To me, love is just an open tunnel. That tunnel rarely seems to bring anything but pain.
I loved a girl for a few years. First, we were barely more than acquaintances through a mutual friend. There was never a day that I was aware of her existence that I didn’t like her. Then we were friends. For a lon time we were friends. Then I was truly able to take that affection, and close friendship, and care for her. Quite later, that tunnel opened up on her end. Over some more time, I can truly say I loved her.
I loved her for a long time. I loved her more than I ever realized I could love someone. I loved her through harder times than I ever foresaw. Each day, I loved her more and more. I never ran out of love to give, but I was not equipped with enough experience and wisdom in my life to that point to prevent what came. I was strangled; a choke point finally closed and I ran out of that ability to let that love, that care, flow.
Each day, I woke up trying to be renewed, and love would eek out, but I experienced pain in conjunction with that love. Eventually, it was more pain than love, and I made one of the hardest choices in my life to barricade that tunnel until time healed the broken. Not since that choice have I come anywhere remotely close to caring for anyone on that level.
To this day, the one I loved so dear still won’t talk or associate with me. She must still feel the same level of pain I do. It still hurts more, though. Over a year later and I only get one real correspondence; an e-mail, a dream, and part of a letter, and like that it is back to that long forgotten, long abandoned tunnel to eachother’s hearts, eachother’s lives.
A couple months ago, I actually cared for a girl again. I didn’t think I had it in me. We were good friends. I was terrified. It wasn’t much, just care, and a very trusting friendship. I was afraid of the care. I was afraid of ruining a friendship already going through a rough patch. I was probably most afraid of the astronomically long shot odds of actually having a chance to have that care materialize; pebbles of rubble sliding through the cracks, then rocks, then boulders, until that tunnel was open again. I wasn’t looking for that, but it was nice to at least be able to care again.
It turned for the worst. I wanted those feelings out of the way. In a confusing, poorly represented attempt to simplify, I presented myself and my care to her, like a loyal knight approaching the throne revealing a plot to betray the throne he protects. I wanted not to care more, I wanted to just keep my trusted friend, and care a little, on my own, on the side, just to remember myself that I am human, and contrary to my conditioning, love is not pain, but something that can bring life.
The worst happened. I wasn’t rejected. I wasn’t accepted. I still don’t know what that means. I wish that she had the guts to have rejected me. In my gut, I wanted that. In my heart, I guess I wished she had the crazinness to accept me, I only wished for it when my mind was away.
Now, we don’t talk at all. There is no communication. I don’t get to represent myself. I don’t get to represent my trampled feelings. I don’t get a chance to be understanding. I don’t get to be friends, at all. I’m the square root of a negative number.
Someone I consider a best friend asked her on a date. They went on a date. It was some of the sharpest, most venomous pain that ever coursed through me. I care not, to the best of my abilities, to know anything beyond that one thing I found out. I try to live beyond it, but more often than I like it creeps in my bed at night, and forces itself upon me. I feel terrible those nights and converted mornings.
A date? A date? A date?? I never even got a friendship. I don’t even know if I get to apologize for the stress I put her under. I don’t expect anyone will ever apologize to me, or not when it will hold any relevancy to my feelings.
I see my friends. Some are married. They were stronger than me. They didn’t burn out; or maybe it was they weren’t extinguished.
I see my friends. They still get to talk to their ex’s. They get to drift apart a little more naturally with someone wth whom they literally shared their life with. They have things fall in place. They find new people they get to mutually care for.
For me, any distant relative of love has just been further conditioned to be, to me, associated with pain, with hurting, with tears. Care, trust, companionship, friendship, these things aren’t even love, but they all have tracked in the broken glass fragments from my concept of love, and likewise, even a step can, at random, cause me pain.
It is another insecurity I have to carry around now. I’m not looking for any pity or anything. I’m sick enough of feeling bad for myself; last thing I want is anyone else doing the same. I’m simply bringing another insecurity to the table.
This way, nobody can say anything to me sometimes see sawing from functioning, well, and to not ok.
Sometimes I’m going to not be ok. Just let me at least not be ok sometimes, I don’t ask for much anymore. This is not too much to ask. If I ever warn you about getting too close to me, please know I’m just trying to keep that tunnel blocked off as long as I can. It is all I can do to keep moving on in life. Just stay barricaded. Keep moving on.