I do not know how to be loved by another person, and I have defined much of my life according to that. It’s something that predates me, sort of: I don’t think my mother was raised with the love I’m talking about, nor was her mother. Since I existed in both of them before I existed within myself, I count that as time I’ve lived, though not embodied time.
The love I have sought wasn’t present in my parents’ marriage, nor was it available in my childhood. I know my people didn’t (and still don’t) mean any harm: their love was hard, through correction, and my mom was up against that. She lauded us for good grades, for accomplishments… but they were expected of us, sure as the sun rises. The valuation was present, but somewhat restricted. There were no outpourings of care ”just because,” as I recall. Granted, I have a mother and two sisters who may remember things differently or have totally different experiences. I’m aware also that my grandparents and two uncles parented me, too. And they did it with gestures more than language. I don’t hold that against them; it’s what they knew to do. I never felt unloved. I often felt unseen.
Which is where the wisdom of Natasha Nelson, aka Supernova Momma, comes in: misbehavior communicates an unmet need. I did not feel understood or properly seen by my caregivers. One of my earliest memories of my estranged father is a particularly stinging one: he bought a mountain of clothes for me and my middle sister, but none of the clothes fit me. He was angry at me for being fat, while my mother and I questioned his intentions. He never asked my sizes. There was a purple dress I especially loved, but it was the largest size available, he said. I was maybe 8 or 9. My mother had already stopped dressing us alike. It was something easier for pre-k or toddler aged kids. I had my own tastes. Most importantly, I could speak for myself and he never consulted me or dopemomfresh. I resented it, but understood I was bound by social niceties to thank him and be grateful for the gesture. I could not trust him to see me. I could not trust him to understand me as a whole person.
This was, for me, a common theme. If I said something directly without 3 rounds of edits to sound “nice,” or like “a good girl,” I was brash. If I spoke too softly, I was shy. Actually, I was extraordinarily anxious and did not feel safe being myself in most settings, for reasons I won’t get into just yet. There was harm I experienced at a young age, and nobody saw it. Or, if they saw it, they never told me. That did something to the way I saw and experienced myself: I wasn’t really there. I barely existed unless I was dancing, listening to music, or eating the carby and sweet comfort foods that woke my brain up. For a fat child to enjoy food was a bigger sin than should be tolerated. As bad as being gay. As bad as being “fast,” or a drug user. Holiness-Pentecostalism and its stringent adherence to controlling the body meant that I was, in the eyes of my maternal grandmother, on the road to depravity. She also clocked my gayness before I even understood it myself. It’s my contention that she hated me for it. I may be wrong, but I will never know. She’s been gone from my life longer than she was in it.
I acted up. I acted out. I sabotaged my schoolwork, to such an extent that I flunked out of college on purpose to give myself a break. I did not ever learn that my “no” was meaningful or to be respected. In my teen years, I chased friendships with people who simply did not get me. I thought it was normal to be misunderstood, mocked, shamed, and made to feel inadequate. I did not like myself; nobody else liked me either, as far as I knew. My friendships were tenuous at times, driven by my need to be loved, seen, and understood on more than a cursory level.
In my twenties and thirties, I dated, slept with, kept consort with, and generally made myself available to people who were probably working out the same bullshit I needed to. I made the missteps I swore I wouldn’t. I was humiliated by a “friend” who saw me as competition, when I didn’t even know I was pretty or cute. Again, I felt misunderstood. I kept chasing understanding while having very little of myself.
I traced this back to being “unwanted” by my father, a family that never got me, etc. I worked on myself, little by little. i am still working. I have been single since 2017 and that’s opened a lot of windows and doors in my mind. I broke up with someone and kept them in my life about 5 years longer than was healthy for me. I learned, the hardest way, that they didn’t love me. They did not. I did not know how to receive the love I now know to be essential to my life.
I am still working through the sensitivities of my child self, my teen self, my 20something and 30something self. I do not have to be afraid I won’t survive rejection or derision, but when I am, I can do what I gotta do. I can do it scared, or I can not do it at all. That’s my choice. The people who see me are present. Those who don’t aren’t required to be here. The trick of being unseen and misunderstood, loved wrong or not at all, is to understand that there’s no scarcity. There’s no actual lack of love of care for me. There are fewer people who know and connect with me, but they are not a loss. They are ill equipped.
Now, to learn to be loved romantically and accept nothing less…