I Think That I am Bad at Love

Love. Four letters that carry so much weight. Once upon a time, I recall comparing love to many things in the form of songs that I had written, or poetry and sappy things like that. I truly believed that I understood Love in all of its forms and I would have even been bold enough to say that I loved TOO much.

I recognize now, at 27, that I was wrong.

1st Corinthians 13 has one of the clearest understandings of love, from what I can gather. Even if you aren't an avid reader of the Bible, or if you aren't even Christian at all, you likely have still heard these collection of verses read aloud at a wedding or plastered on the walls of a relative, scribbled in a fancy, swirly font.

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud." And so on and so forth. I've heard this a million times in my life, growing up in the Church and having been raised a Christian. So I don't know why this is hitting me so hard today. I think I will try to explain, however, and see if you can follow me down this rabbit hole.

I feel that love has become warped to me over my lifetime. I should start from the beginning--Childhood. This is where most trauma originates. My parents, bless them, tried. I think maybe that is all that I should say on the matter here. They TRIED. I recognize how challenging it must have been, living with undiagnosed and untreated mental illness on both sides of their marriage, while raising and providing for 7 children. I don't fault my mother or my father for their shortcomings as parents. They loved me in the biggest ways that they could. Was it enough? No. But they are not to blame for this. I'm sure there was a cycle of bullshit that the both had to navigate. Regardless, the first instance of where love, as it is written in the Bible, should have been present in my life, it wasn't.

My vision of romantic love was skewed, as my parents fought constantly. My bedroom, for a while, was across the hall from theirs. We had a 9PM bed time, but I would lay on my bottom bunk, facing the crack in the door where the light came through, and wait until I heard them snoring before I ever fell asleep. I don't know why I always did this. I think that it made me feel safe; that I could rest easy knowing that they weren't fighting. Most nights, they would though, and I would listen and wonder how they could still love each other after all of that.

I guess they didn't. They divorced when I was in high school.

Thus began my toxic understanding of love. I would hear them tell me that they loved me, usually followed by a caveat or preceded by a screaming match. A terrible, heart breaking fight where I would be called names that a child shouldn't understand, followed by, "but you know that I love you, right?" And what else could I say?

"Right." And I would wipe my nose and shuffle off, feeling love in a painful and shameful way. Feeling unlovable. Here they have gone and laid out all of the reasons why I am horrible and lazy and worthless. But they loved me anyway? These moments made receiving love feel like a guilt in my gut. It made it seem like I owed them more because they loved me, even though I was a shitty daughter.

I think that this carried into my relationships growing up. I grew up witnessing divorces, breakups, unhealthy displays of love through siblings, relatives, friends, etc. No wonder I was jaded. So when I stepped into the world of dating, I anticipated love to look familiar and painful. Unfortunately for me, it was.

My first relationship was built on the understanding that I would never be enough for this person. He wanted the benefits of a girlfriend without the restrictions. Needles to say, I was cheated on multiple times, and the dude had the balls to tell me that he still loved me, but he didn't want to commit exclusively to me. For whatever reason. But remember little Julia, who was told how horrible she was on the regular and then told "You know I love you, right?" Familiar.

"Right. I love you too." and I did. I let this person touch me, kiss me, hold me, and abuse me. I let him come and go and when he needed me, I was there. I remember when we broke up the first time, and I told my two best friends at the time, they TORE into him. They texted him the meanest things, (as your best friends should when your boyfriend cheats on you with their ex). He cried to me and told me that he didn't deserve this, and he felt so terrible and he just wanted to see me. So I walked, two and a half miles through the snow to meet him at some playground where I held him as he cried for being so terrible to me. Not my finest moment.

Regardless, this was familiar to me. Love with Caveats. Love that hurt. I wrote song after song about the painful, fiery way that love tore me apart. Songs like Icarus, ("I burn for you, while you just burn.") 6 Word Story, (Tell everyone I was the warmest place you knew until you turned me cold.") Grey ("Isn't it sad I want the only thing that makes me feel unwanted.") and Worth the War (I love you, and I'm tired of letting you know instead of letting you go.").

Even in my "good" relationships that followed, trauma reminded me that I would never be enough. My love, which I thought was ruthless and overwhelming, still wasn't enough. People came and promised to stay and then left anyway. I spent YEARS of my life chasing that familiar love. Something heavy and heartbreaking. Something that consumed and burned me and swept me up.

That isn't what love should be. Love is PATIENT and KIND. "It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." for 26 years, I didn't understand how to love someone well because I had never been loved in a healthy way.

Fast forward to September of 2021. I fell in love again. He is kind and patient and understanding and everything that love SHOULD be. So the tables turned and now I have been given this wonderful thing. But I still feel a bit like a wounded animal in a cage. I think I AM one. Wounded from my past, trapped in a version of myself that isn't as kind or gentle as I used to be. I have felt myself turning sour. Feral. And I lash out in horrible ways when I feel that the security of my shitty, self-made prison is threatened.

So here I am, admitting that I am bad at love. My patience, of which I once thought was boundless, is waning. I feel my heart growing heavy with insecurities and impatience. Love is not insecure and impatient.

"It does not envy." Well I got news for you guys...I do. I envy like a son of a bitch. And I hate it. My partner, Elliott, is the most understanding man I have ever known. He is the kindest and most loyal soul I have ever known. So why oh why does my heart race when he talks about his female coworkers or when I see how many female family friends he follows on Instagram? How many times does this man have to tell me that he loves me and only me, before my poor wounded heart stops anticipating the pain?

When you have been hurt in the past, and trauma holds your heard like shackles, disfunction becomes familiar and safe. The cage that I exist in, inside of my narrative about myself, is scary and hurts me, but it is familiar and I feel at home in this turmoil. Things cannot be too good for too long or else I panic. When is the other shoe going to drop, so to speak? What is being hidden from me? There is always a caveat. Always a limitation.

This kind of love, this healthy and patient love, is new to me, and it is a little scary. I didn't realize how feral I had become in my years of chaos, and so existing in such a gentle and wonderful safe space is unfamiliar. I love Elliott with all of my heart, though I feel a bit like a child, learning how to do something for the first time. I was never taught a healthy way to love someone. It always required a sacrifice, or a painful fight.

This is not like that. Elliott does not envy. He is not proud. He protects, and trusts, and hopes, and perseveres. He and I aren't PERFECT and I can probably safely assume that most of those imperfections come from my bullshit. And when those things arise, he is quick to remind me that I don't owe him anything more in order for him to forgive and love me. He doesn't dwell on the reasons why there is a disagreement or miscommunication and he makes sure that I am aware that his love for me is not tarnished by my traumas and my shortcomings. I am tiptoeing around this in hopes that I don't wound this beautiful thing. I want to be the kind of love that I needed as a child. I want to be that for myself, and for my relationship.

"And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."