Divided

Love is such an ugly mess sometimes. Rather through happiness or pain, love either heals the sick or ruins the mind. It seems to have no in-between, but in reflection, love often ebbs and flows with various degrees of comfort and stability.

In my own life, love was never a comfortable thing. Growing up in a home where signs of outward affection were a bit taboo; you just assumed love was there. Rather through being provided a roof over your head and three-square meals, love had its own solemn form of display.

Growing up that way, I practiced what I was taught. Assuming what I did to provide was my sign of affection. But when hard times came and they did. You’re left with the aching inadequacies that you have failed. My adult children often reflect on their childhood that way. Yet each one is thriving in their own way, achieving goals I never obtained.

But this is about love, the vulnerability and faith of it. I see myself not torn, but divided by what I need from love. First, I see undying affection and gratitude, coming from a soul with nowhere to go. Then I see strength and independence, a free spirit that loves with no agenda other than being free. It can leave one in a vicarious situation, where understanding and acceptance are erased. Leaving you hanging by a thread, between desire and duty.