Romantic love... It feels like a hall of mirrors. That maddening catch-22 of reflected reflections, infinite illusive depth shining from behind an impenetrable surface. Do I love someone because they love me? Or do they love me, because I love them? Can it ever possibly be the same kind of love, from one soul to another?
I had questions. Questions about whether I loved him, and whether his love was enough for me, and whether it was the same kind of love. Whether it was the right kind of love. Fulfilling. My heart began to feel like a steel safe full of rivets and rotting candy; overflowing with trinkets once craved, but never really needed. I felt compelled to clean house and clarify.
I made a list of what I thought I might need, thinking of some alternate-universe sublime relationship. The foundations I wished I would have built on. But they were all static things. They were all things that I wanted, that I desperately wished for, but in the absence of anything actionable they ultimately lead nowhere. I was fabricating an impossibly precise model of A Spouse, one whose pieces would never actually fit together when pitted against grave reality.
As the day ended, I took a moment to stand and look at myself. I asked my reflection the same questions I'd been asking my soul.
My guilt was written all over my face, as I'd feared. He loved me, and I refused to love him. This hurt to see, hurt to recognize, but it led me to another voice. One that answered the question of why.
Like a cancer, this awful, snide narrator had been residing in my heart since I'd left my childhood home, and it grew with each year of solitude I had put myself through. It sneered at me:
"He doesn't love you. No matter what happens, no one else will ever love you. Only you could ever love yourself, alone."
So, there it was. It was a strange feeling to hear this side of my psyche so overtly separate, but it was a relief. The question of loving him wasn't a one-sided equation anymore. It became clear that our flow of love had simply been interrupted; I couldn't allow myself to feel him truly in my heart, because my past told me it was a trap. The bait was the nourishment I pined for, and I continually refused it in fear of the poison of helplessness. Of dependence. The only cure for my emptiness was to accept his gift, and fill up my heart's vessel with the love he'd been offering all along, so that I could honestly give that love back to him. Come what may in this relationship, no pain can equal the fear of love.
I like the image of Love that flows between. I think it has to be present as the main connection between two people. It isn't a commodity to be given or received, just reflected. I never doubted our connection, but I'd never realized that that was my true love for him, straining to break free of the camouflage I placed on it.
Beautifully written. I can't get enough of your metaphoric writing.
ReplyDeleteIts a hard realization, realizing that you were refusing to accept the love someone was always trying to give you. I was there before too.
"It isn't a commodity to be given or received, just reflected"
I feel like love is definitely something to give and receive. I think the active reception and appreciation of someone's love along with the relentless giving of love is something that makes up someone's character.
Thanks! A lot. And good point. I think I was going for more of a contrast with commodification with the "give or receive" thing. Like, that love isn't something to be parceled out. Viewing it that way made me feel really resentful over any "loving" thing I might've done that wasn't reciprocated.
ReplyDeleteI also read something yesterday, a really old self-help called "The Encouragement Book", and it gave the difference between encouragement (unconditional love) and praise (conditional love), as appreciation of effort, versus appreciation of results only. Up until recently I'd been doing a lot of the latter, because I thought I was only getting the latter. Had to read between the lines.