I have no idea what love is to most people. I have no idea what love is supposed to be. I have no idea what a healthy relationship should look like. I have no idea what society considers “normal” in terms of falling in love, being in love, and acting on that. I have no fucking idea. And, you know, I guess I don’t really care anymore.
I am me.
More and more I’m coming to understand who that is. Through group therapy, one on one therapy, supportive friends, writing, living, reflection—I’ve begun to find out who I am underneath all the protective coverings and drawn curtains and stained, twisted sheets. I’ve started to see myself—my true self—hiding somewhere behind my lungs maybe—some unreachable center in me.
I have an intensity inside of me that can be destructive as hell, but can also cut me wide open so that I feel sadness and joy and freedom and empathy and love like fucking stars burning out and the sun captured inside every living thing.
That’s how it feels—in every artery pumping blood through my body.
But love, right? Love.
Maybe what I’m feeling isn’t love at all. Maybe it’s lust or infatuation or addiction or obsession. Maybe it’s all those things.
But, to me, it’s love. I experience it as love. I experience it like being lifted high up above the ever thinning atmosphere. I experience it like having my chest crushed in, my bones splintering, stomach acid eating through the lining.
Is that love?
Who’s to say? I mean, who can even define love anyway? It’s such a completely abstract concept—and so totally subjective.
So that is love for me.
Entangled with my lover, our legs entwined, skin against skin, gripping our hands together—lying like that, I couldn’t help but cry silently to myself. The tears came on me and I couldn’t stop them. I didn’t want to. The intensity of my emotions are apart of who I am.
I was crying out of sadness for everything that’s come before.
I was crying out of gratitude for surviving—for having my life today.
I was crying because I felt such overwhelming, penetrating love for her.
But go ahead and tell me it’s not love.
Tell me what love is.
Tell me what God is.
Tell me how the world formed and why.
Tell me how things should be.
Tell me how I should be.
Tell me how they should be.
One friend of mine needs to wear diapers while getting fucked in order to get off.
One friend of mine signed a contract with her husband that he completely owned her and could use her body any way he wanted. Mostly he’s into inflicting pain. Mostly she’s in to receiving it. She has a piercing between her legs with a lock that closes her shut. Her husband holds the only key.
One friend of mine can only cum if she’s touched or gone down on.
One friend of mine can only cum if you find a certain place inside.
One friend of mine only falls for older women.
One friend of mine only falls for younger boys.
Friends of mine are gay.
Friends of mine are straight.
Friends of mine are bi.
Friends of mine can never make commitments.
Friends of mine always fall in love.
So who’s right?
And who’s wrong?
Who’s sick?
And who’s well?
If nothing else, after everything I’ve been for, I can honestly say that I’ve learned to have compassion for every point of view, every kink, every attempt at finding happiness, or peace, or whatever.
I mean, who am I to judge?
Who are any of us to judge?
So long as no one is getting hurt or violated against their will, what the fuck do I care what love and satisfaction is for them?
All our stories, all our pasts, all or different genetic make-ups, all these things just add to the beautiful insanity that is our dysfunctional humanity. We all hold universes inside of us. We are all so intricate and complex. There are no concrete emotional truths. Feelings are entirely individual. That’s why they are so totally amazing.
Imagine a world where we could give up our judgments of other people—our strange desire to want everyone to be like ourselves. What’s true for you is not necessarily true for you. Your values are right for you, but they’re not necessarily right for me.
I was reading The Onion newspaper the other day. One of the headlines was something like, “Half of the population who you’d never even talk to is voting for someone else.” I mean, it’s kind of true. Our country is divided into two very distinct political ideologies. Nothing one side can say will ever change the other people’s minds. Each one thinks the other is totally fucking crazy.
Which one is right?
I think I know, but that’s just me.
And who am I to give anything but my opinion, while I respect the different opinions and decisions of the people around me.
Besides, our differences are just about the only thing that keeps this whole living thing interesting.
