Some Day My Prince Will Come
Some day my prince will come. Someday I’ll find my love and how thrilling that moment will be when the prince of my dreams comes to me.
All my life these lyrics have served as my prayer. I recall the hours planning my wedding, with a white dress, hundreds of flowers, a line of bridesmaids and of course, a handsome prince. At forty-six, this fantasy of happily ever after remains the intractable pebble in my shoe.
My most recent “self-growth” jag has centered on being utterly honest with myself about my relationship with my ex-husband, with the goal of releasing any self-destructive behavior, no matter how subtle. After several conversations with a male friend who is committed to assisting me in this venture, I’ve finally caught my culprit. I chose a male friend because they seem to detect “Prince Charming Hunting” in a unique way that women sometimes miss. He helped me revisit the girl, within me. whose fairy-tale dreams provided an escape from her drug-using, hopeless, wayward parents, is still seeking her due. I know that the dream of being rescued by a dashing lover isn’t anyone’s reality, but there’s still a piece of me, even now as I out myself, that’s searching for this magical panacea. I want my fucking Prince Charming.
Many years ago I dated a very kind, gentle man who came from a wealthy family. He also was an accomplished attorney for a large firm where he was likely to become a partner. We were from completely different worlds—he was my Prince Charming. After we’d been dating for more than a year, he said to me, “Monique, you have to have your own life, and your own interests. I can’t save your life, you must do that for yourself.” He was the first person that pointed out to me the hole in my soul that I so desperately wanted him—or any other reasonable Prince Charming facsimile—to fill.
Ten years later I married, and during the ceremony I heard my soul say, “This is not that which you seek.” My deepest self knew that even as I vowed to turn myself over to Prince Charming, Prince Charming was not really the “cure” for my illness.
Very recently I’ve been working through issues I’ve unearthed as my ex-husband starts a new relationship. Even as I know I have no desire to be with him, something in me feels incomplete. When a friend asked me “Are you angry that you didn’t get the fantasy, and that this new woman just might get what you desired?”, I knew that she had nailed it. I was still hooked into the hope that someday my Prince will come.
What’s most difficult to accept is that beneath this desire for Prince Charming is a belief that I need to be rescued, that I can’t actually take care of myself. It’s a wicked, antiquated belief that has percolates along inside me, even as I prove it untrue every day. Okay, wait one minute. The last few sentences might not really be true. What I really believe, deep down, is that God owes me a Prince Charming for giving me such crappy parents and a pain filled chiildhood. How my young mind conjured up this bright idea is beyond my forty-six-year old logic, but it probably sprang from the messages I got about God, men, and the being rewarded for my goodness. If not Jesus, maybe Prince Charming would make good on the promise that I wouldn’t be abandoned by the world.
All this is pretty difficult to say out loud; I’m embarrassed to admit that the real reason I’ve been so upset with my ex-husband is that he didn’t fulfill my fantasy of Prince Charming. It’s knocked the wind out of me. But I see myself, and I accept myself. And how thrilling that moment will be when the prince of my dreams…is me!