As I look back over my collection of notebooks, all of which detail my thoughts over different times in my life, I notice the concept of love is reappearing.
Some writers focus on feminism, or racism, or religion. I like to focus on my reality, and sometimes my imagination. Both of which seem to be consumed with endless questions of love.
In the seventh grade I wrote this poem called “No one knows what love is” It was pretty popular with the adults in my life.
Lately I’ve been feeling very reminiscent of the 12 year old girl who wrote that poem. “I think I love you; but what is love, and who’s to tell, cause no one knows.”
But then I watch shows like HOUSE and see people willing to lose an organ in the name of love. Parents refusing to accept treatment solely off the belief that their children wouldn’t lie to them. And it makes me reevaluate my ideas of love again.
I haven’t been on a date in about two years. I’m not sure I really know how to date.
If you’ve been following me since Dealing with Daddy Issues, you know that there are three main father figures (hence the 3 a’s in daaamndaddy) that I focus on.
The person who really raised me though is my maternal uncle. He carried me to school on his back while my mother worked, made me soup when I was sick and gave me some of the best hugs and worst advice ever.
And when I say worst advice, I don’t mean he gave me basic misogynistic “keep the house clean” tips. I mean his actions didn’t match his words, and as I got older, that meant I found him less trustworthy.
I find trust to be a cornerstone of love & I guess that’s why I haven’t loved anyone lately; I don’t trust people.
Buddha taught me not to trust people every time he said he was going to show up and he didn’t.
Step Dad #1 taught me not to trust when he showed up to Christmas with his new baby, his new baby mama & her daughter my same age, without even telling me I wasn’t invited anymore.
Step dad #2 taught me not to trust when teenage me felt mature enough to tell him not to abandon my sister that way Buddha abandoned me, and he said he wouldn’t, but he did anyway.
What each of them taught me, whether they meant to or not, was that my best quality was my connection to my mother. Not being able to have her heavily affected each of their connection to me.
I watch my male friends with daughters and admire their use of descriptive language. Their awe struck statuses at every new development, from walking to talking to graduating kindergarten. The love they pour into these miniature versions of themselves. The pride they take in protecting and molding these little human females. I see that and I search for the source that should have been pouring into me in that way.
Twistedly, I find solace in the emptiness of my sister and stepsisters, knowing that I am not just some vase placed too far from the sprinkler to be watered every day.
I think I love myself, but my foundation is faulty.
Then again, “No One knows what love is & no one ever will”
