I keep going back to a conversation I had with a friend a
few years ago. We were in the early stages of getting to know one another, and
we talking about how we got together with our respective partners.
‘To be honest’ she said ‘I didn’t really fall in love with W
until we’d been married for about six months.’
I kind of goggled a bit. How could you marry someone you
weren’t already in love with? But I get it now.
Love is not the exciting part. Love is not the quivering,
trembling, breathless excitement. Love is not the big romantic gesture. Love is
not the thoughtful gift. Love is not the twisting, endlessly unfurling
rollercoaster of joy, of exhilaration, of bouncing around because the two of
you made a private joke in public that no one else will understand. Love is not
endlessly fawning over one another to the exclusion of everyone else in your
life.
Love is… love. Putting up with the crap bits. Being
steadfast, loyal, true. Love is washing his pants. Love is spending 15 minutes
of your time rearranging something for him, something he could have done
himself, but you do it to make his life easier. Love is taking an interest.
Love is sending stupid jokes, not because they’re funny, but because you want
to make him smile and know that you are thinking of him. Love is saying ‘Rant
about it to me. There’s nothing I can do, but a rant will make you feel better.’
Love is taking a moment to appreciate all that he has brought into your life.
Love is being there, is listening, is putting out a hand to reassure. Love is
doing something for no other reason than to make someone else happy.
Love is not teenage giggling, thinking you’re being clever.
Love is not the public display of affection. Love is not announcing to the
world just how special someone is. Love is not constant retweets, favourites,
likes and shares. Love is not writing self-indulgent bollocks to and about one
person. Love is not creating your own world.
Love is unselfish. Love is forgiving. Love is seeing all the
bad parts of him, the bits that drive you absolutely fucking insane, and
putting up with them. Love is wanting to smash his fucking face in at times,
telling him so, and both of you retreating to different corners for a spot of
silent sulking. Love is not treading on eggshells. Love is honesty, however
much it hurts. Love is brutal. Love is raw. Love is knowing you cannot live
without him, whatever that ends up being. Love is not proud. Love is deep,
primal, painful.
Love is not romance. Love is not lust. Love is not happy
happy joy joy. Love is not boastful. Love is not fun. Love is not a gleeful
little secret you keep hugged to your chest. Love is not cryptic posts on
social media. Love is not a white knuckle ride. Love is not jumping around the
room because he paid you a compliment. Love is not a fake reality we create for
ourselves because being a grown up is dull, and parenting can be boring.
Love is every day. Love is mundane. Love is boring. Love is
wanting to know how your day went. Love is offering advice on that tosser at
work. Love is the rubbish stuff. Love is spending hours making mind-numbing
small talk with people you don’t know, because he wanted you to be there. Love
is offering support. Love is saying ‘I know things are overwhelming for you
right now. I’m stepping back, so you can focus on what you need to get done.
Just give me what you can spare.’ Love is enriching, reassuring, strong. Love
is unselfish. Love is making no demands, no ultimatums, no footstamping
tantrums. Love is knowing that you connect. Love is silence. Love is saying ‘it’s
ok’. Love is life changing, but it leaves lives unaltered, untouched, unharmed.
Love is pure, direct, unfiltered. Love is honesty.
I love. And my love sustains, renews, replenishes me. I love
him. And if, one day, I and he do cease to be we, I will still love him. As a
friend, if nothing more. He makes me a better person, in every way, in every
small moment. I don’t need to show it to the world. And he won’t say it, but I
know he loves me too. That is what love is.
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