It wasn’t love

Read a post from a friend just a moment ago – read plenty around the same subject these weeks – that brought me closer to an anxiety/panic attack than I’ve been for a long time.

“No. You never loved me. Not even a little. Love is meant to stop everything you did.” (somewhat paraphrased)

It hit really close to home. It made me think. Made me aware of my every breath, every blink of the eye, every heartbeat. It made me think.

I’ve questioned my own ability to love, to really feel and live my emotions. I’ve questioned how a person can do what he did, and if I’ll ever truly, deeply will trust someone close to me again. But I’ve never thought about his feelings for me…

I still have the “knowledge” etched in my brain that close family loves you – I don’t trust their love, I can’t really feel it, but of course that’s true, everybody knows that. Right?

But that can’t be true. Can it?

My friend’s correct; you don’t really love the ones you do this, or other shit, to. And if you still insist you do, your idea of love is too warped for this world.
How the hell can you destroy a person; their soul, the very core of their being; and still love them? It speaks about the opposite of love. It speaks of disregard, of your pleasure over their, our, my life!

I admire my friend, for their strenght and courage to be open about their past, their struggles and hopefully their recovery. I wish I had the courage to be completely open about mine, the strenght to perhaps confront him about it – but I don’t. I’m still more stuck in the damage it might cause those around me, than the damage it has and does cause me not to tell.

Most of all though, I think I wish it never happened. Or at least that I was still suppressing it. But it scares me to think about what kind of person I would be today without the background I have. Or just what kind of person (or mess really) I would be if I never recovered any memory of the abuse.

(And I think that’s the first time I’ve ever used the word abuse for it – but I guess it actually is a kind of abuse I’ve been through. Though I do not want to write more about that right now, because my heart gets stuck in my throat with that word.)

I guess he didn’t really love me. Not the way love is supposed to be, at least. But if he didn’t love me, what emotion made him act like he did? What emotions possessed him during those moments? What did he really feel for me? For his brother’s child?
Makes me wonder what he feels about me today, 20+ years later. Though I shouldn’t wonder about that. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is how I feel about him. And about me.

I have no clear idea about the first part of that. It’s muddled. Mixed. Complicated.

The second part I only get more and more sure about over time. And I like me, even most of my flaws.

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