It appears that most of my exes find themselves a Little Miss Sunshine right after me. 

mel·an·chol·y
/ˈmel(ə)nˌkälē/

a feeling of pensive sadness, typically with no obvious cause.

Under a warm evening moon walking along Venice Beach, a friend looks over to me and says “You’re quite melancholic”. I gave out an expressive ‘ouf’ followed by a momentary silence. I am, aren’t I. Susan says that great artists create their masterpieces in periods of melancholy. In their loneliness and isolation they can become their true selves and can express in a way that they can’t with someone else. Some get lost in it, and never find their way out. And the most successful artists dance their way in and out of the state of darkness, and find great satisfaction in it. 

It’s strange to say and admit that I like it. I like feeling that way - in fact, I feel the most creative that way. Gracelessly walking on the edge of a dark abyss, tempted by the romance of falling in, only to hop back to safety when I accidentally miss a step. Don’t get me wrong, when you don’t save yourself and end up falling, it’s a long way down. You think you’ve reached rock bottom and then you realize what a fool to think you’re done with the fall. So, is it worth it? Is the chance of falling in worth the creative rush whilst dancing with darkness? 

I wish it wasn’t worth it. I wish I was ‘normal’ - I wish I were happy in the most conventional way. For most of my life I was angry that I couldn’t be the “Little Miss Sunshine” that everyone wanted. I could mask, and pretend. I play pretend quite well, so well that sometimes I lose myself in the character I’m playing. But Little Miss Sunshine is never a character I can play for very long. 

I’ve come to accept who I am, my faults, and desires. And maybe it’s too much to ask for someone to love someone with a melancholic heart, but I guess I’m okay with that. Maybe I’ve learned to love myself enough for it to be enough.