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.