It Is What It Isn’t

I’ve always been a lover, as if it is what I was born to do. It’s ironic considering that I was unwanted. Like a broken bone that heals and becomes stronger than before, perhaps so became my heart.

I’m quite sure I came into this world with a broken heart, and not just from my genetically imperfect chambers and valves. My mother had no desire to have me. Whether or not a fetus is affected by the hatred of the person that they form inside, is a question that will probably never be answered. But, once I left her body, my mother made no effort to hide her resentment of my existence.

Cry me a river, right!? Well, I have no hunger for sympathy in that regard. I’m fairly convinced that I was meant to be here despite my unwelcome presence. I might have a different perspective if it wasn’t for my grandmother. She was such a strong, beautiful, and loving woman. She made it seem as though the world was made just for me, and that I was the one thing that was missing from her life. Oh how she loved me. I don’t know if she was overcompensating for my mother’s lack of interest in me or not, but she did an amazing job of making me feel loved. I never once doubted or questioned her feelings for me. Even when I was at my worst and she was cursing and swatting my ass with a yardstick, I knew she adored me.

In some ways I believe I have been searching for this kind of love my whole life. This unconditional, undeniable acceptance and complete security that afforded me the knowledge that I would never be alone as long as she was still breathing. I have fallen in love so many times that it would be impossible to even begin to measure, but have never experienced a love that could even hold a candle to the love my grandmother gave me.

Maybe I’m sabotaging myself by comparing anything to this ideal love. I am always optimistic when it comes to love. I enter each new relationship as fearless as I can be, and am always sure that each time it will be the last time I’ll have to fall. I fall hard. Once I decide that the object of my affection is worthy of knowing me, and they pass a few checkpoints, I am all in. I love faithfully and passionately, and I try to insure that my partner never questions my feelings and always has the security of knowing that they are loved.

Unfortunately, I think I often fall victim to my own turbulent emotions, and fail to see that the relationship I have envisioned is nothing like the one I’m living. Then I’m stuck in love with someone who doesn’t even feel a fraction of what I feel. I become a slave to the will of my partner, and the relationship crumbles around me as I frantically try to glue it back together armed only with my love.

It never seems to be what I think it is. It’s something, but it’s not the love I yearn for. I still believe that I can one day have a comparable love to that which my grandmother granted me, but my confidence is slowly weakening with each new wound that my heart receives.