We are parallel lines running in circles, we're never meant to cross

I really hope my married friends comment on this one and set me straight. And also when I use passion- I don't mean sex. I mean the overhaul of unfounded emotions, and acting on them without reason.

My whole entire life I have wanted an epic love story. The typical meet-date- marry sounded just too simple. I wanted a tale with longing, desire, intrigue. I think it's probably because I yearned for a love like my parents.

It's probably this belief that made me sneak into my mothers room to read her dirty romance novels at the age of twelve, that spurned that part of me that couldn't read Harry Potter without secretly wanting Ginny Weasley and Draco Malfoy to end up together, and that fantasized about loves like the one shown in this dance on the side . I never wanted something sweet, or kind. Love wasn't gentle first kisses at the end of the night- but screaming matches that ended up in heated kisses against a wall.  I didn't want something that came easy, but instead something so strong that you can do nothing but try to fight it. I didn't want something tender and bubbly, but instead something hot, and smoldering- something that burned to the touch and had the potential to explode any second.

This is why I have always followed my heart instead of my reason. This is why the people I have dated have been random and sporadic. Drama doesn't lead to love. I now see that in my grandparents- who were the type of people who fought all the time- labeling it as "passion" and now years later it has turned into resentment. I see it when I get that icky feeling while reading books like Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. Passion blinds you. It is rushing into emotions without a foundation of respect. It is selfish, and makes you push and pull based on what you can receive from the other person and what you can keep to yourself. It can lead to love, but it, as stated, can also blow up in your face. I have felt true passion- the emotions so strong you feel like you are about to be smothered by them, the humming your body does when you are around someone, the string that you feel in your chest constantly pulling you back to the other person- and I acted stupidly- rushing into something that I couldn't see the full picture of. I felt certain that these things could only lead to love- but love only comes from respect.

So how does one change their mindset?  I want something sweet, and kind that can turn into passionate. I want something based on real emotions. When I'm 80 I want love stories that matter. Love stories like this one from the talk The Eternal Blessings Of Marriage by Elder Richard G Scott

I learned from my wife the importance of expressions of love. Early in our marriage, often I would open my scriptures to give a message in a meeting, and I would find an affectionate, supportive note Jeanene had slipped into the pages. Sometimes they were so tender that I could hardly talk. Those precious notes from a loving wife were and continue to be a priceless treasure of comfort and inspiration.

I began to do the same thing with her, not realizing how much it truly meant to her. I remember one year we didn’t have the resources for me to give her a valentine, so I decided to paint a watercolor on the front of the refrigerator. I did the best I could; only I made one mistake. It was enamel paint, not watercolor. She never let me try to remove that permanent paint from the refrigerator.

I remember one day I took some of those little round paper circles that form when you punch holes in paper, and I wrote on them the numbers 1 to 100. I turned each over and wrote her a message, one word on each circle. Then I scooped them up and put them in an envelope. I thought she would get a good laugh.

When she passed away, I found in her private things how much she appreciated the simple messages that we shared with each other. I noted that she had carefully pasted every one of those circles on a piece of paper. She not only kept my notes to her, but she protected them with plastic coverings as if they were a valuable treasure. There is only one that she didn’t put with the others. It is still behind the glass in our kitchen clock. It reads, “Jeanene, it is time to tell you I love you.” It remains there and reminds me of that exceptional daughter of Father in Heaven.

I want someone to look at me and be overcome with how lucky they are to keep me, not something momentary like how much they crave me, or trying to talk themselves out of it. I want someone who can spend a hundred years content to holding my hand, and kissing my forehead if they had to. I want someone who wants nothing more than to hold me when I am crying, and is willing to fight for me if they need to. I also want someone that I feel this way about as well. Which means I need to give up my dysfunctional fantasies and find a way to be attracted to the good boys. Ha... easier said than done.