Love is Not a Weapon

Or at least it shouldn't be.

As children, we are told that it is patient, kind, does not envy, does not boast. And yet, in our adult years, we find that "love" rarely consists of all these things and instead presents itself as being spiteful, cruel, and proud. We become disillusioned, fortifying ourselves to withstand the most abject conditions of love and expecting less and less with each unsatisfying encounter. And from these seeds of discontent come the naysayers, bruised by fate as they condemn the notion of soulmates and a life unmarred by romantic dysfunction. And we, the paradoxically naive and weary, believe them because we see little proof of the contrary in our own secret and inharmonious romantic lives.

Perhaps the issue then is not the grumbling naysayers or even ourselves in our own silent misery. Perhaps it is love itself. Or rather, what we delude ourselves into believing is love in its truest form. This false version of love, gaudy and overly expressive in our youth, is what we latch on to, either because we have been conditioned to expect nothing better, or because we are unaware of the elements of its false nature.

Love does not shame or control or condemn-- it is free of judgement, scorn, and antipathy in both of its partners. Love does not force you-- either through obvious or subtle measures-- to stay at home, isolated and weak, when the rest of your friends are out and free to grasp at the threads of their own youth. Love does not look at your body with disdain, frowning against the shallow tickmarks and pinpricks of age and femininity as you struggle to defend yourself at your most vulnerable point. Love does not seek out weakness like a bloodhound or a mercenary, firing quiet and agonizing shots at you and your self-worth until you are reduced to nothingness or a malleable figurine to be rebuilt in someone else's misshapen image.

Love does not ask of you to compromise your dreams, your morals, or your identity and then offer nothing but the hollow justifications of romance in return. When it is not a malicious imitation, love does not allow you to sink beneath everything that you are and all that you thought you could become for the sake of one solitary person. No individual could possibly ever be your life or your world, at least not without leaving raw, unfulfilled gaps within the pieces of your now otherwise occupied existence. The stinging companions of "what if?" and "could I have?" are tormentors that no one else-- not even "him"-- will see or even seek to understand. Your life is and can only be your own, and it is impossible to expect that anyone who wishes to "become" your life has any intentions of allowing you to fully live it.

Love does not demand sex or money or favors before you are comfortable, and it does not rage against you when you find the rare, untainted shreds of courage left within you to refuse. Love does not ask more of you than you are truly able to give. It will challenge you and dance upon the limits of your compassion and trust, showing you gradually how to invest yourself in another. But it does not push you callously over the edge without warning or remorse, comparing you to previous girlfriends and making empty but terrifying threats to leave and take your life with it. And it will take your life, because no one or no thing is truly able to become you without taking full possession of it.

Love is a pleasant addition to an already happy and full life. It does not "complete" you, "fix" you, or bring you to some higher level of human consciousness. Only you can do that. The visible expressions of love, ultimately, reside within another human being who, like love itself, has no authority or God-given right to rule over an individual or make life choices for another person. The people we love (family excluded) come and go, drifting throughout the avenues of our lives in small, insignificant waves. It does not define you, nor does it establish the trajectory of your life. As comfort, know that love, when it is wrong, is only temporary, a meaningless and accidental streak in the larger masterpiece of your life. But you, your life, is forever and eternal, entirely dependent upon your own independent judgement.


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