For as long as I can remember, I have always turned to the power of the pen long before I even distinguished myself as a writer.
I vividly recall my first ever diary — a Pocahontas diary with matching pen. I don’t quite recall what I’ve written as a young child, but it was never about my day, it was more about what I felt, and even as a young child, I have always felt things passionately. I’ve never been the type to not feel things, feeling to me is synonymous to living.
As I grew older, portals of expression have changed. I recall people not knowing what a blog was when I started my first in 2004, and I saw it transform, creating other portals such as Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and so on. Now, people (both emotional and unemotional) have more means to express themselves, and for someone who feels as deeply as I do, this a positive progress.
Although at times it has been extremely difficult for me to restrain my emotions, and to admit it, I am the type of person who goes all out — when I love, I love deeply. I’m loyal and optimistic to a badgering fault — just like Elizabeth Gilbert, I have been a victim of my own optimism, often falling in love with people’s potential, rather than the mess they are currently in.
And just like the character in one of my old favorites Nicholas Sparks novel, I find myself wanting to save people and not just potential love interests, but people in general. I have always strived to see the good in people and fall apart when I see that they’re nowhere near who I expect them to be. Which isn’t really their fault, I gave them more than enough credit, unfairly, unjustly, because I put them on an impossible pedestal, one no human could ever meet, not even me.
Dealing with people from this mindset has often become a source of disappointment, heartache, and useless tears. My head is constantly in the clouds, expecting people to love me, and be as transparent as I am. This is the reason why betrayal, in any form, hits me to the core — in a way, I expected to be love the way I love — raw, unfiltered, and all out.
Recent disappointments and heartaches made me rethink the way I approach people and relationships. For others, the solution was simple, cut people off. But for me, someone who loved gregariously, whether returned or not, that was an impossibility, there’s a certain joy that comes in loving and being there for people. Being stoic and unassuming makes me feel like the oxygen in my lungs have been cut out. It’s love or nothing.
Today, it makes me wonder if I am wasting my love on people who would never appreciate it. And if it makes me wonder if it matters. Truth is, it doesn’t. I don’t love to get loved back, I love because it’s who I am, it makes me who I am.
And if the consequence of being who I am is being hurt by a few people who don’t appreciate it, then I’ll simply let it be. The world already has so much of people who stop loving simply because they’ve been hurt, and so far, it has only caused chaos, and even more pain.
So I continue to be who I am — battlescars and all, because I know one day, even when I no longer expect it, that love will be returned, and even better, this kind of love might inspire others to be just as brave.
You don’t lose anything when you love, so might as well give as much as you can, and when the time is right, take it — no fear, no boundaries, and most of all, no apprehensions.
Life can only be lived in love.