It’s tough being the one who loves the most.
I love so much that it makes me feel ill. I almost don’t even want to get into it, because it’s somehow so depressing when it should be exhilarating. Sometimes, I think when my meds are all kicking in correctly and seratonin is spraying around my brain just like it should, I do find it exhilarating. But other times, being the one who loves the most is just exhausting.
Now that I know what love is, I can’t ignore it. It’s like when you’ve never heard the word “mellifluous” before, and then you learn it, and it seems like all of a sudden it is EVERYwhere. Yes, I feel so lucky that I have someone so worthy of my love in my life, but it makes me feel dependent. The idea that one day, one way or the other, he won’t be around fills me with a dark, sick, cold feeling. It’s like a math equation: Does the ultimate loss (well, one step below ultimate, I guess…the ultimate loss would be the loss of my child) weigh more than the lack of having him in my life at all?
And “in my life” means “in this capacity,” by the way. “In my life as a friend” sounds terrible.
When I feel like he loves me, everything seems beautiful, every food I eat tastes great, and every sound is mellifluous. Requited love is like that—and my love is requited, but sometimes my brain tells me it’s not.
Depression is a real bitch like that! Your brain is literally working against your brain. It’s the most illogical and stupid disease, and the worst part is that nobody gives a shit. Your brain just invisibly refuses to produce certain chemicals, and as a result, you make sweeping ultra-negative statements like “Nobody gives a shit."
Anyway. Love is the scariest thing I’ve ever had to deal with, and I have a hard time relating to that guy from Invasion of the Body Snatchers who flat-out WILL NOT become a pod person—an exact replica of himself who just doesn’t feel emotions. Why? Because running around feeling your heart constrict with terror until it was a tiny mouse made of stone, twitching in the corner of your chest...that feels better than being a pod person, with their wonderful serene smiles and their inability to have their hearts broken?
If I’d been driving along worrying about whether I could survive the eventual loss of this new love in my chest, and that guy had smacked the hood of my car and yelled “YOU’RE NEXT” to me, and assuming I understood that “next” meant “next to become a pod person with no feelings,” I would have jumped out of that car and kissed him square on the mouth. With feeling.