My Love is For Me
I’ve been called selfish more than a handful of times in my life. And I have to ask: when have I been selfish? I’ve been placed into a caregiver role since I was extremely young, when I was assumed to be a woman (I’m non-binary), and even afterwards as I became a mentor and leader towards LGBTQ+ youth.
In my formative years, I was instructed by those outside my family not to act as a co-parent for my younger brother; I would babysit overnight for my nieces whose clothes hadn’t been washed for weeks, with matted hair, and all other classic signs of neglect. I went into multiple long-term relationships where I convinced myself I needed to work for their love, not the other way around.
It’s hard not to care. It’s hard not to fall in love with taking care of people. Plenty dedicate their lives to it - usually in a way with stricter boundaries than tying your life’s value to being helpful, and useful (rooted in trauma). Before I learned how to communicate my needs, I learned how to sacrifice pieces of myself for the sake of others.
Even though I’m neurodivergent, I can read a room like wading through water - a silent, mental echolocation as I orient myself to my surroundings and adapt to those I’m around. I’m hypersensitive to others’ needs, bending to the wills of co-workers, friends, family, you name it.
And yet, when I take a step back to look at the bigger picture, asking myself, How did my life get this way? I am called selfish. Why is our society structured this way, where our worth is tied to productivity? I know why. No matter how many times I ask myself this question, the world never changes. But I can change how I view myself and I can deem myself worthy.
There’s a phrase I’ve heard a lot over the past year or so. “You can’t pour from an empty cup.” And I understand the meaning here. We need to replenish ourselves before we can offer anything to someone else. See the cycle here? Focus on ourselves only for enough time to focus on everyone else. It’s self-destructive. It’s self-damaging. It’s self-harm.
Maybe being told I am selfish is another word for cold. Unaffected. I’ve known I was asexual for a long time, and that’s normally the response I get from people when I tell them. Even my philosophy on romantic love has changed a lot lately.
Sometimes I feel like particular individuals, who are a microcosm of worldviews they grew up with, want more from me than I can give. They want a kind of love, relationship, or ownership over aspects of my life that I shouldn’t give. And what I have to say to those people, in the kindest and most generous way possible, is that my love is enough for me.
My love is the replenishment I need. My love is sometimes solitude, and sometimes surrounded by others. My love gives back, and my love gives back to me. My love forgives me for my poor choices, giving me the strength to learn from my mistakes and move forward with my life. My love heals my trauma like gold fillings on the cracked vase of my life.
I often envied when characters in TV shows (which is what I considered “true” about capturing human connections) knew each other so well they could analyze each other in an instant. I envied when characters made beautiful monologues that cracked their lives and guts open and revealed everything. In those shows, most characters are motivated by a romantic relationship which acts as a compass showing them the way forward.
My love does this, for myself. My love anticipates what I need, and catches me when I fall. My love makes me sleep, and eat, and reminds me to drink water because my throat gets dry. My love reminds me to laugh, and forces me to cry. I expunge the energy and all the feelings that make my heart ache. My love is a safe harbour that invites others in, but it is made for me first.
I am trying so hard to love myself, and that means more to me than societal expectations. Maybe that’s seen as selfish, and cold, and unemotional. And that’s okay.
Because my love is enough.
