No more I Love You’s

“I am starting to tire of these memes and these standards. I am beginning to feel as though the stringent ‘enlightened’ perfectionism in what ‘relationship’ is supposed to look like and what love is supposed to look like is just as damaging as other dehumanizing expectations inherent in society. I look at these standards and I wonder where the hell the person is, and where the social environment comes into play. Who the fuck talks without intention? What even is that? If I wanted to approach life like an unattached non-structured ghost shell I would go be a fuckin monk in a vacuum where I might actually be able to accomplish reducing myself to that. Otherwise, I no longer see these ideals as attainable or even remotely empowering. I especially dislike these supposed values when they are placed in expectation upon women, who are historically supposed to somehow be whole people, but also be the empty containers of infinitely flexible nurturance for all of society. For whatever reasons and because of wherever I am at, this really rubbed me the wrong way.

And by ‘starting to tire’ I actually mean I am so fucking done.

Like seriously fuck this meme.” — Facebook

I’ve been contemplating my strengths lately.

Which is different from what I am usually doing, which is attempting to bolster and improve upon my deficiencies — enough so that I’d actually come to view the incessant practice of striving toward the improvement of my flaws as my core strength (it’s not).

You’d think, with how long and hard the road has been, and how many backslides I’ve experienced, that perhaps I wasn’t really designed for loving. And I’ve said/accepted as much, before, usually as a way to make myself feel like shit.

But funny, how I’ve not really come to terms with this objectively, in regards to what ‘love’ actually even MEANS.

When I am honest with myself, it is clear as day; To most anyone’s standards, including my own, I’ve never, ever ‘loved’ anyone. Not a single fucking person.

And yet, I’ve told people I loved them.

Whatever the hell that meant at the time…

And until now, I’d maintained that I had been in love, while also maintaining that I do not know how to love.

..Indeed.

I spent most of my young life putting up with shit from people who I knew didn’t meet my standards. Then I spent a chunk of my adult life markedly alone trying to calibrate my radar to detect even one person I could love with unconditional acceptance. So I could finally prove to myself and to all of you and to the people who’ve ditched me in my life for not being good enough that I had learned to ‘love’ the ‘right’ way, the enlightened selfless malleable accepting unattached spiritual perfection way everyone tells me, and themselves, is the correct way to do it.

Well, I am done with that horseshit. I’m done trying to do it your way.

My love is god damn fucking conditional. In fact, my love is downright fucking finicky. My love doesn’t look like the bosom of squishy motherly space making sacrifice that many people, including myself, seem to want love to look like.

My love doesn’t look like the fantasy love your mommy never gave you, and *it’s never fucking going to*.

My love looks like I give a fuck about you when generally I don’t bother with most people.

My love looks like I am intimately encouraging and engaged with you when I am not that for the rest of the fucking world.

My love looks like being invested in your growth.

My love looks like the truth when you wanna hear some kind of placating watered down bullshit.

My love looks like having your phone number saved in my phone for longer than a minute.

My love looks like dropping everything to help you when you’re fucked sideways or stranded somewhere.

My love looks like I actually reach out to you myself sometimes.

My love is for sale.

My love comes and goes, and at any point in time, you might be the direct recipient, or you might not.

My love doesn’t mean I set myself aside for you, or that my space is always your space. My love doesn’t mean I won’t swipe at you when you’re acting like a fucking asshat or playing out oppression dynamics on me. My love doesn’t mean I’m going to meld my everything with your everything and be attached to your hip. My love isn’t reserved to be focused in one way or in one direction. My love is a droplet of silkspun supermoon primordial spit trickling out of a unicorns cunt, not blasting like a fucking firehose 24/7 for your fucking convenience.

That’s what my love fucking looks like.

But in actuality, I’m also done with calling any of that ‘love’. Because that fucking word has caused me more interpersonal grief than any other word in our entire fucking language.

That word has been used against me to punish me for not loving right, completely enough, fast enough, long enough, for not doing what YOU wanted me to do.

That word is a fucking un-fileable non-entity with the weight of the entire fucking universe attached to it, and I ain’t got time for it.

I’ve used that word to project unrealistic and subconscious expectations on others. And myself. HOLY SHIT myself. I’ve used peoples inability to live up to my evershifting concept of that word as justification for punishing people who didn’t do things my way. And I have had the same done to me.

Aside from the impressive number of people who have used their ‘love’ for me as rationalization for doing shit like raping me, gaslighting me, lying to me, manipulating me, dumping me on my ass, stringing me along — or the impressive number of people for whom my ‘love’ has meant all of that and a sense of possession or resent-laden self sacrifice or both — when I say that word, there is an exceptionally high probability that whoever I am saying it to won’t actually know what the fuck I am talking about anyway.

They will instantly decide what my love means in a vacuum in their own heads. They will decide it means they’ve found a fantasy others never gave them or relate it in comparison to what other people who are nothing like me project love to look like and then punish themselves and me for not living the fuck up to it.

Hell, sometimes I don’t even know what the fuck I am talking about when I say it. Sometimes I say I love you to explain away, cop out, or to make my emotions or actions someone else’s problem to figure out. Cause ‘love’, a word that speaks of mental state, emotion, action, intention, and a whole clusterfuck of other intersecting ideals and performative concepts, is just something that’s supposed to be understood, somehow. Even though it doesn’t fucking MEAN anything concrete or directly referencable and it shows up differently in everyone.

And in my experience, even when the meanings behind ‘love’ are intentionally explored, that equates to fuckall in reality. Because all that unconscious heavy overrated fantasy crosscrossing shit that word holds uniquely for each person is engaged in their consciousness already, instantly, filtering, and selectively deciding how to fill in the rest.

So no more “I love you”s. No more of that lazy confusingass shit. I may not be great at ‘loving’ the right way but I AM great at expressing and articulating my emotions in terms that actually make fucking sense, mean something tangible, and don’t open a spring loaded door into my fucking face.

I need just one catchall word in my vocabulary, that can speak to a great many number of various things and bring me a constant stream of emphasis, expression and amusement. That glorious word, is fuck.

So that’s my current language exercise, now. No more “I love”. Instead, I am working on describing in detail, in words that illustrate actual things, what it is I actually mean.

Fuck ‘love’.



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