Excerpt from A Love Addict Learns Her Lesson
By Cheekie Albay
I’m Cheekie, and I’ve been a love addict all my life. It’s taken me over two decades to realize that it’s not something I want to be anymore.
You might wave me off by saying, “Oh, we’re all love addicts! We all want love in our lives!” But no, my love addiction is not just some cute, harmless quirk for which one can always find validation in Thought Catalog articles or Lang Leav poems.
For me, it’s a real affliction, one that I have to heal myself from if I ever want to experience love in the truest sense of the word.
Ever since I was in grade school, my sisters would tease that I was a hopeless romantic, and I never took offense because I always thought that was something special about me. I was sniffling through romantic films and sobbing through romance pocketbooks when girls my age were still dressing up Barbie dolls and fiddling with Polly Pockets, and I thought that made me more sensitive, more mature and with a greater capacity for love—hardly bad things to be at 10 years old.
But now, with my two older sisters happily married and the younger one in a relationship with the same guy for five years now, I’ve begun to think that maybe I’m the one who has love all wrong.
This is what I’m like as a potential romantic partner: I’m super picky. A guy has to be my type or bust; the one time I dated outside of my type, I was bored out of my wits and never talked to the guy again. But once I do meet someone who ticks all the invisible boxes in my head, I’m ecstatic. I’m over the moon. I’m hearing Sebastian and a choir of lagoon animals warbling Kiss The Girl in my head.
And even before we start dating, in my daydreams, we’re already a thing. We’re meeting up after work and going on movie dates and charming each other’s friends and families and marking each street corner with our shameless public display of affection (PDA)—all in my head.
Photo by Cheekie Albay
Loved the excerpt?