“Never ever wanting to feel that again is what makes you push it away.” -Antonique Smith
How have you pushed love away?
By Calisi Love
Oh the treachery of pushing love away. I shudder when I think back.
I could understand when people said that. The “I’m not ready for my heart was broken.” Meeting new, interesting, often incredible people and turning away for the fear of hurt. Or just turning away from the people in my life who loved (and love!) me for the only love I wanted was his. I understood those sentiments. But my treachery was far, far more destructive.
I remember every one of those times my heart was broken. The agony of having my heart shattered into a thousand pieces, feeling I will not survive another minute. Amazed that there were still tears in me for I shed oceans into the pillow. Knowing in my brilliant mind that nothing was actually physically broken, knowing logically that one doesn’t die of a broken heart yet what is medicine & science, what is logic when the pain is nowhere and everywhere.
I called friends to cancel plans. “Hey girl, sorry I can’t make it…” Two short sentences into the message, I lost it. “D-aaa-n … broke …up….with….meeeeeee. That cry that comes from the depth of your soul where you can’t speak, just desperately gasping for air. Some voicemail. She called back. The sentence still rings in my ears. “I thought someone died.” Hm, didn’t someone die? I felt I did. A piece of me for sure.
But you see, the treachery of me is far more destructive. Because I have never pushed love away. Not in the self protective mode. Oh no. Unbeknownst to me, I was totally, completely addicted to the pain of love.
Blame childhood for that. Blame the not one, but two evil men who committed the gravest of sins. Claiming it was love. Love hurt. Only painful love was what I was seeking. Only the validation that I was in fact unlovable is what I needed. And so I would fall hard. Not every time. I had standards. ☺ I had a cycle. Go on having fun, dating, liking, desiring, playing, loving life. And just when things were good and happy, I’d find him. Fall deeply, madly in love. And then just wait, patiently, for the blow. The agony of having my heart shattered into a thousand pieces, feeling I will not survive another minute. Feeling a piece of me died. I relished in that misery. It was my addiction. I wasn’t addicted to love, I was craving the pain. It validated the deepest lie I have carried within me for 36 years – that I was unlovable. Not in the way I wanted to be loved, not in the way I saw in the movies and read in novels. Oh no, my love was pain. Inseparable. A constant shadow. The pain is what I knew, it was my normal. And so, like the most efficient of addicts, I would push love away so I could get my fix.