I must be an utter masochist. I should be wearing a mask. One would think when I told my first serious boyfriend I loved him for the first time and the response I get is pretty abysmal, I would not be a fool to reiterate the act again for a second... and third... and fourth time only to stand in awkward silence in continuous self-loathing for being such an idiot once again. I dated this person for over two years and he never told me he loved me, or anything good about me, for that matter. In the later years of my life, I realized my utter ignorance and stupidity of my emotions. I never really loved him at all. I couldn’t. I wanted to; maybe not because he was the right person, but because I liked what that word symbolized, it was something I have always wanted. It is something I have never known. Writing this seems like a sort of catharsis, finally digging the ditch to settle where my mind had wandered for so long.
I could never fully love a person who wished me to be someone different. Someone better, prettier, wittier, philosophical, intelligent, and analytical. It was he who sparked the insufferable insecurities that still ravage my brain, guts, and that special beating thing. I never loved him. I am a girl with fingers and toes worth of regrets. At times, I wish I had never spoken those words to someone who didn’t value me at all. I knew these things, deep, deep inside; and I said it anyway. Why?
I’m still waiting to understand.
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