I was born a lover girl to the core. I had a love for people, animals, and nature so strongly I thought I could embody it and transform anything and anyone I was in close proximity to.
Maybe I watched too many movies about romance, healthy friendships, strong communities with “good people,” and “typical” family dynamics—two-parent households struggling to handle the kids’ growing pains while maintaining the love they shared.
As I aged and the veil began to fall from my eyes through personal experiences of pain—pain caused by those I loved and those who supposedly loved me—I began to change my perception of love altogether. I found myself questioning if I had ever truly known anything about it to begin with.
For the lover girl inside me, that was a heart-wrenching reality. One that still makes me feel queasy when I think about it. It feels almost like there is no safe place for me to be. No one who will gently hold me and understand who I truly am.
I have spent years trying to alter myself—my actions, emotions, and personality traits—just to feel more relatable to those I formed close relationships with over the years. Only to be betrayed, mishandled, abused, and judged by those same people.
When I was younger, I thought I would find the love of my life, get married, lose my virginity, have kids, and be happy. I believed I would have the same group of friends forever. That we would help each other through all the tough moments, support each other through challenges, and create this amazing community for ourselves and our children.
I can almost laugh at the naïve future I once dreamed of. But even today, that thought hurts. Because why can’t that exist? Why can’t it just be that I was around the wrong people? That I fell in love with all the wrong guys?
I made terrible decisions trying to escape pain—only to hurt myself more. I ran away from my true self for so long that the distance between us became immeasurable. I couldn’t remember who I was. And I didn’t know or like who I had become.
I lived life completely disengaged from my emotions, with no definite vision. I depended on others’ needs for me to feel important. I never asked for more than what I was given. And most times, I felt like I deserved exactly what I received.
I can almost cry. I just might. It hurts…
Here are the tears. This is how I know it still needs to be healed.
I have come a long way, and yet, I still look back. I sometimes find myself yearning for the same people’s attention, for the “love” that broke me in the first place. Wanting some kind of connection, even if it’s the lowest form—just to feel something.
That was my remedy for the pain: sex, liquor, weed. Letting them touch me without ever touching me. Believing they saw me and heard me because I was an open book. But they only sat around long enough to lay me down—never to pick me up afterward.
I always came across as so free and happy. They never would have known the self-loathing I made time for daily. How hard I was on myself. Because I always gave grace and understanding to everyone—of course, they assumed I made space for myself first.
But I was never at the top of the list.
Shit, I wasn’t even on the page.
I get stuck in this mind fuck sometimes, wondering if they are even sorry. If they ever think about me and say, “Damn, she was a cool girl. I didn’t have to do her like that.”
I would like to believe that the vibes I gave off—the only thing unaltered I had left—were so dope that they can’t be forgotten. That’s the one thing I can confidently stand on. The one truth that remains, regardless of the decisions I’ve made.
I’ve always been very aware of my choices and what they would bring me.
Stepping into the torture chamber I created, suffering in the shadows while seemingly producing light for others to feel warmth.
That was the only thing that brought me joy.
And they soaked it up, never realizing I was giving them the biggest sacrifice in return…
Self.
Written on 2/14/25
Happy Valentines Day
F.R.
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