix me or rescue me or treat me with care, because I am no longer fragile. And I don’t want to fix you either. I want your red knight, your illiterate insecurities, your dark comics. Because I have a few of my own to share with you.