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Learning how to say those three little words
I've been told that you should always say the words "I love you" to people you care about every chance you get. I've been told that you should mean it when you say it. I've been told that you should learn how to love and never regret anything. You want to know what I think? I think everything I've been ever told is coddswallop. I've had the opportunity to be totally humiliated every time I said those three fucking words.
***
I was eight years old when I first said "I love you" to someone. He was my classmate and my first crush. He used to pull my braids when I walked past him. Thinking that it was a form of courtship, I then professed my undying love for him. To which, he replied with a resounding "Eewww!" He then told everyone that I was in love with him. I could have killed him but I chose to be shamed. You'd think that I'd learn my lesson, right?
Yeah, right.
***
You never think you're pretty when you're an adolescent. Never. You seem to have a constant battle with hair in the most inappropriate places. It seems that no matter how fast you shave or pluck them, they just grow back faster. It was just a very awkward stage. (I think I never really outgrew that stage. My ugly ducking phase is still here, 30 years and counting) Yet, Chris thought that I was pretty and cute.
He was my first boyfriend. Given the past experience, I was very hesitant to tell him how I feel. Idiot that I was, I threw caution to the wind and decided to tell him. I was relieved when he smiled and told me that he loved me too. The next day, he broke up with me. He decided that we were too young for love and that we should be enjoying our youth.
Fucker.
***
Being 21 and jaded is never really a good combination. I lost faith in men and in love. Love was nothing but an emotion that would get you into trouble - lots of it. Love was something that needed to be overcome. Love was a disease. I never wanted to be in love. I hated love. The slightest provocation that love might rear its ugly head induced panic attacks and was quickly taken care of by an escape and cynicism.
Love did come, in the form of a beautiful French man. He wooed me, pursued me, courted me and stalked me. He kept on asking me on a date which I always turned down: politely at first and it quickly progressed to rudeness. He never stopped, probably enthralled by the challenge; probably because it was his nature; probably because he was a masochist. I relented and found myself charmed by this man.
A date turned into a multitude of dates until we were "dating". We dated for a year and a half. For a year and a half, we would say we miss each other, that we were fond of each other and that we enjoy each other's company. When the time came that I felt I was falling in love, I broke up with him. He of course, went mad.
"Why are you breaking up with me? What have I done wrong?"
"You didn't do anything..."
"Save me the it's-not-you-it's-me speech because I'm not buying it."
"I just think that we need to have space."
"Do you want to see other people? That can be arranged"
"I don't want to see other people!"
"Then what do you want?"
"...I don't know... Maybe I just want you to tell me how much I mean to you."
"Do you want me to tell you I love you? Because I do, I love you!"
It was said in a fit of anger. He told me he loved me because he thought it was a solution to our argument, that it was an answer to a problem presented.
***
I was eight years old when I first said "I love you" to someone. He was my classmate and my first crush. He used to pull my braids when I walked past him. Thinking that it was a form of courtship, I then professed my undying love for him. To which, he replied with a resounding "Eewww!" He then told everyone that I was in love with him. I could have killed him but I chose to be shamed. You'd think that I'd learn my lesson, right?
Yeah, right.
***
You never think you're pretty when you're an adolescent. Never. You seem to have a constant battle with hair in the most inappropriate places. It seems that no matter how fast you shave or pluck them, they just grow back faster. It was just a very awkward stage. (I think I never really outgrew that stage. My ugly ducking phase is still here, 30 years and counting) Yet, Chris thought that I was pretty and cute.
He was my first boyfriend. Given the past experience, I was very hesitant to tell him how I feel. Idiot that I was, I threw caution to the wind and decided to tell him. I was relieved when he smiled and told me that he loved me too. The next day, he broke up with me. He decided that we were too young for love and that we should be enjoying our youth.
Fucker.
***
Being 21 and jaded is never really a good combination. I lost faith in men and in love. Love was nothing but an emotion that would get you into trouble - lots of it. Love was something that needed to be overcome. Love was a disease. I never wanted to be in love. I hated love. The slightest provocation that love might rear its ugly head induced panic attacks and was quickly taken care of by an escape and cynicism.
Love did come, in the form of a beautiful French man. He wooed me, pursued me, courted me and stalked me. He kept on asking me on a date which I always turned down: politely at first and it quickly progressed to rudeness. He never stopped, probably enthralled by the challenge; probably because it was his nature; probably because he was a masochist. I relented and found myself charmed by this man.
A date turned into a multitude of dates until we were "dating". We dated for a year and a half. For a year and a half, we would say we miss each other, that we were fond of each other and that we enjoy each other's company. When the time came that I felt I was falling in love, I broke up with him. He of course, went mad.
"Why are you breaking up with me? What have I done wrong?"
"You didn't do anything..."
"Save me the it's-not-you-it's-me speech because I'm not buying it."
"I just think that we need to have space."
"Do you want to see other people? That can be arranged"
"I don't want to see other people!"
"Then what do you want?"
"...I don't know... Maybe I just want you to tell me how much I mean to you."
"Do you want me to tell you I love you? Because I do, I love you!"
It was said in a fit of anger. He told me he loved me because he thought it was a solution to our argument, that it was an answer to a problem presented.
A year and half of dating and we never said I love you to each other. I didn't want to say it because I was afraid I'd lose him and now I'm losing him because we never said it. Now, he said it but not the way I want him to. I wanted to hear it, but not like this.
We broke up, amicably of course, six months after that fight, but broken up, nonetheless. Somehow, the “I love you” said was not worth it. He never said I love you to me and I never said it to him.
***
I decided to fuck everything I believed in. I was going to say I love you when I feel like it and the person can take it or throw it. I was going to say it because I wanted to say it. Never mind the outcome; I'll take care of that later.
I gambled and the risk paid off. He loved me back. He told me he loved me and it was honest, raw and real. This was love, real love - the kind of love that lasts forever.
I love you, panget.
