Love’s Conditions

Another night of not being able to fall asleep because the thoughts are gnawing their way through the soft membrane and turning me to mush. Another night of inadvertently keeping them up to take care of me because my brain is always working overtime with no compensation. I try to ignore the familiar feeling of how resentments begin but I’m already bracing for the break and the fall. 

“Are you okay?” They ask, pulling me in for a tight embrace.

Yes, I think. Technically, I am okay. The feeling will pass and it’ll return.  That’s how it goes. The pushing and pulling of the tides of my heart, waves slowly rolling and crashing within. Yet, I’m confronted with a fear that maybe I’m not okay. Somewhere at my core I’m not okay; that I haven’t been okay for quite some time. That I keep pretending it’s all fine. That I’m fine. That those wounds don’t hurt anymore. But they do, and maybe they always will. I just wish they weren’t so sensitive; a bruise that I’ll poke and prod until it’s sore to the touch again. 

“Yeah,” I sniffle, burying my face more in their chest. “I’m fine.” 

“You don’t sound fine.” They reply, tucking my hair behind my ear.

“I know it doesn’t sound like I’m fine,” I strain a smile. “But I’m fine.” 

“Uh huh.” They don’t believe me. I wouldn’t believe me either. They know me well enough to not believe my lies of “feeling tired,” or my sniffling being “allergy related.” They can feel the shift and the dip in my mood, sometimes before I can catch it. More in tune to my moon cycles than I am. 

I plead with myself to self-regulate to get my shit together and cut this crying crap out. Their voice in my head tells me to be kinder to myself and I fear that’s not possible. I’ve never known self-kindness or what that would even look like. I’ve spent years being self-critical and unforgiving, a tradition passed down from my mother. The same cruel nature and self-punishment she instills within herself flows through my blood. 

“You know I would never judge you, right?” They whisper. “You don’t have to worry.”

I nod despite my brain screaming that of course I have to worry. It’s written in the stars for me to worry. But I know it’s not fair to hold them against the standards others have set. Others have loved me with hesitation and I don’t blame them. I love myself with the same caution, unsure if it is right to do so. Because my past lover’s love has had limits. They love me to their breaking point and I understand it’s me that breaks them. I know that I am not easy to love. A broken toy that has been played with to the point of being irreparable. I don’t blame the others for throwing me out. People only like the sad girl for so long before the novelty wears off. Until I’m no longer a project, no longer something to fix, no longer someone to use. Until I’m just me; and just me has never been enough for anyone to stick around. 

I lift my head to meet their eyes and pray silently that they don’t grow tired of me. Ignoring the understanding settling in the pit of my stomach that it's inevitable and I wouldn’t blame them for caving and growing tired too. 

“I love you.” They say and I worry they’re reading my thoughts.

I feel myself devolve in their arms. It feels almost forbidden to feel love like this. A rosy cloud surrounding us that could evaporate at any second. Love has never felt this natural nor easy and I’ve never been more scared to lose it. Love like this doesn’t exist for me. Love has always come at a cost and I’m holding my breath for any hidden fees.

I learned love from my mother and her love always came with conditions. I had to be a pretty girl, a smart girl, a good girl. Her words lingered and implied that I was none of those things naturally. That I wasn’t inherently pretty. This I knew from a young age. From the way my mothers fingers would pinch and tug on the soft rolls hugging my hips. From the way the boys at school would point and stare at the dark strands of hair covering my skin. From the way the people I liked would pick ivory skin and blonde hair over my mixed features and darkened complexion. From the way my father told me that no man would love me because of the extra flesh that hung from my body. From the way men would use my body in secret but look through me in public. A smart girl would know better and would never be so naive as to expect unconditional love. Because unconditional love is for pretty girls and I’ve learned to accept love’s scraps. It’s what I’ve been conditioned to accept. And perhaps if I was a good girl, I’d believe that I deserved better.

But they say that I deserve pure love and I’m scared to believe them. Questioning how someone could love me fully at every turn and step we take. My past is deep-seated and lies much further than just beneath the skin. I sit in my body and feel bitterness bubbling up from the bottom, but they insist that I’m sweet to my core. The assure me of my goodness and I don’t quite accept it. They tell me that I’m pretty and I wish I could see the beauty they speak of; because it surely can’t be the same hands and face I’ve scrutinized for hours on end. They kiss the creases and lightning bolts etched into my skin and for once I feel less alien in the body I’m in. They treat me with patience and it feels foreign. I feel undeserving of their kindness, but they continue to love me gently.

I’ve felt more lost than found these past 29 years but have found peace in their heart. But I admit I’m still a bit nervous to call it home. If I settle into the home they’re building in my heart, I’m scared I’ll get comfortable. I’m scared I’ll be happy, because happiness never lasts long for me and I’d give anything to hold onto this love for eternity.

“I love you too.” I lean in to press my lips to theirs, letting myself melt into them instead of into myself. I don’t understand their love for me but I let them love me without conditions.