every year when valentine’s day rolls around, i find myself questioning my current understanding of love. sure, this holiday is conventionally focused on secret admirers and forever soulmates. however, my upbringing, shaped by trauma rather than tenderness, leaves me wondering if i can recognize, let alone celebrate, such a loaded emotion.
a few weeks ago, when my roommate and i digressed into a lunchtime conversation of our dating prospects, they asked what i was looking for in a relationship. after a long pause, i realized that i don’t know what love feels like, let alone how i’d like to receive it.
love has always been a sensitive topic for me. i’ve always longed to feel that unconditional connection so many of my peers share with their parents, siblings, or even one other person in their life. this past winter break, i often found myself pausing on friends’ instagram posts relishing their family time. the smiles, laughter, and tenderness that reverberated from every photograph was absent on my side of the screen as i thought about my upbringing in a household blighted with hatred.
decades of traumatic treatment at the hands of my parents left me thinking i must, for lack of better words, really suck. moreover, if my own parents did not think i was enough, how could a man ever?
as i approach yet another year single, the same questions loom over my head: is it possible to truly love someone else? and am i even worth loving?
all that was naturally too heavy to explain to my roommate over salads and grilled chicken. but whenever we romanticize falling hopelessly in love with the noah calhouns or ben barrys of the real world, i am reminded of my fear that such infallible infatuation between people is nothing but fiction.
in his poem, “this be the verse,” philip larkin writes, “they fuck you up, your mum and dad.” when it comes to my conceptions of romance, these words ring true.
i was already breaking up their nightly fights at age seven. with my legs dangling through the gaps in the stair railings from my second-floor perch, my ears would perk up every time i heard our usual household silence penetrated by sharp tones. while my older sibling would run to their room, slam their door, and sob about our broken lives, i took it upon myself to mediate their disputes.
nine p.m. or one a.m., it didn’t matter—i would be there. i stood in the crossfire as they threw glasses of manhattans at each another, whiskey stains left everywhere from the kitchen ceiling to my rapunzel nightgown. i spent countless evenings picking up smashed fruit or shattered dishes before comforting one crying parent as the other packed up their things and left for a few days before crawling back and pretending nothing had happened. i ended many nights whimpering into my pillow, initially praying they wouldn’t get divorced and then begging the universe for just a shred of peace in our fragmented household.
all of this was naturally a rather hopeless foundation for me to garner my own conceptions of love.
now, i cannot just blame my parents for this. larkin also writes, “but they were fucked up in their turn/by fools in old-style hats and coats/who half the time were soppy-stern/and half at one another’s throats.” forced into an arranged marriage devoid of passion, my mom’s parents never taught her how to love, so how could she herself?
but regardless, my parents made me think love was fruitless. furthermore, i quickly learned that my parents mutual loathing would bleed into the care they provided me until i also questioned if i was valuable enough to love.
“i don’t know what i did to have god give me a child as worthless as you.”
i have never been a stranger to targeted curses or scathing commentary. however, this statement has stuck out the most. for my mother to insinuate that i was essentially nothing, that continues to infringe upon my self-esteem regardless of what else she has piled on top since.
and beyond the pure emotional degradation, there were physical confrontations that magnified my feelings of inadequacy. my senses are tainted by agonizing memories from my parents and my past interactions.
i can still feel her arms on my shoulders, shaking me while screaming in my face, her spit mixing with my tears as they fell onto my trackpad and bled into the cracks of my computer. i can still see the gallon bottles of shampoo and conditioner he swung inches from my face—a symbolic bruise left by the feeling of betrayal because the parent i thought loved me proved to be just as virulent. i can still taste the chlorine of the pool outside our villa in greece that i thought about weighing myself down in, hours after i was yanked away from our dinner table and told i add nothing to family vacations or our household.
such experiences direct me to larkin’s concluding lines: “get out as early as you can/and don’t have any kids yourself.” his words compel me to ask if i should even try to learn how to love. should i even try to convince myself i am deserving of love?
like many raised in the inherited cycle of suffering, i struggle to conclude that the answer to such questions must be yes. we think no one, ourselves included, could love someone who, as my uncle so plainly puts it, is “fucked up.” we accept that we are no one’s but our own and believe it is better this way. but i’ve come to realize that we cannot survive alone forever nor can we think our beings lack value.
as someone whose favorite movies are rom-coms and who cried in envy watching their roommate ice skate with their siblings in perfect harmony, i know i want a life filled with love eventually. so, ever since arriving at college and getting some much-needed space from the walls that brought me to such an uncertain place, i have slowly opened my mind and heart to this emotion.
i let seemingly little moments stand as big stepping stones in my journey of learning to love.
last week, I put my heart out for the first time. i’d never asked “what are we?” before, partly due to my fear of rejection but primarily because i was afraid of adding someone into my life beyond friendship.
ultimately, the conversation called for more vulnerability and self-reflection than i anticipated. however, i walked away with a deeper understanding of the love i am looking for and what’s important to consider before two people can commit to one another. moreover, regardless of what i had hoped the other person would say, i saw this interaction as a sign that i am slowly learning the power in loving another.
and when thinking about myself, i’ve made it a mission to enjoy my own company. as timothy keller suggests, to be known is to be loved. how can i expect others to want to “know” and thus appreciate me if i cannot do that for myself? moreover, i’ve come to recognize that learning self-love naturally requires spending time simply valuing my presence. after months of holding myself accountable to this new habit, solo trader joe’s runs and quiet meals alone have slowly transformed from torture to now essential parts of my weekly routine.
while there’s still a long way to go for me and my relationship with love, i’m forever learning about how i can offer this emotion to both another and myself. moreover, i have to accept the fact that i don’t have all the answers as i navigate this journey since i lack a model for such relationships. my self-guided lessons are fraught with uncertainty and require a certain level of stamina and persistence.
but for now i hold onto hope that one day i’ll watch my own children dance through a home built on the love i fought to give and have, knowing that the cycle ended with me.
anonymousfound this piece cathartic and hopes it also will be for readers similarly struggling.