Dear Ms. Abby,
In February 2016, the tagline to my letter told you, my story of being a single woman who believed in Mr. Right.
I told you how I had grown tired of, being known as ‘Single Scarlett.’ ‘Single Scarlett’, the woman who owned a cat which took great satisfaction in licking itself completely bald. ‘Single Scarlett,’ who told jokes about dying as Bridget Jones in her Spanx-grandma style underwear and being devoured by her bald cat as music played in the background from Sad FM, easy-listening for the over-thirties.
What I had not plan on disclosing was: my utmost fear of no man ever wanting me because I felt I was tainted, a loud mouth with sass and believed in doing things independently because I didn’t always need a man to help me out. I did not think I would write about the soul destroying loneliness I had to face each time my eyes opened and how I carry on with life knowing there could be a possibly of never finding my “Mr. Darcy.”
By penning this letter and allowing those around the world to read my personal thoughts, it brought home to me what my fears were about. It also brought to reality the concept I had been secretly thinking about for months and that was the concept of having to let go of the person that involved being ‘Scarlett’ and actually start exploring and living life as myself, while trying to find who the ‘real’ me was.
Since we are human beings and often tend to make a lot of mistakes, as to whether we learn from them or not is a completely different story within its self, there will always been a person behind the title of writer, blogger and entertainer spinner. Someone who can easily live life underneath a rock when things become too hard to face or when the reality of living behind a facade, can not only protect a weakened and emotionally damaged heart and soul but can also be an entertaining prospect as you get to live out your fantasies without any repercussions.
After having lived so many years behind the facade and person of Scarlett O’Chunky, I had essentially lost contact with who the ‘real me’ was and what it was that I wanted in life, relationships and for Mr. Darcy. Instead, I discovered a greater in-depth knowledge on a character I had created, moulded and perfectly fitted for the exciting life that was written and documented in a series of adventures and explorations within the sexual connotations of being a free twenty-something year old woman.
I would later come to realise that in order for me to begin finding confidence and feeling like I could face my reflection in the mirror every morning without questioning who I was or being physically sick, the real me had to escape from the circus act and as a result, found the confidence to step into the limelight.
I decided it was time for me to step back from engaging and living the lifestyle I had flung myself into. In doing so, I discovered life was much brighter and less sex-filled when not breathing the essence that comes with being Scarlett O’Chunky. Not only was it refreshing to have taken time out to discover the ins and outs of what it was like to have a relationship with yourself first and foremost, but I also got to rediscover and redefine my list of what it was that I wanted in a partner.
My letter of declaration, compassion and loneliness confirmed two things. One, I needed to embrace the idea of loving myself for me before someone else could step into the picture and fall in love with me. In return, the second thing I realised was I had spent the last few years of my life either dating the child or the man-child. It would be in my mid-twenties that I would actually discover what it was like to be in the presence of man, who saw and heard women as equals and nothing less, how fulfilling it could and would be to a woman.
I discovered while peering at past relationships under the microscope, the burning desire of how I wished to be treated as an equal on all playing levels. Having been the girl to question if her man-child of partner had cheated on her towards the end of the relationship, why the child had allowed his mother to verbally attack her after a uncontrolled situtation lead to a pregnancy and miscarriage. I learnt within these snippets, I was someone who had been trying to fix failed relationships by patching things although I knew the ship had already sunk.
After having made a pact to not bring old habits and additional baggage collected and accumulated from previous relationships and “sexual experiences”, I started reflecting in other areas of my life. Six months post publishing of Dear Mr. Darcy, the original, I put on my Spanx-grandma style undies and faced the firing squad.
With an open mind and a much positive confidence outlook, I discovered ‘Dear Mr. Darcy’ was a rather strange form of therapeutic cleansing for not only the mind, but also for the body and soul. It was therapeutic in the sense as it was not only bittersweet for I poured out years of frustration and secret betrayal I’d been holding to close to my chest like a set of Aces waiting to be played. But it allowed for the foundation to be created, nurtured and then flourish.
This meant sweeping and wiping the slate clean, so it no longer carried and continued to fester pent-up bitterness and immense sadness at being discarded to the side like something unwanted. It also lead to me looking at my continuous suffocating self-doubt on my self-worth, passion and the appearance of my personality, which caused a severely diminished confidence and outlook on life and relationships. With a new and very clean slate, I started building my confidence and positive thought processes a millimetre at a time before I felt comfortable with the idea and perception of taking leaps and bounds to where I wanted to be in life.
