The Measure of Love

Last night I lay in bed feeling insecure about myself as I sometimes do when my brain feels like being ridiculous and my mouth feels like making me sound foolish and silly. In the darkness I confessed about growing up with the pressure to be the best, the family's only hope, about being called 'fat girl', about being told that females were at a disadvantage, and I was too short and not pretty enough and not smart enough - and come to think of it, if they thought I wasn't going to get anywhere because of my gender and height and lack of looks and brains, why in the heck did they want so much from me?

My parents were always pointing out people who were better than me and gave me reasons why I should be more like them - who I was was never quite good enough. One of my bedrooms walls back at home is plastered with awards and certificates and plaques, the shelf underneath lined with trophies and medals, but I was so unsure of my parents and myself that one day I had to ask, Are you proud of me? I grew up in a household with little affection and a definite lack of positive emotional expression. I never felt like they were really that proud of me because they never said it. I didn't grow up with unconditional love - at times it felt very conditional and every now and then, it felt like there was no love at all. To this day, my parents have never said I love you to each other or to me. But then again, neither have I.

Being in a serious long-term relationship with someone who provided all of that love and support that I lacked as a child and teenager did wonders for me, I'm sure. But when the relationship itself was thrown into question and eventually lost, so was everything else. I've spent the last half year reminding myself, learning about myself, asserting myself, trying to love myself. And sometimes it can get tricky, especially when you were taught for twenty one years to focus on your flaws.

I fear that at times, I get stuck in a rut of negativity. Sometimes it definitely happens, especially when it comes to examining myself or with my housemate. We have never really been on fantastic terms - she and I always did our own thing, on our own time and we could go for days without seeing each other. I complain about her a lot - how she drives me crazy because she moves my things without telling me, gets snarky with me for no reason, and when I wave and smile at her, she just looks at me, pauses and looks away. She is often rude to me and the people that I have over at my place. For long periods of time, I can do nothing but focus on how awful she is and how much I don't like her.

Last night, I lay there and as I thought about all the bad things about me and the world, I heard her boyfriend's car pull into the driveway. I heard the car door open and close. There were a few words exchanged, silence, perhaps a kiss. And then, her voice. A very clear, very simple and pure I love you. In that moment, I felt my heart soften, my entire body relax and the wrinkles in my brow disappear. A small smile danced across my lips. With three little words, the housemate that I've despised living with reminded me of a very simple but fundamental truth - There Is Love. Admist everything, all the badness, the petty disagreements, the arguing, the anger, the tears and heartbreak of the world, there is love. I wanted to go downstairs and just...look at her. I didn't want to hug her or say anything - I just wanted to look at her, in her eyes, and with just my expression, tell her that I knew. I knew she was good inside, that she may be mean to me, but she's not that way to everyone. She doesn't love me, but she loves someone else. And someone else loves her back.

Sometimes you can't hear it, and you can't see it and sometimes, maybe you can't even feel it. But know that it is there. Maybe the measure of Love, is Love of no measure at all. Last night...I knew. Me. I. Know. Love. Know. Love. Me. Know. Me. Love. Know. Love. Me. Love. Me.
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