What is love, anyway?

In the wake of another break-up, I have been thinking deep thoughts about the nature of love. I am indeed one of those women who believed oh-so strongly that I could help fix your inability to love if you’d just let me. Wrong, several times.

What I’m finally figuring out is that my loving you is about me, not you. So often I would use “I love you” as some sort of persuasive argument, as if my feelings about you should effect (affect? This is the one that messes with me) some reaction on your part. “I love you” was supposed to convince you that you should see it my way.

Other times, “I love you” was a call waiting for its response. Your cue to say you love me too. What I’m starting to understand is that saying “I love you” is more like saying “I love this song.” I am reporting my state of being in reference to a particular object. You may be moved to follow up with “I love it too” or “Really? I can’t stand it” but it’s possible you may not have any reaction beyond acknowledging that a statement was made.

My love for you is about me. It’s about what I want for you, what I’m willing to do for you, and how I plan to treat you. One thing it can never be about is control. I can not make you respond to me the way I want you to no matter how hard I love you. I have to let you be you because I love you, not in spite of it.

I know far too well that the love others have felt for me did not change me. Sometimes I have been motivated to be a better me because someone loved me, but only if I happened to love them back. I know there have been men in my life who felt that they could love me enough for both of us and I know I walked away from all of them. Why would it be any different just because I’m the one doing the loving?

There is still a part of me that feels like “I love you” is some sort of trump card I can play if and when necessary. I’m trying to reprogram myself to recognize that it’s really just me playing the dummy bridge partner and laying down my hand.

First thing in the morning is right out

It's amazing the difference a couple of hours can make.

I opened my email this morning (personal, of course, even though I was at work) and found five emails from one group of people about three things I needed to respond to and OMG. What the HELL, people? Angry me really doesn't even care about this and exhausted me is completely overwhelmed and somewhere from the back of my head sane me pipes up and suggests that I back away slowly from the email.

I spend the next few hours catching up on my web surfing, my caffeine, and my actual job for which they pay me to be here. I shopped a little, added my most recent paycheck to my checkbook balance, blah blah finances.

Interestingly enough, the next time I checked my email, there were a few almost reasonable requests, some of which I wouldn't even have to go ridiculously far out of my way to accommodate. I replied to each, even rambling on with some additional ideas of my own in one response.

I know that I am not a morning person. When I worked at the airport (pre-therapy, meds, and recovery), any attempt to speak to me before 10 AM was answered with a growl. This made the first 90 minutes of my coworkers' days oh so pleasant, I'm sure. These days (in addition to not having to be at work until 9:30 if it's really that bad) I can generally manage pleasantries and smiles (however painted on) first thing.

Sometimes, on the weekends or days when I don't have to go anywhere? I wake up and get out of bed BEFORE 8.

And yet, there are some things that are better suited to certain times of day than others. Clearly, my taking-stock-of-the-world-and-my-responsibilities-in-it time is not the morning.

Crazy person, know thyself. It is for the greater good of all of us.