ADULTING
We Accept the Love We Think We Deserve
On childhood, self-love and solitude.
Stephen Chbosky wrote, “ We accept the love we think we deserve.”
And I wrote in my tear-stained journal, “ I don’t know what kind of love I deserve.”
For years, I cried and existed and cried some more until one day —
Well, there is no one day. I’m still figuring out the kind of love I want to give myself. But I’m here anyway writing about it while fumbling through this hot mess called life.
The love that exists.
If love is a moment, what would it be for you?
If love is a moment, I want it to be here.
I’m tired of imagining glass windows and painted walls in an otherwise emaciated and broken home. I’m tired of imagining a childhood where hurtful words weren’t thrown away like they meant nothing. I’m tired of living a moment of wind breeze and laughter because it’s also a past too far away.
I felt like I kept reaching something from another life.
I’m tired of wishing things to be okay when I knew they wouldn’t be. I wanted to let go of the nonexistent love inside my flashbacks and wishes.
Why do I keep holding on to smoke and mirrors?
When what I wanted was a love that exists in the here and now. I’m tired of immortalizing past glories and chasing future ones.
“Maybe, it’s good to put things in perspective, but sometimes I think that the only perspective is to really be there.”
I want to be here. To be there for me.
The love that lets me be me.
Sometimes, to let go of a memory is to let go of the love inside it. At least of the love, I thought I was given. Because there might be no love to let go of. Other than a mere facade, I didn’t know myself and nobody knew me enough to love me.
They say it’s love. The way I used to silence myself when I should have spoken up is love. The way I hold back my tears and cry meekly at night is love. The way fear and anxiety live inside my veins is love. The highs and lows of my childhood, the messiness of my home — all of it is love.
So, I guess, it’s true. Love is everywhere, except for the empty shell that I was. Love is everywhere and all I wanted was to disappear.
Looking back, love is nowhere. Try as I might to string those happy memories and small acts of devotion, I knew I wasn’t loved in the ways I wanted to be. As their responsibility, I was taken care of. As an extension of their selves, I was needed. But, I just wasn’t loved.
Because love, or at least the love I think I deserve, is the kind of love that lets me breathe.
It’s that feeling of openness, glory, and stillness. The feeling of unshackling. And that feeling came when I realized I could be myself and that it was okay.
It’s freedom.
The love that lets solitude be.
In most movies, heroes walk out of an emotional disaster as if everything remains the same. For some reason, I felt they managed to stitch themselves whole again before the credits rolled.
In life, I realized I still need to survive hurtful words years after they’re said. In solitude, I was the one saying hurtful words to myself. I became bits and pieces of all the people who hurt me. I remind myself of my stupidity. I wallow in self-deprecating thoughts and it’s no wonder, I sleep to escape myself.
The realization that I gave myself the worst kind of love is a tragedy in and of itself. In the same breath, it’s also one of my most liberating thoughts.
Because it meant that I was the judge, jury, and executioner of my life. If I could give myself the worst kind of love, why can’t I change that and give myself the best ones?
It’s not going to be easy. I know there will be moments when I’ll spiral back into my anxious and self-deprecating habits. But, it’s in those moments when I need to hold and show compassion to myself.
I’m still working on myself and it will take a lot of time and I’ll be alone. But I already made peace with that reality.
At least, I know that even in the worst scenario where no one will love me, I can be my cheerleader, friend, and parent.
I know I’ll be okay on my own.
I’m open for any writing opportunities. Contact me at jeannemariequinanola4@gmail.com
