I wrote that nearly 18 months ago. 'The
truth about love'. Seems a bit glib now. It was true, still is, in
some ways. There are no lies in it. But the truth as it is now, is
that it was based upon a false premise. I was not loved then, and I
am certainly not loved now. This is a hard truth. I could soften it
with mentions of The Blondies, my parents, friends who care, readers,
etc., all of whom play their part in understanding and encouraging
me. I cannot lie and pretend that this does not make my life richer
and more enjoyable. But the truth remains: I was not loved.
I may have been told it twenty times a
day 'loving you'. I may have received a text every few hours 'loving
you'.I may have been assured of it in the way his world was nothing
more than work and home, no friends, no outside interests, no
distractions or complications. But I was not loved.
Cared about? Then, yes. My welfare was
important. Consideration was given. Things that I did not request or
require were done 'for me'. He would 'let' me do certain things I
wanted to do, as long as I knew there would be a price to pay, a
reckoning, in my own fashion. He was a good father to The Blondies on
holidays, their interests and wants coinciding, allowing me the time
and space I jealously, selfishly need in order to write. I cannot say
he was wholly unsupportive in every way, because it would be unfair
and untrue. But I was not loved.
Love shows itself in unexpected and
unthought of ways. The ways in which I listed what love truly is are
still true, still what I believe, still what I will shout from the
rooftops (or just hammer out onto a laptop in Spain whilst The
Blondies are out with Mum for half an hour). And for that reason, I
know I was not loved.
Because with love comes care,
consideration, compassion. Love cannot be love when it involves
telling the world the other persons darkest secrets. Love was not
love when after it is over, you repeatedly fail to do the right
thing. Love was not love when you ignore the implications of your
past behaviour. Love was not love when within weeks of the end of the
relationship you move onto someone new, as you said you would.
Love was not love, for either of us. I
did not love him either, by the end. I don't know when it stopped.
Most likely, it ebbed away, a slow but pervasive drought of the delta
of a love I once thought defined my life, the little channels of the
same love that once spread so broadly, gradually being extinguished
as each stream became a trickle before dying, unnoticed until it was
too late. I too have my share of blame, and have apologised, felt
remorse, tried to make amends. I have received nothing in return,
only a freezing out by many, and certainly no apology from anyone. And
that it how I know I was not loved.
I know I was not loved because I still
care, yet receive no consideration. I was not loved, because I try to
help, yet receive no assistance. I know I was not loved, because I
cannot see myself ever allowing anyone close to me. And yet, I was
replaced, overnight, without a backward glance, discarded. I am happy
that he is happy, and that is what I wish for him. But lately I have
realised that I was not loved, and I mourn the loss of my innocent
belief that I was.
Love and I have many things in common,
it would seem. Recherché, elusive, unfathomable. Annoying,
difficult, impertinent. But love and I are strangers, it seems to me
now. Because I am not, never was, and probably never will be, loved.
3 comments:
I can relate to this so much. Sorry for the pain you are suffering. I hope that you can find some other love, I'm sure that you deserve it
Thank you. It's been over for a long time, but the realisation has hit me this week and I feel very sad. I know I'll be ok, but it hurts xx
I wanted to write a blog and you've just written it far more beautifully than I ever could. I might post a link to it on mine, if that's okay.
Post a Comment