This positive thinking allowed and encouraged ‘Dear Mr. Darcy’ to be used as a mourning process of past relationships as well as the loss of who I was. Something of which, I would later discover six months after rereading it, was both beneficial for me in the short and long term as I could clearly define what it was that I wanted in life and to start the recovery process.
However, with any story or letter written with an open ending within limbo land, I wanted to return to the humble beginning and answer the most asked question of, “Did you find Mr. Darcy?” and here is your answer:
The ever famous and questionably handsome man of my dreams, Mr. Darcy.
I woke this morning not only bathed in a cloud of sunshine and the luscious smell of laundry detergent permeating from our freshly washed sheets, but also the elements of relaxation and a general sense of pure happiness, content and gratitude. It cannot be written nor spoke of as to what caused me to rouse this morning because I wasn’t sure if it was the quietness and content within the house or the creaking of a door being closed and the sound of feet walking away.
Within an instant of a heartbeat, I knew the surf had called and beckoned you to come and join your fellow brothers and sisters on the water. As I lay there envisioning you getting dressed in the dark while I slept, before skipping out the door with a surfboard protectively cradled under your arm as the faint squeaking of your wet suit shifted with each step. It was this very moment, I could only imagine the peace and content you would feel slowly encasing your body and soul as the sound of crashing waves and the beckoning scenery would greet you like a long lost lover.
It would be in these very last moments before swinging my legs out of bed to join the daily grind of chilling in the sun with a cup of coffee and a book, I lay there in silence thinking about the man I had spent so many years envisioning and trying to find.
The image of a business corporate man, who wore fancy blue and dark grey suits with vests, pocket squares and elegant shoes and boarded public transport to go to work in Brisbane Central Business District made me break that bubble of silence with a snigger. Although that image is quite nice, it has been replaced with the realistic image of dirt and mud covered knees, tan shorts that show off your ‘surfer’ tan and the solid thud of steel cap boots dropping to the ground.
The silent communication that would’ve been undertaken while we sat side by side on our journey home on public transport, almost like strangers afraid to look up from the screen and make a peep of noise; is instead replaced with a bright and cheery, “hello honey.” It is within these times of having to prevent myself from leaping into your arms and proclaiming loudly to the world just how much I have missed your presence and spirit that you listen to the inner yearning of my heart and soul and greet me with a warm, loving hug and a sweet and succulent kiss to the lips.
Least to say, Mr. Darcy, I don’t think the honeymoon phase is going to end suddenly. Simply for the fact, you still manage to make me giggly like a high school girl with a disturbing crush on the hottest boy and make my heart skip that little beat.
Although I jest and joke about getting life insurance when I am heavily pregnant with our baby, asking you with a serious deadpan face, “Honey, do you know what we should get? Real life insurance” alongside, plotting ways on how to keep your kneecaps looking young before smothering you with a pillow when your snoring gets bloody annoying. However Mr. Darcy, you have simply brightened my once dreary and incredibly lonely world by standing up from your chair and gracing my presence with a wonderful smile.
You have made me come to terms with the knowledge that I may have been someone who once wondered if the romance bubble had either faded a long time ago or simply had bypassed me for someone more deserving or rather, undeserving.
I know this line of thought made me, alongside many other single women and men who can relate to this sentence due to our masochistic tendencies, watched and deeply analysed our bible and holy grails: Sex And The City and Bridget Jones. After having to step back from watching yet another repeat of both, it made me suffer an internal fear of settling for a guy who prefers to spend too much time on his art work (Alexander Petrovsky I am looking at you!) or being discovered later in my stomach-defying spanx underwear that proves to be quite popular with elderly women, post death.
I find myself surrounded by the faintest scent of what makes you irresistible and the welcoming and much desired silence of our home. Comforted by the knowledge of it being our home where our children, dreams and future endeavours shall be created and nurtured in love, I pen you another letter. I must say, after years of thinking and waiting for you to arrive, looking lost and dazed with an upside-down map at the nearest train station; it has been a rather pleasant surprise knowing that I didn’t have to rescue you and in return, you didn’t have to rescue me.
Having said this and wondering for nearly 10 years if I was ever going to meet the man of my dreams or even come close to it, I am rather pleased you were the one to send the initial introduction of a kiss and message. As I sit here and fight back the tears, I do wish I could have saved our first message and kept it within the box of goodies I have collected and no doubt, will continue to collect over the coming years.
It has and will always be an honour to be your partner, support team when shit hits the fan and the woman of your dreams. With this, I love you Mr. Darcy and thank you for making my life and soul feel complete.
I cannot wait to spend the next 50 years, complimenting you on your knee caps, holding your hand through thick and thin and reminding you of what love is all about.
Lots of love,
~Scarlett & E xx