Do you love me?

How can you tell that someone loves you? What does it feel like? I know what it feels like to feel love for someone else, but I’m not sure I am skilled at feeling it from others toward me. People say it. People do nice things sometimes (some people), but I’m not certain that feeling “loved” is something I’ve ever really been able to experience other than possibly for a fleeting moment or so. Like all of the other positive things, I am not able to hold onto it or remember/recall it when it’s not happening at that very moment. I’m not even completely sure I’ve ever felt it but I think I might have.

I am excellent, however, at feeling negative emotions from others toward me. I know what it feels like when someone is angry at you. I’m not even completely sure I fully comprehend that someone could be hurt by me, except for that intense phase when I snap out of one of my episodes. I know I’ve felt very ashamed at realizing I’ve hurt my boyfriend sometimes. Up until that short moment in time where that reality hits me (and then disappears), I have no concept that someone could be hurt by me. Why on earth would someone be hurt by anything I do? I’m nothing. I guess it’s hard for me to understand that other people may feel love for me the way I feel for them. Do they? I will never really know. I tend to think that people are just disloyal unemotional things that are only worried about themselves with no real care for anyone else, and like I am the only person the world with emotions, and ones that are too much to handle.

It’s the only thing I want: to feel loved. Not just a fleeting moment here or there. A moment that goes as quickly as it comes, leaving absolutely no trace of ever existing with no possibility of ever pulling it back to the surface whenever I need to experience it again.

Wow, this all makes so much sense now. If we can’t recall these experiences, no wonder we aren’t able to connect all of life’s events in order to create one cohesive whole that makes sense. No wonder I need to be reassured every 5 minutes that someone still loves me and isn’t leaving me, etc, because I can’t recall the last time they said it or showed it, in order to have it when I need it. I imagine others may pull up these good memories whenever they feel a little lonely and they may be once again reminded and filled with the love someone has for them. Not me. I try so hard to do this, but I can’t.

My life feels like that movie “50 First Dates”, except I have emotion amnesia. Each day, everything starts over. The relationship I’ve been in for the past x amount of time is brand new each morning, or each time my brain switches over, or each time we see each other. I need to re-meet the person. I need to re-evaluate them to ensure they are safe. I need to hear all over again that they want to be with me, they love me, they aren’t leaving. If I requested this information as many times as I actually need it, I can’t count how many times each day I’d be asking.

It’s not fair. I don’t know if I can handle it, or if anyone else really can either.


4 thoughts on “Do you love me?

  1. I struggle with assuming that my love object will change his mind and not love me every day that I am in a RS. Or, I will believe he loves me but that this will not prevent him from leaving me for some reason. It sucks to feel like that but it isn’t for no reason as many of us with BPD are attracted to emotionally unavailable men who will indeed act out our fears/traumas.

  2. Their eyes.
    I know it’s like that for me.
    The look in Liz’s eyes when I first wake up in the morning next to her in bed, or come to from a nap on the recliner. I have sleepy snots in my eyes, drool from the side of my mouth, and the first thing I usually see is the look that makes me grateful I woke up again.
    When she asks me what’s wrong, and I explain it to her, and it’s the same thing that’s been wrong for days or weeks or months or even years, and her eyes don’t start to glaze over.
    The look I can see when I loading up her walker or wheelchair in the back of the truck. The look that tells me it hurts her to have to do so much for her that she would rather not need done.
    The look when she’s trying to see deeper inside of me than her beautiful eyes can reach.
    The joy in her eyes watching me jumping up and down and screaming and shouting and laughing and crying after the final out of the World Series last year. She sat through the torture of seven or eight games of the post-season, actually asking me questions about the games as they went on.
    But when My Team took it all home… I could see in her eyes that she felt my joy.
    This past Monday when we heard the news. I couldn’t look at the television screen. I didn’t want to hear anything past the first four words. Then the two explosive words about the Sheriff’s first findings. The ugly recognition that Depression had won.
    Liz absolutely loved Robin, but she knew how much I both loved and revered him. Once my sobbing had subsided and I was retreating back into a numbed shock, I heard her tell me that she was so sorry for me, that she didn’t like to see me so upset.
    And when I looked back at her, I could tell that while there were tears for Robin, tears for her own loss, most of them were for me and the pain I was feeling.
    But day after day, during the best and the worst, to see the warmth coming from her eyes telling me “I get it”.
    Their eyes.

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