4:42 a.m. Questions

How exactly are we supposed to know that we’re falling in love? I’m serious. The word “love” is thrown around so often it’s nearly meaningless. I mean, admit it, everybody has said “I love you” at least once and not exactly meant it. Whether it was to a significant other you weren’t serious about, or a person you were attempting to show gratitude towards, so you exclaim, “I love you!” in order to express that you appreciated what they had done. This gives everybody such a warped definition of love, and leaves many confused as to what it truly feels like to be in love. How do we know that we are in love? Is love when you know exactly what the boy you’re crazy about smirks a little and you know exactly what he’s thinking? Is love when you mend so well with somebody that you just can’t get enough of them? Is love the memories you think of when you can’t sleep of an individual you haven’t spoken to in a year and a half? Is it possible to love somebody who doesn’t love you? Once upon a time, I truly believed that love did not exist. That is, until I met somebody who may or may not have changed my mind.

I thought I was in love, and maybe I was. This kind of love didn’t feel beautiful or weightless or anything I imagined it to be. This kind of “love” made me constantly strive to be the person that my significant other wanted, no matter how much it made me hate who I was becoming. I constantly felt insecure and not good enough for the individual I “loved”. I was a vulnerable person, who hated who I was becoming, but I refused to stop because I was too caught up in seeking approval from this individual. However, it simply wasn’t enough, and Jesus Christ, when he left I fell apart. Everything I had done with myself, forming myself into a weak, vulnerable, and dependent person was seemingly for nothing. He didn’t even blink an eye at my life falling into ruins. He turned, he left, and he never came back. For months and months I wallowed in my own, drowning thoughts. I thought to myself, “How could he leave me like this if he loved me like he said he did?”, and soon I found that he never loved me. It was a hard pill to swallow, and it’s been a difficult journey attempting to grow from it. When I was a child and I asked my mother what love is, she responded with, “Love is when they leave and you cant live without them”. My scenario correlated slightly, because for a year and a half after he left I was not living, I was simply existing, drifting through life. So was I in love, or was I just a weak person? I don’t know which answer is more dreadful to hear.

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