When I was little, I always thought that falling in love meant that I would end up with my proverbial love-receiver and life happily ever after, for ever and ever, amen. It is with a heavy heart that I admit, that in my ripe old age of 26, I’ve already learned that that dream was far-fetched. In reality, I’ve found love to be more reminiscient of the slow, searing pain that I imagine I would feel were I to dig my own heart out, with a spoon.
I don’t even know if I can honestly sit here and definitively say that I really KNOW what love actually is. Hell, my opinions of love have found me nothing but drug addicts, alcoholics, abusers and even the ever elusive “mama’s boy,” so you can see why I’m feeling a bit out of context. For a long time, I thought wanting to help someone was what being “in love” with someone meant. I thought it was enough that I wanted to be the one that he talked to about his fears. I thought being the one who he told about the things that woke him up in the middle of the night was what constituted “love” in our relationship. Well, that love ended up leaving me with some emotional and epidermal bruising.
Once my mama’s boy/asshole phase was over, I lapsed into savior mode. I wanted to fix someone and credit their recovery/discovery/epiphany to the fact that I finally meant something to someone and had helped them, and they recognized it. I’d have to say that this phase of life, was probably the effing dumbest thing I ever came up with. ::Read:: Four years of my life essentially given up for another human being, who happened to have had a severe drug abuse problem, which I knew about, since about, um, well, pretty much the same day I met him. But, I was THE SAVIOR and was going to work miracles, maybe like, shitting candy hearts and making it rain puppies, amongst other things. That brilliant involvement left me with nothing but tearless eyes, a financial hole with it’s own zip code of which to climb out of, the new realization that I was a codependent asshole, and a psychiatry bill to Prove. It. All.
Since I’ve already been through the wringer when it comes to men – granted, those above are only my proudest of accomplishments – I’ve decided I need to be the hardest assed chick I can be when it comes to love. If I stop letting them in, I don’t have to worry about getting hurt. If I can’t be emotionally bruised, I cannot be as miserable as I once was. If I just manage to be a self-supportive, financially stable, emotionally independent gal, the only person I have to be worried about keeping happy is MYSELF, right? Riiiiight….damnit.
As for love – who knows? I am certainly no one of rite to say a daaaamn thing about love, but I DO know, mostly by default, that it’s not about staying with someone just because you think you are helping them; cause you probably aren’t. I learned that love is not about hoping to fix someone; it’s about accepting that person “as-is” and it’s about wanting someone in your life because they make you a better person, not because they make you feel better about yourself. If you’re like me, it’s usually at about this level of philosophical dissertation that I’m walking into the kitchen and opening the silverware drawer to ponder over which spoon may best suit my cause today. Maybe today is a day for the teaspoon…