There are so many people writing about friendship lately, and not so much writing about what it is, but rather questioning it. I don’t think there is a question to friendship. It is what it is. ‘Nuff said. If you have to question it … well, there you go.
So this post is about something else … It’s about love.
There are many different types of love in the world … love for your mate, love for your family, love for your pets, love for your friends, love for your work, love for your new car, love for a comfy pair of jeans, etc.
Love … love … love … love.
It gets old saying it, doesn’t it? And it’s used so frivolously these days. Love doesn’t quite have the same meaning it once did.
I LOVED the movie Avatar!
I LOVED watching Phantom of the Opera!
The two don’t quite compare, do they? While both made me cry, one was at watching a character die, the other was the movement of the music combined with the stage combined with the actors portraying the characters and the standing ovation at the end. One was on an emotional level, yes. The other, I dare say, was on a spiritual level. Why? Because that’s what music does to me and to experience it live brings the feeling ten-fold. I’m certain I’d say the same about Avatar if I were standing on Pandora witnessing the entire story as it took place, and as much as I want Pandora to exist, it’s not right in front of me. However, the movie was probably one of the most incredible I’ve seen in a long time, and that’s why I chose it to compare with Phantom. When I say I love music, it’s not a random love-by. Music speaks to me in ways most people couldn’t possibly imagine, and I know this because I’ve met people who don’t truly “get” music. People who have no imagination, which still boggles the mind because I can’t imagine living without my imagination. I hear more than just a song. I hear every note, each nuance, words and sounds alike that tell a story so full of emotion that while listening to the words, you can hear it in the notes, and I feel it right to my very core. When I read a book, I hear the voices, see the settings, smell (if the author’s good) the surroundings. When I write a story, I see the movie in my head along with all the other crap I just laid out about reading. I think you get the point here.
Some people love their pets. My animals are a part of me; they’re my children, especially if I have a wolf. Ever have a wolf as a pet? Yeah, try telling me that’s just like having a dog and I’ll slap you upside the head … and then growl at you. I’ve lost a child, and I’ve lost several “children.” To me, there is no difference, so there is no difference in my love for them. My “child” is crashed out on the floor right now. She’s cute when she’s sleeping.
I love my family because they are my blood. Those of you who know me know that I’ve disowned several family members in the past. Yes, they’re still disowned. My father and I have a mutual disownment, and that’s just fine by me. Just because I disowned them, however, it doesn’t mean I don’t love them. They are family—blood—after all. I just don’t have to like them if I don’t want to. There is nothing written in stone—or blood—that says you have to like your family. The family I still have—those who weren’t disowned—have been there for me on many levels, and this is part of why I love them. Family supports you, regardless, no questions asked, and loves you unconditionally. If your family isn’t like this, I’m sorry. I’ve seen the opposite of my family life, and it’s not pretty. Family does not pick fights with you in order to bring about your misery so they feel better. These are the ones I choose to separate myself from and why I disowned them. I don’t have to live with that drama everyday if I don’t want to. It’s called a choice. But I still love them.
This next topic on love will be difficult for me, but I feel I’ve come a long way in the past year and can approach it now.
You love your mate … why? It’s a good question. I could tell you all of the things I loved about Big Daddy, and some of those things even include his flaws. But I won’t go into a big long list of the things I loved about him. I’ll just tell you how I am when I love someone—a mate.
When I love you, I will take care of you in every way I can—when you’re sick, when you’re injured, and when you’re not. I will provide a home for you, I’ll cook my best meals for you, and I will love every part of you, including your flaws. I will support you in your dreams and aspirations. Encourage you to follow them. And when you trip and stumble to the ground, I will pick you up, dust you off, and walk alongside you until you’re ready to do it on your own again. I do these things not because I have to, but because I want to, and because I love you.
All I ask in return is for the same.
A relationship is 50/50. Give and take. For six years, I had perfect. Well, maybe not perfect to you, but perfect to me. I was happy. What did I love about Big Daddy? It’s quite simple, really. He made me laugh … every day. I was completely comfortable with him. There were no secrets or lies between us. His heart was pure and he accepted me for who I am, even with all my neuroses. What made him leave? I’m half to blame for that. I ignored him. This is a woman’s biggest and most common mistake, and I won’t get into the why’s of what I did or didn’t do. That’s irrelevant. A man raised as an only child can’t be ignored for long before he’s fed up and moves forward with his life. But at the same time, when I stumbled and fell to the ground, he walked over me and kept going. I’d thought it was because he didn’t love me, but that’s not true. He did love me and still does. I think it’s because he panicked. Everything—and I mean everything—fell on his shoulders for the first time in his life. The house, the bills, taking care of me. He wasn’t ready to be “old” yet. And why would he be? He was only 32 at the time. Part of the problem was that I was 7 ½ years older than Big Daddy. It doesn’t seem like a lot, but sometimes it is when dealing with specific things in life. I don’t look my age, I certainly don’t act my age, but sometimes when it comes to health issues, I’m much older than my age. So I need someone my age or older.
So here’s what I want: someone who will give me back all that I give them, who will read at least some of what I write and not give the excuse that’s it’s not what they read, but read it because they enjoy it and have an interest in what I do. Who will give me honest feedback. Someone who will not be afraid to poke me when I’m in a zone because they want to spend time with me, but who will also understand when I have a deadline. And yes, I want someone to take care of me for once. I’ve taken care of people all my life—everyone around me. And yes, someone taller than me. What can I say, I’m picky and I’m an amazon.
And really, I just want someone who will love me—the good, the bad, and the ugly—for the rest of my life, because I don’t have another chance of starting over after this next one, if the next one comes along.
This post went in a direction I wasn’t expecting, but I suppose that’s a good thing. So here, I’ve laid myself bare for you all to read. Now, tell me what you love and why. Long or short, it doesn’t matter.
Personally, I love a rainy day, but the kind where the sun peeks through the clouds and it’s not hot or cold, but just right. That’s good writing weather. Wish I had more of those days.