The way we love doesn’t define us, but it is a puzzle piece to the complexity of our personalities. In fiction, a hero or heroine can love multiple people and it’s okay. It makes sense. In reality, it’s not so easy.
I am 22 years old and I have finally experienced love for the first time. Most people experience their first love in their teenage years. There’s a whole slew of reasons that I never did – bad relationship role models, parental scarring, chronic depression, relationship pessimism. Take your pick.
I never thought I’d be the girl sitting up at night crying over a guy. I couldn’t understand the concept of a romantic love that could crush you so completely. I understood how to love family and friends with that kind of depth. In hindsight, I know I was just too scared to let anyone try to get that close.
I didn’t mean to fall in love and I certainly didn’t see it coming. One day we were friends and the next, I couldn’t picture my life without him. I’m beginning to realize that nobody ever means to fall in love.
Unfortunately, even though he loves me and I love him, a relationship isn’t something that’s possible between us. I don’t feel comfortable expressing those reasons, but let me assure you they are very much valid and if you knew the situation, you might consider me a terrible person.
The thing is hope kept me going long after I knew things wouldn’t work out. Hope risked the chance. Hope asked me to try things I honestly didn’t want to try just to see if I could eventually find the light at the end of the tunnel. It wasn’t just hope, but the lack of depression when he was around. Even when depression did manage crawl it’s way back up in his presence, it still wasn’t as all consuming.
Hope is a torture device.
I saw my parents in toxic relationships, my friends staying with people they “loved” because even though they weren’t happy they had been with them for so long, my friends didn’t know how to be without that person. I saw how “love” could be corrupted. I never saw it as they did. As something to be risked, as a chance to be taken.
I didn’t even know I was leaping off the cliff until I was already hitting the ground. And when I hit, I broke every bone in my body.
When you’re where I am right now, love becomes something else. Most people think love becomes heartbreak. Either your love is unrequited or there’s something there that tells you “no, you can’t love this person.” Even if that does happen, there’s no physical off switch for love. (Believe me, if there was, I would have found it by now)
Heartbreak is simple. It feels like a death.
I’m not being over-dramatic. Heartbreak feels like a death because it is a type of loss. For me, it’s a loss of what might have been, what could have been. I understand, now, why so many of my peers cried over “love.” It feels like a physical being has been ripped away from you and shoved into an incinerator.
I didn’t even have time to say good bye.
And even though we’ll continue to be best friends, because, to me, he is a star in a black sky and I’ll follow it for years just to catch a glimpse into space, it’s not enough. It’s another form of torture. It’s a fire I will gladly walk through because maybe…eventually…I might be able to recondition myself to love him in a way that I can live with.
There have been a number of thunderstorms lately around where I live. At least one a night since all this talking started. They aren’t small baby storms either. But storms that rumble up from the ground and shake the walls. The downpour sounds like a violent ocean. I can’t help but feel sometimes as if mother nature is either angry at me or angry for me. It feels too coincidental.
Sometimes, I picture a torrent of rain just sweeping me away into a new realm where I can forget what it feels like to be so bare that even my bones are naked. These storms are beautiful creatures of the night that all at once become creatures torn between light and darkness as the lightning strikes across the tumultuous clouds, part of both but belonging to neither…
They make me believe that maybe it was better this way. Loving me would have brought nothing but thunderstorms. Lightning and rain and chaos. My kind of love would have been the kind that opens the screen door when a tornado turns into your driveway.
I’ll never be able to give someone a suburban love and maybe that’s what people need.
Note from the Blogger
If you read this post, thank you. I’m not usually so depressing, I promise. Writing is just a way for me to pour out my feelings and I really needed to write this. Even if this wasn’t your favorite post or something you can relate to personally, I would appreciate any feedback. You’re welcome to share your story with me.