I had a sudden realisation this morning that it was around this time five years ago that I met my abusive ex.
Just three months later, when he'd already moved in to my parents' house and was sharing my bed, I wrote an entry in my online journal about "love".
There are things we do for people that we love that they never know about, and to tell them would seem wrong and almost like we were looking for some kind of attention.
Like how I lose sleep because sleeping in a single bed really doesn't work with two grown adults for very long, and I know he has to get up for work earlier than I do, even though I know I need the sleep more and he'll only moan at me having ten minutes' lie in.
BTW, I just looked that up after remembering it earlier and I'd totally forgotten that I was already being subjected to "moaning at" for such simple pleasures as pressing the snooze button.
Anyway, I remembered this this morning because it totally horrified me that my former/younger self defined love in this self-sacrificing way. I remember writing the post, as well, and feeling it was all ~philosophical~ and wise and mature.
No, almost-19-year old self. That is not what love is. Love is doing nice things, for each other, without it being some big ~philosophical~ thing. Love is both of you doing this simultaneously, not one doing it for the other and not getting anything back, or only getting anything when it's perceived that there's something in it for the giver.
Love isn't about hurting yourself to make your lover happy. Anyone who really loved you wouldn't let you do that. And love isn't about spending every possible second together, either! Love is about finding solutions which suit both partners. Like sleeping in separate beds, sometimes.
