I’ve never given love to receive it. As far back as I can remember, that feeling of being loved, encouraged me to love. I’ve always wanted to share my joy with the world around me, especially with those who lacked their own. It became nearly impossible for me to experience happiness when faced with the sadness of another. Our parents set our defaults to Compassion, and for better or worse, it has guided most of my life decisions.
Occasionally I will entertain the idea that my life would have unfolded in an exponentially more productive motion, had I been raised a less selfless person. Throughout my adulthood, friends and guides have told me that I need to “learn to be selfish”. And after many failures, I tried that approach a few times. It never stuck. It isn’t in my nature. It left me feeling unsatisfied, and at times, deplorable. I know selfish people. Too many, actually. They aren’t people I envy. If anything, they are usually recipients of my pity. To me, they are shadows of people. They’re missing the point of the human experience.
True.
Genuine.
Love.
People connect on all levels, from the most shallow surface, to the innermost core of our souls. We create relationships, support systems, and energy sources, that allow us the courage and the strength to move forward in times of debilitating circumstance, to share thoughts, ideas, and opinions that would have otherwise just festered and fizzled out in our unseen mind. We help each other grow, and learn, and laugh. It’s a give and take. For anything to last, and be successful, it has to be a two-way street. You have to be able to give back what you receive.
I do. That’s who I am. For some reason, I always love with my whole heart. It’s difficult for me to merely like or dislike. My heart mostly deals in extremes. Love or hate. Feast or famine. Life or death. Laugh or cry. I’m not one for the in-betweens. And I have been very fortunate to love and be loved. Sometimes I feel it is more than I deserve. Sometimes I wonder if it’s less.
I know I love with a ferocity that cannot be matched.
That I have come to accept.
My real issue runs deeper.
At some point in time..
I
stopped
feeling
love.
I feel the love that I give.
And I know that I am loved.
But, for many years now, I have not been able to feel the love I receive.
I’m not exactly sure when, or where, or why, or how this came to be.
There is some kind of disconnect.
I know it’s there, but hard as I try, I cannot feel it.
I house a perpetual loneliness.
Maybe it’s a defense mechanism.
Whenever I’ve needed saving, it was usually from myself.
Which is fine, but my concern is that I am no longer being true. I acknowledge the love I receive. I appreciate it. I am grateful for it. I just miss feeling it, especially knowing that I love less because of it.
I long for the days of idiotic bliss.
For the impenetrable cocoon love wraps you in.
For freedom.
