What Love is Not

I wrote this a year after I ended my first relationship. I was 17:

"For so long I let myself believe in the illusion that it was love. I fought so hard for it to be love, but, deep down, I knew it wasn't. I was in love with the idea of being in love - of being loved.

I wanted to understand every little piece of him. The way he thought, what made him him. The good, the bad, the ugly. But I never could, because we weren't wired the same. Our circuits were not meant to connect.

I wanted them to connect so badly, I tried to rewire mine to match his. I started to talk like he did, I watched the shows he liked - the stupid YouTube videos he thought were funny. I studied his favorite music (even though I hated it) so I could sing along with him in the car. I lost myself in it all. I let him have so much power over me.

I think I thought it was love because it felt so explosive. But, like every explosion, it left behind wreckage and destruction. I became addicted to the feeling - like the split second where your body is ricocheted through the air, and the flames are behind you, and everything feels like it's in slow motion. But now I'm left putting back together the pieces of myself that were destroyed in his explosion. The things about myself that I loved before I 'loved' him.

Love is not supposed to kill you in the process. Love for another soul is not supposed to outweigh the amount you love your own.

But I wouldn't change a thing. He taught me what love is not."

I still haven't known love. I know a lot more about what love is not.

Love is not feeling special when someone manages to do the bare minimum and be nice to you.

Love is not walking on eggshells with every word, decision, and action.

Love is not feeling like their lawyer when talking about them to your friends.

Love is not being made to believe you are the problem.

Love is not chasing the high of "good days".

Toxic relationships strip you of everything. The more you lose, the more tightly you cling to the relationship. That's why it's so hard to leave - what's even left to go back to?

So you try everything to keep that house from falling down - but it burns because it's made of wood, and your partner's love language is playing with matches. Leaving is scary, but no one can live in a house that's on fire.

I think I could have known love once. I saw it, just for a fleeting moment. I almost didn't recognize it, it was so different from anything I'd known. It was too delicate to hold onto, but at least I know I am capable of feeling it - whatever it was. It's funny: when it's not love, nothing else matters - but when it could be love, love isn't enough. I can't write about it. I'm too selfish.