When you are me, this topic is absolutely unavoidable in writing. It’s aggravating, I know. I hate it, but I’m always writing about it because in a way I am helplessly obsessed with the notion of it.
Why does it take so long to find?
Why does it “always feel right”?
How many times can it happen?
Can one love two different people at the same time?
How do you know?
Is it bad if you never know?
What IF you never know?
All of these questions nag at me often, mostly because my love life is so sedentary that I have nothing better to think about. I may have been in love once in my life, and I’m a little bit ashamed to know that the person was someone I should not have loved for many reasons; Most of which I wish not to go into yet.
See, at the time I had no idea that I was in love. It did not hit me like a ton of bricks and leave a large purple bruise on my face, nor did it cause angels to sing a heavenly chorus at the sight of them. It went right past me like a silent breeze, and I even though I felt it, it did not leave anything physical. It slipped through my fingers as though I were clenching water in my fists.
Now I now that it was love because of the impact this individual left in my life. They came in and left fingers prints everywhere. All over my heart especially. The type of love I was in was not the healthy kind though. It was the kind that was not reciprocated. I loved them, but they did not love me. The only way that I could get away from it, and I desperately wanted to, was to pull myself away quickly. It was a disturbing blend of emotions. Elation, desperation, and depression.
I am not completely over the individual, but I am at a much better place than I was. It once got so bad that I lost my appetite for two days because I had slightly offended them. I went to California last summer with too much time to think, and they completely took over my process of thought, interrupting any regular train of thought.
Things have changed.
Now my heart does not jump at the sound of their name
their voice
their laugh, ringing throughout the hallways.
I don’t get envious when I see them with a significant other. I feel something, but not envy. An understanding or happiness perhaps.
I don’t feel ecstatic when they hug me tightly anymore. It reminds me of pain, not joy.
Most of all, I think I can now handle the fact that all of the things I knew from them, about them, have not been the complete truth.
Touchstone 