I Am In Love And I Hate It

I am in love and I hate it. I hate that it took me a long while before the last person I ever truly loved didn’t put a weight on my chest at the thought of him. That I ever thought that maybe that was the first and last time that someone could ever love me that much and I just missed my chance because I fucked it up or didn’t try harder to keep him. That I thought that my naïveté was a weakness that’s why it did not last. That karma made me never think of loving like that ever again.

I am in love and I hate it. I hate that who was supposed to actually be my first love built me to become hard and untrusting and cruel. That I never knew how to say sorry and thank you without squirming (sometimes i still do) were it not for my precious gem of friends who took their time to get to know me, who ended up hating him too when they found out how he treated me. I also hate his counterpart, and how she thought that my maturity was a sign for her to treat me as a therapist, which solidified my disinterest of making a family of my own, distancing myself from them all. I also hate that I couldn’t leave them, even though I said I’d rather starve to death than go back.

I am in love and I hate it. I hate that I met someone like a scene from the beginning of a romance movie and mistaken my loneliness for love. That I let him in without really knowing him, and got bamboozled into a relationship. That when he broke up with me within a month I did not shed a single tear, nor really felt any bitterness, though I posted some sad cryptic messages on Facebook so it looks that I do. I hate that I laughed and said that I won when he unfriended me. That I didn’t really think he was even attractive, so I just wasted my time basically.

I am in love and I hate it. I hate that I spent the rest of those other times playing around, getting men who were taken just because I can and did. That I never really thought of them besides someone to spend the night with and not the morning after. That I did not even bat an eye or shed a single tear when they said they couldn’t take it any longer, that they wanted me back.

I am in love and I hate it. I hate that I liked the idea of people and when I finally caught their attention, I would ignore them and beat around the bush to keep them within my radar. That in reality I don’t even see myself with them because their wholeness looks more appealing than the sum of their parts, that I enjoyed the journey and not the destination, the means rather than the end.

I am in love and I hate it. I hate that I wished I was alone most of the time but there are some small, fragile moments where I wished I could escape this life. That I can leave everything behind, move somewhere far away, where no one knows me and keeps an image of me in their heads. And yet there are also some moments where I wished someone saw the ugliness inside my ivory exterior and told me that it was fine.

I am in love and I hate it. I hate that it took embracing my innocence (and current lack of), putting my hardness, trust issues, and cruelty under work in progress, enjoying my aloneness, a volcanic eruption, earthquakes, and a pandemic for me to finally be in a place where I can look for love without fear. That now I’ve met someone who is literally everything I wanted and needed and more and yet his pasts fucked him up so bad. That we’re breaking each other from the very core so we can build ourselves and each other in a better way. And I hate that I don’t seem as innocent, as hard, as untrusting, as cruel, and as alone as before that I’m scared this is just another one of life’s fucking lessons. That maybe we’re building each other only for him to wake up and realize he is meant to be with someone else. Or that he realizes I’m a lost cause or my end product is subpar, much less mediocre. That when he is finally in a good place, he can find someone more on his level. That I know it all sounds so petty and paranoid and insecure but fuck you all this is what I think and you can’t force me not to.

But most of all, I am in love and I hate it. That regardless of the risk, I am willing to try. That despite all the possible pain, I am willing to get hurt. That even though I am not perfect, someone will accept me, even if I don’t accept myself. That I’ve survived existential crises, dramatic character development, and natural disasters, so I feel brave enough to go blindly running back to love again. And that I couldn’t care less about anything else… because he loves me too.

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