There is no Such thing as Unconditional Love
There’s no such thing as unconditional love. Yes my love had conditions. Let me tell you the conditions that I place on my love…my love that is too beautiful to be thrown back up in my face.
I would love you, if you were always your beautiful brilliant self.
Didn’t I tell you, you were like the sunshine, sometimes? A starburst, you won my heart with that piece of you.
But it rises and sets, just like the sun. And then there is night.
I would love you if you weren’t so bi-polar.
That switchy-changy moodiness, that darkness, that anger, that jutted jaw, that suppressed rage, that sound and fury. It never leaves you. No matter how much “work” you do. No matter how many courses in miracles you study. Round and round with you, it’s always the same cycles.
I would love you if you were a better wife and mother. If you could get your June Cleaver on, be nurturing, patient, doting and kind, giving of yourself relentlessly, without question, without expectations, giving until there was nothing left to give and you died, giving full homage to me. I would love you then for sure.
I would love you if you weren’t always so paranoid. You with your conspiracy theories, thinking that the world is conspiring against you. You with your talk of “just because I’m paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get me.” You with your view through a lens darkly, constantly imagining a dark world where you point and accuse and seek to hold accountable. Always pursuing some kind of justice, in a world where there is no justice. You get angry when I say such things to you; and you say that I don’t understand you at all. But oh, I do. I just don’t agree with you. I see the world differently.
I’d love you if you stopped telling the truth, your truth anyway. How many times have I told you no one wants to hear your truth, and certainly not the way you say it. Every tool isn’t a hammer. Why is this so hard for you to understand? You never get it. You just keep hammering through.
It’s just too much to take, trying to deal with you and your swords and your fangs and your hammers. It’s tragic that you are so damaged in this way; but I am not, so…
Think of me. Maybe I, like you, want some stability. Not everything being so unpredictable. Warm like the sun one moment, hot and hell fire the next…and there is a darkness, a resistance a withholding…
I could love you if you were one of those things maybe, but you are all if them. Who can love all of that? Who would want to?
You showed me how you crack, under the pressure. You crack and split…and you’re no June Cleaver when the going gets really tough, the darkness in you, always spills out and infects that which needs to heal.
The price is too high. It’s what I have decided.
I loved you best when you kept that wheel turning endlessly, so angled and tied up in other things, so focused on that transparent, dangling carrot, that ever elusive kudo, and there was no time for dark explosions.
I told you, no I implied, I’d really love your when the sex was great. I promised we’d reach the pinnacle of intimacy together, and everything would be so great. I’d love you the best then, and I did.
But you…you’re so clever sometimes…it was at that same time that you decided to make your great escape and the sex, so great and the intimacy, so profound, was shattered by your own curiosity. Your quest to explore new and exciting places. You wanted to flex, explore you new found power.
Someone got scared. Was it you? Was it me? Maybe it was the both of us. I decided that I was bored with it, and with you, and that it wasn’t enough after all; and that there was really no real connection, either. Nope not really. Yes I do realize all the work we put into it together, developing that connection, together.
You thought we finally had something that was ours. I did too. Certainly, it felt good and fun and powerful even…but no. It wasn’t enough. It’s never enough for me. I am always reaching…it’s only fair that you too should be always reaching.
I decided that there was no real connection there and that you don’t understand me. You just don’t get me, Nope. Not at all.
No! No, that’s not it. That’s not what I said! Why don’t you listen! Why must you make up things? Why are you such a liar? Why do you keep going all the way around the barn? What do you say to them about me behind me back. You fucking liar! You treacherous backstabber!
I’d love you if you would simply listen to the words I say exactly as I say them and repeat them back to me verbatim. Listen exactly to what I tell you, and do not question the words, or the subtext or context around them. Do not go all around the barn. Do not think for yourself. Not when it comes to me, or anything that I say to you, never that. You always get it so wrong. Stop it.
I love you when just sit in the box; and no it’s not a cage, and if it is it’s a very nice one, you made sure of that, demanding $1400 stoves and such.
Well. At least you do cook now, just like June Cleaver.
Would you just sit in the box? Why won’t you just sit and stay quiet in your fancy box? Don’t you dare leave it without permission, and when you do, watch what you say and watch what you do, and you make sure that it doesn’t come back on me and mine, you wild, wild child, you. You’re trouble. I always knew it and fucked with you anyway. In a way I brought this on myself. What was I thinking? I don’t even know. Thinking with my dick probably. I didn’t think it through.
I loved you when you understood, subconsciously, that you were my possession. When you knew the limits, without really knowing them, like a puppy trapped behind one of those invisible fences. I loved you best when you were possessed, without actually knowing of the possession.
You belonged to me. Don’t you understand that this is how it works? No, you never understood, never accepted that this was how it works. You had to be tricked into compliance…the problem is you are far too clever. You figured it out. Then, all of the fun went out of the game; and I just don’t feel the same.
Now that you are insisting on total freedom. I just don’t feel the same.
I cease to love you when certain conditions are not being met, and you know these conditions, know them well. That invisible fence is in your sight line now, some smart ass showed it to you. Fuck them. You’ve even talked openly about the fence, taking it down and roaming free. You’ve talked of other things too. Things that require I take a real hard look at me, and not just a real hard look at you.
But honestly? That doesn’t work for me. I refuse to entertain it…and now you’re beginning to wonder if I ever loved you at all.
I did. I do, but it’s complicated. And you complain about these conditions, these barely perceptible conditions, that you always sensed and could never quite name or put a finger on. This didn’t mean that you were totally unaware, but now you see for sure.
And…that which is seen can never be unseen…and yet, I love you still. I do.
It’s all so murky and gray and confusing. Sometimes I confuse myself. But I just want to state, for the record, all love has conditions.
Yes even yours, you know it’s true, even your love, that you’d like to claim is so wild and free and constant, like the air, has its conditions.
As it should.
There’s no such thing as unconditional love.