When I was 18, I thought I fell in love. I had known him for five years previous, and finally when he stopped looking past me and gave me the chance (six glorious months until he left me for someone else), I was head over heels; or so I thought. Looking back, I realize that I was more in love with the idea of what love was, than the actual person in front of me. Did I love him as a friend? Of course. I love so many people around me, friends, family, coworkers, but as I’ve gotten older I have thankfully been able to separate the many different kinds of love, and make the distinction between them.
When I was 20, I loved someone again, except this was very much so a day-by-day kind of development you could say. I loved this person for all of their little quirks, and the way he made me so angry just by being himself, and how well he knew me, what buttons to push. I loved him for what kind of person I became around him because I was happy and carefree, which is probably something most people already think I am but I was downright giddy around him. He took my mind off of a lot of things, and I loved him so much just for his personality.
Deep down, I knew that he would become very much so, a best friend, maybe a little more (he did for a split second). And ever since that day, I’ve been able to look for those amazing qualities I could learn to love in other people; adventurous, a little sarcastic, seemingly an asshole, but deep down very sweet.
Finally, last year, I loved someone without wanting to. And that is the absolute worst kind of love. They sneak up on you when you least expect it, you find yourself finally not pushing away, and having a hard time breathing when they enter the room. You fall into their world, their very deep blue eyes (I could have drowned in those), and temporarily forget reality for a while. All you can think is, “When will the next time I see them?” I gave everything to this person, and unfortunately that was all he wanted, was everything from me, but not actually me, leaving me with nothing.
And so here I sit today, still thinking about the one I wanted to love, and the one I never expected or wanted to love and ended up doing so anyways.
It’s said that love can be confused with infatuation, and that there is a certain time frame for it to happen, but for me it has never been about that. I think it’s unfair when people judge one another for loving someone based off of circumstance or the amount of time they’ve been together. For me, these were two very different kinds of loves, but the heartbreak was and still is just as equally awful. The second worst part next to heartbreak is getting over it. For me, it’s the same kind of grief you experience as when a relative or loved one dies.
You can love people in a million different ways for any length of time. You can try your hardest to show them how much you care, or how little when you want them to be hurt as badly as you do, you can even try and forget them. But at the end of the day, no matter how long it lasted, who it was, when, the pain you feel will always feel the same; that numbness where you can’t cry, but you also can’t be angry, and when you’re happy you’re laughing and suddenly stop, feeling that chill come over you again. Nighttime being the hardest, when you’re left alone to lay in bed and try to blink away memories of you and that person.
You might feel stupid for feeling this way, and even frustrated because you know others are sick of hearing about it, but please remember this: you loved them, and no matter who it was for how long, you’re still hurt, and it’s justified.