My home is awash with beautiful chaos, watching on as my best friend packs all his best yellow wares into a suitcase to go back to New Zealand after a well needed trip home and my boyfriend is busy hunting Pokémon from the couch beside me.
In the next room my other friend and his guest are discussing vagina casts, orgies and tarot cards at great length, while our 3 mismatched dogs tear apart a singular stuffed pink pig.
I’ve written about love, life, feminism, queer culture, sex, periods, Disney and everything in between on this blog over the years but perhaps you’ve noticed for the last little while, I’ve been quiet. Writing had been placed on a low simmer as I dove head first into sexual and reproductive healthcare advocacy.
After leaving and coming back to my old job 3 times, somehow I managed to convince the organisation I work for to take a chance on me. I endured some serious butt hurt when I missed out on the promotion I thought I wanted, only to land the most incredibly satisfying role I’ve ever been lucky enough to land.
Make no mistake, just as with everything else I’ve ever been gifted, I worked really hard to be in a position to have earned this opportunity. Affectionately (and egotistically) calling myself the Oprah of Abortions; my role consists of accessing funding and government assistance to support the terminations of clients across Australia. Clients who are facing numerous barriers to access, the least of which being financial hardship.
Aside from abortions taking up a large chunk of my time, I also needed to reassess the foundations of my life and work hard on creating the future I’d always dreamed of. I want it all, and I wanted it all yesterday.
The world moves so quickly, between unlearning internalised fatphobia, understanding that my queerness is a feeling and not just a badge I have to wear in the form of clothes, haircuts and events, while actively removing toxic connections from my life; I’ve been mostly too tired to write anything of meaning or substance that I felt I needed to say out loud.
My social media took a hit too when I was shadow banned and then deactivated for posting my body (no nips) online. Apparently the only bodies not being policed on Instagram are that of slim, cis, het white women and those people who have been blessed with seemingly ‘male presenting’ nipples.
During all of this, dating seemed much too hard.
I wasn’t experienced or educated enough when I dipped my toe in the polyamorous lake on which Melbourne now deep dives, so I drowned – quickly. If I’m completely honest, it was never going to work for me, not really.
Apparently, the heteronormativity of a married couple who only want to fuck each other, live in suburbia and love going to parent teacher nights – is somehow going against some queer card I was given. As if my idea of happily ever after is less valid because it is an attempt to mimic that of our parents – most of whom failed to create relationships we could say were healthy or happy.
Picture the white picket fence, a husband whose primary concern is my ass and mowing the lawn, children who make a mess and obsess over eating pancakes that definitely do not come out of a plastic shake and go shituation that I would cook before they wake on a Sunday morning.
I want to walk our dogs, eat mushrooms for brunch, hold family bbq’s, have roadtrip sing alongs and wake up next to a partner who loves me – like Mark Darcy would, given half the chance – just as I am.
They would see my mess, my inability to poach an egg and the way I stare while plotting to steal strangers babies as endearing and adorable. A partner who would know themselves, stand up for what’s right and have dreams of starting travelling band with me and our future musical genius children.
They would care about the big stuff, live a kind life and be the sort of partner that I never had to second guess. They wouldn’t be frustrated that always fall asleep in the first 15 minutes of movies in bed, they’d be okay with me beating them in pool and teach me things about myself I didn’t already know.
They’d be consistent, value my opinion and wouldn’t try to dull my shine. I wouldn’t have to wonder how deep their love was, or how much importance they placed on a happy life. They wouldn’t be afraid of hard conversations and know exactly how to call me on my bullshit.
I longed to be challenged by a partner in a way that felt humble and compassionate, I wanted to feel honoured by them even when we were going through a rough time and know, without a doubt that I was the one. They’d want marriage, children and a life worth dreaming of.
No bullshit, just laughter, love and the possibility of a long magical life.
After countless failed examples of relationships, some people may give up on true love, give up on romance and a stop floating along with their head in the clouds – but I am nothing if not consistent. I had to believe that one day, someone would fit within my life as if they had never been anywhere other than by my side.
Luckily for me, the partner I’d always dreamed of actually exists.
He is hilarious, brave, motivated and self assured. He holds the kind of confidence that I’ve always been a sucker for while remaining kind and honest to the core. He is everything I longed for and came along with a million things I never knew I wanted.
Catching a glimpse of my best mates wide knowing smile in the rearview mirror today as my man sang a rendition of Ewan McGregor’s love song from Moulin Rouge to me was it. The moment I knew that this man had managed to do the one thing that many others had failed to do.
I could see him falling in love with our love, knowing he could trust this man that I’ve chosen to give my heart to. This is of course the moment I cried, because as always – she’s got a bunch of feelings and she isn’t ashamed of them.
So yeah, you could say I’ve been busy and after all that – I finally had something I needed to say.
I’m in love and he’s the one.
Artwork: @useless_treasures on Instagram