There was a time when the word love made me angry. Sometimes I think it still does. The lies people tell of this wild and wondrous thing that is nothing but an emotion, as transient as frustration or delight or fear. Love is not solid enough for you to hang your life on or pave your path.
There was a time that giving love terrified me, a fleeting thing so insubstantial in the palm of my hand, something I daren't offer to someone knowing that one day I might take it away.
I had just ended a relationship in the name of love when my father did the same. There were vast and monumental differences between our situations, I did not cheat, I tried not to lie, I cared about those who were left behind. But, despite this, the parallel timing of our decisions and the weekends facing the raw pain of my mother alongside the weekday pain of my ex-boyfriend internalised a belief that we were the same. That inconsistency, selfishness, and the ability to indescribably hurt another was etched into my genetics, that I was destined to break people. That I was not fit to offer or receive love.
My mental health rapidly deteriorated. Amidst the agony of my family deteriorating, I could not separate what I had done with what he had done and I had no-one to tell me otherwise. My mother was hurting too much, my ex-boyfriend still angry and sore, my friends in Canterbury bitter at my actions, my father actively encouraging the comparison to make himself feel better about what he did.
I did many stupid and painful things that year, punishing myself and letting myself get hurt again and again whilst crying out for validation. A scared child seeking safety in those who would make me feel as awful as I believed myself to be.
I was not innocent. I was a selfish twenty two year old who slipped into a dream of a life without wanting to turn back and see what I'd left behind. But I was not wrong to leave, to end a relationship when I felt too much for someone else.
As my self-hatred grew, I believed that I would never be worthy of love, that someone as awful as myself would never be safe to be in a relationship, that I was always going to be a danger to those who were close to me.
I told Connor that he wasn't allowed to say that he loved me.
I promised myself that I would never let myself enter into a long term relationship, never allow myself to care for someone, never put myself in a position where I could hurt someone else.
A dull ache is better than a sharp pain, that's what I repeated to myself. Feeling lost, lonely and unwanted was better than the soaring high and plunging depth of love and loss. I became self-sufficient and closed, dating without getting attached, scoffing at those who still rolled the ineffectual word love around their mouth.
There was growth and understanding in this time. I learnt how to better care for myself and how I wanted my life to unfold. I started to be kinder to myself, forgiving myself slowly, finally starting to separate myself and my actions from the irreparable damage my father caused.
I let myself be loved by my mother and brother and sister.
Love took on a new meaning. It was not romantic or whirlwind or momentous, it was robust and sturdy, exchanged amongst friends along with trust and hope and compassion. Not a single strand too quick to be cut, but a thick practical rope, sturdy enough to bear my awful weight. And that helped me to feel lighter. Less horrendous, less of a burden.
When Connor reentered my life, I was still wary of relationships and romantic love. I convinced myself that his visit would be platonic, a meeting of two friends, two pen pals. Something fleeting. I did not hang my hopes on it, I didn't dare believe anything solid and substantial would come of it. It would be nine lovely days showing him England.
The girls at my work asked me if I loved him.
"Of course," I'd reply, "But that doesn't mean anything." And I truly believed it.
And then he came. And I couldn't help it, I started to let myself love him, properly love him, again.
Almost a year later and I am still learning that this life we have together is valid and safe. There are still times that I push him away, refuse to let myself be consumed with love, hold back when he draws me near. But I am starting to make plans again, trying to let myself dream of a life shared without spending every moment scared that it will crash and burn.
I still fear hurting him. But I know that pain is a part of the patchwork struggle of two imperfect people doing their very best. And that we will try our best to soothe and comfort each other, but sometimes lash out and cause harm. I know now that this does not make me a monster. I know that I am not an inherently terrible person. I believe that I can love and deserve to be loved.
Love is still just an emotion. But it is also the only word we have to describe connections that make us feel less alone. And I think we all need to feel less alone. Even if that reaching out may mean that we one day have to let go, it is still worth reaching out for. Arms outstretched, chest exposed. Waiting for the love we deserve.
