I wrote that nearly 18 months ago. 'The truth about love'. Seems a bit glib now. It was true, still is, in some ways. There are no lies in it. But the truth as it is now, is that it was based upon a false premise. I was not loved then, and I am certainly not loved now. This is a hard truth. I could soften it with mentions of The Blondies, my parents, friends who care, readers, etc., all of whom play their part in understanding and encouraging me. I cannot lie and pretend that this does not make my life richer and more enjoyable. But the truth remains: I was not loved.
I may have been told it twenty times a day 'loving you'. I may have received a text every few hours 'loving you'.I may have been assured of it in the way his world was nothing more than work and home, no friends, no outside interests, no distractions or complications. But I was not loved.
Cared about? Then, yes. My welfare was important. Consideration was given. Things that I did not request or require were done 'for me'. He would 'let' me do certain things I wanted to do, as long as I knew there would be a price to pay, a reckoning, in my own fashion. He was a good father to The Blondies on holidays, their interests and wants coinciding, allowing me the time and space I jealously, selfishly need in order to write. I cannot say he was wholly unsupportive in every way, because it would be unfair and untrue. But I was not loved.
Love shows itself in unexpected and unthought of ways. The ways in which I listed what love truly is are still true, still what I believe, still what I will shout from the rooftops (or just hammer out onto a laptop in Spain whilst The Blondies are out with Mum for half an hour). And for that reason, I know I was not loved.
Because with love comes care, consideration, compassion. Love cannot be love when it involves telling the world the other persons darkest secrets. Love was not love when after it is over, you repeatedly fail to do the right thing. Love was not love when you ignore the implications of your past behaviour. Love was not love when within weeks of the end of the relationship you move onto someone new, as you said you would.
Love was not love, for either of us. I did not love him either, by the end. I don't know when it stopped. Most likely, it ebbed away, a slow but pervasive drought of the delta of a love I once thought defined my life, the little channels of the same love that once spread so broadly, gradually being extinguished as each stream became a trickle before dying, unnoticed until it was too late. I too have my share of blame, and have apologised, felt remorse, tried to make amends. I have received nothing in return, only a freezing out by many, and certainly no apology from anyone. And that it how I know I was not loved.
I know I was not loved because I still care, yet receive no consideration. I was not loved, because I try to help, yet receive no assistance. I know I was not loved, because I cannot see myself ever allowing anyone close to me. And yet, I was replaced, overnight, without a backward glance, discarded. I am happy that he is happy, and that is what I wish for him. But lately I have realised that I was not loved, and I mourn the loss of my innocent belief that I was.
Love and I have many things in common, it would seem. Recherché, elusive, unfathomable. Annoying, difficult, impertinent. But love and I are strangers, it seems to me now. Because I am not, never was, and probably never will be, loved.