What’s become clear to me, after years of counseling and countless hours of writing, thinking, and talking, is that I loved M and L. Simply. One relationship lasted years, another months, putting marked viewpoints upon their timelines. I’ve loved other romantic interests in their own ways, as well as family and friends. Perhaps life as of late has shifted my priorities in indiscernible ways. Most of all, this realization has raised a bar, slowly, over time. I talked to J about the frustration of not being able to explain to people I’ve dated without it sounding like a cliche, “it’s not you, it’s me,” of hating the feeling that I need to tell someone that I think they’re too young to understand, regardless of their age. She said this is sometimes simply an uncomfortable reality. I told her that I worried that my feelings were unsustainable and she remarked that was interesting, as though she hadn’t really considered that yet.

I don’t think my problems are unique to me, although my problem set probably is. It is the human condition, and common between us all. However, I’m pretty sure I put far more energy into the problem than most. That leaves me… certain, and comfortable, with my lot, spare a night of loneliness now and then. Far from giving up however, without an end in sight. They say love is something that you have to work at. I have paced around that statement much, and can’t quite understand the shape of it. To be cliche, everything worth doing is hard.

Love is something I feel. Growing to be a better person, in this case particularly better at expressing my feelings, is something that I work at.