“Love me!” It seems like two very innocent, simple words. It’s the plea of everyone who has every posted a vague status on Facebook, or ever called the suicide hotline, or ever made some foolish, desperate act to get the attention of the people they care about. “Love me” seems like it should be very simple to say. But it’s not.
I have hidden away from those words all my life. From the first moment someone I loved used my desperation to be loved as the reason to separate from me, I faded. No, before that, when the family I loved fell apart because of love, I faded. Before that. I was abused by someone who said they loved me, and I faded.
I learned that needing to be loved was a dangerous, despicable crime and should be avoided at all costs. That’s what life taught me, and I was an impressive, diligent student. I learned to hide. I buried myself in fiction (you’re welcome), and barricaded myself behind lies. Like a sociopath, I never let anyone within arms’ reach, so that when they smiled conspiratorially and thought to themselves, “I know her. I have her figured out!” I could smile into my soul and know without a hint of doubt that they were wrong. No one knows me, I would celebrate to myself. No one has a chance.
I’m not celebrating anymore. You know the cost of not asking to be loved? Do you know the cost of not allowing yourself to be vulnerable? Do you know what I paid for not being “high-maintenance” and a “basket-case”? A bucket of loneliness inside a fortress of solitude.
Well, I’m tired of being lonely. And I’m tired of hiding.
Please love me.