Maybe that’s why discovering who I am is so important—and why I need to come to accept and honor what makes me what I am—devastating faults, confusion and all.
My love is my love.
Your love is yours.
And I got no problem with that.
I am me.
More and more I’m coming to understand who that is. Through group therapy, one on one therapy, supportive friends, writing, living, reflection—I’ve begun to find out who I am underneath all the protective coverings and drawn curtains and stained, twisted sheets. I’ve started to see myself—my true self—hiding somewhere behind my lungs maybe—some unreachable center in me.
I have an intensity inside of me that can be destructive as hell, but can also cut me wide open so that I feel sadness and joy and freedom and empathy and love like fucking stars burning out and the sun captured inside every living thing.
That’s how it feels—in every artery pumping blood through my body.
But love, right? Love.
Maybe what I’m feeling isn’t love at all. Maybe it’s lust or infatuation or addiction or obsession. Maybe it’s all those things.
But, to me, it’s love. I experience it as love. I experience it like being lifted high up above the ever thinning atmosphere. I experience it like having my chest crushed in, my bones splintering, stomach acid eating through the lining.
Is that love?
Who’s to say? I mean, who can even define love anyway? It’s such a completely abstract concept—and so totally subjective.
So that is love for me.
Entangled with my lover, our legs entwined, skin against skin, gripping our hands together—lying like that, I couldn’t help but cry silently to myself. The tears came on me and I couldn’t stop them. I didn’t want to. The intensity of my emotions are apart of who I am.
I was crying out of sadness for everything that’s come before.
I was crying out of gratitude for surviving—for having my life today.
I was crying because I felt such overwhelming, penetrating love for her.
But go ahead and tell me it’s not love.
Tell me what love is.
Tell me what God is.
Tell me how the world formed and why.
Tell me how things should be.
Tell me how I should be.
Tell me how they should be.
One friend of mine needs to wear diapers while getting fucked in order to get off.
One friend of mine signed a contract with her husband that he completely owned her and could use her body any way he wanted. Mostly he’s into inflicting pain. Mostly she’s in to receiving it. She has a piercing between her legs with a lock that closes her shut. Her husband holds the only key.
One friend of mine can only cum if she’s touched or gone down on.
One friend of mine can only cum if you find a certain place inside.
One friend of mine only falls for older women.
One friend of mine only falls for younger boys.
Friends of mine are gay.
Friends of mine are straight.
Friends of mine are bi.
Friends of mine can never make commitments.
Friends of mine always fall in love.
So who’s right?
And who’s wrong?
Who’s sick?
And who’s well?
If nothing else, after everything I’ve been for, I can honestly say that I’ve learned to have compassion for every point of view, every kink, every attempt at finding happiness, or peace, or whatever.
I mean, who am I to judge?
Who are any of us to judge?
So long as no one is getting hurt or violated against their will, what the fuck do I care what love and satisfaction is for them?
All our stories, all our pasts, all or different genetic make-ups, all these things just add to the beautiful insanity that is our dysfunctional humanity. We all hold universes inside of us. We are all so intricate and complex. There are no concrete emotional truths. Feelings are entirely individual. That’s why they are so totally amazing.
Imagine a world where we could give up our judgments of other people—our strange desire to want everyone to be like ourselves. What’s true for you is not necessarily true for you. Your values are right for you, but they’re not necessarily right for me.
I was reading The Onion newspaper the other day. One of the headlines was something like, “Half of the population who you’d never even talk to is voting for someone else.” I mean, it’s kind of true. Our country is divided into two very distinct political ideologies. Nothing one side can say will ever change the other people’s minds. Each one thinks the other is totally fucking crazy.
Which one is right?
I think I know, but that’s just me.
And who am I to give anything but my opinion, while I respect the different opinions and decisions of the people around me.
Besides, our differences are just about the only thing that keeps this whole living thing interesting.
Maybe that’s why discovering who I am is so important—and why I need to come to accept and honor what makes me what I am—devastating faults, confusion and all.
My love is my love.
Your love is yours.
And I got no problem with that.
