Here’s my heart. Can you mind it?

Movies made me believe that by the age of 23, I would have been in and out of love multiple times, had a few sexual partners, and definitely would have been in a relationship at least once. And now, in my 24th year of life, I can say that I have entirely misunderstood the assignment. I’m not sure I’ve ever been romantically in love, I have had sex with one person and I have never been in a relationship. I think I’ve only ever been on one good date, and the rest of the dates, I can still count on one hand. Why was it happening for everyone else except me?

I have this intense fear that, deep down, I am incapable of loving, and being loved. Maybe it was because I am boisterous or too sick. Maybe it was because every time I mentioned a crush to someone, people would humble me saying that it’s probably one-sided. Or, perhaps it all came down to the fact that I tried too hard with other people. I feel as though my whole life has been a battle to get others to see me the way I see them, resulting in a cataclysmic end. I idolised my parents until I didn’t. I found it increasingly difficult to trust people. I refused to believe others when they told me they wanted to be friends with me, if they found me attractive, wanted to kiss me. The moment I discovered myself getting close to someone, I would draw myself away so they couldn’t leave me first. So often, it was as though the reason someone didn’t want me in their life was due to things that were so innately human to me. In an effort to protect myself, I got really mean. I would pass comments on my friends and make it seem like I was the smartest person in the room — like I was the only person who was actually feeling. I convinced myself I was the only one who had a rich internal dialogue.

I saw vulnerability as a weapon — once I let people see me, they knew how to hurt me. I am terrified of the people in my life meaning more to me than I do them. I was once on a phone call to someone and he said “I think you value our friendship a lot more than I do”. It remains the most damaging thing another person has ever said to me. That sentence plays over and over like an annoying song stuck in my head. It has directly impacted how I present myself in all relationships. I would tell other people about this encounter, but never let on how much it hurt me. I was so embarrassed. It was as if all of my childhood fears of being a pest and annoying came true. Like all of my bullies in school and the girl who phoned me saying that I should “try making new friends” were right. At 19, I was living my worst nightmare. Someone mattered more to me than I did them. How many other people felt this way? How many other people felt nothing about me?

When I started going to therapy, I was always asked why I wanted to be liked so bad. I’ve only ever been able to respond with “doesn’t everybody?”. I spent a lot of my teen years feeling like a gateway drug for those around me, until they moved on with their lives and I was left in some dark room all dried out. I want so badly to be wanted. I want people to see how much I try. Like how I always remember people’s birthdays, or their allergies, or their favourite places to eat, or the name of their exes. I want to help make everyone else’s life easier and I want my friends to feel loved and heard. But, I want that too. I want to be cared for.

I once saw the quote “I am a mosaic of everyone I have loved”. We copy and mirror so much in our lives from the people around us. I wore doc martens because my school friends said they liked theirs. I eat sushi because someone close to me brought me to my first ever Japanese restaurant. I listened to Mitski because my best friend recommended her. I love so many things because they meant a lot to the people I loved first. Maybe this is what makes it so hard to stomach when someone else leaves, since they take some shard of me now with them.

A few years ago, my therapist described love to me as “giving someone your heart and asking them to mind it”. I’ve always loved how simplistic that notion is. In my life, I’ve never found the courage to be able to tell someone if I liked them romantically if I wasn’t willing to lose them. If I found out someone had reciprocated feelings for me, I would quickly lose all romantic interest I had in them. I have lived in an echo-chamber of self-sabotage for so long because I’ve never found love and care to be a worthy risk to take when I’ve been so comfortable in my solitude. Sure there are plenty of fish in the sea, but I’m starving and my fishing rod is finicky. Really, I’ve been so lonely. All this time, I thought I was protecting myself from potential pain but I’ve just been depriving myself of something that could be so wonderful — and something I deserved.

I believe the most intimate thing you can do with another person is to help them, or let them help you. I have struggled with that for my whole life. I thought being self-sufficient was something to be proud of, but I wasn’t allowing myself to grow. It’s so scary to ask someone for help as it leaves you in this vulnerable area and you have to deeply trust that they won’t take advantage of you. It’s not a notion I am particularly used to either. I adore helping people, but I think I do it so much despite myself in an act of trying to show people how put together I am. Ultimately though, the times I have allowed others to help me have been the moments I have felt the happiest. It was a time in which I allowed the other person to see all sides of myself, and they really noticed and were able to adapt. I have forever believed that someone had to come in and fit my very narrow mould, but I know now that I can be bent and reshaped in whatever way and never truly be broken.

I have improved immensely at opening up, but I have a ways to go. I only see a dim light outside of my protective bubble. The delicateness of people is beautiful. I want to get them a glass of water, wash their hair in the shower, and learn their favourite songs. I would like to wake up next to someone. I don’t need someone to complete me, but I would like someone to join me. I feel a lot, all the time and it is exhausting, but also amazing. I want a love that is quiet and calm. I’m tired of the anxious butterflies and I crave the feeling of looking at the other person and nothing but peace washes over me.

In the last few months, I’ve come to realise the strength of gentleness with others. More than ever, I compliment people if I like something. I share the joy in my day. I talk about the drawbacks in my health, but the optimism I have sometimes alongside it. I find less humiliation in showing excitement. Celebration and connection is not something that was actively trying to ruin my life. This shared experience with people has in turn made them more vocal about what they appreciate with me. I don’t think I realised how much people are willing to be open if it’s a two-way street.

I value my friendships so much. There are no people in this world I trust more than my closest friends. The current group of people I have around me really do see me, and I see them, and we’re invincible. But I do want to fall in love. All of my friends own a small piece of my heart, but there’s a massive part entirely untouched. I want to give that to someone, and for them to give me theirs. I hope to do it freely, without the fear of them throwing it to the ground and stomping on it. The love I gave always seemed like too much, but it is just right. What a gift it is to be loved by me. To be loved is to be seen, and to give love is to notice. My eyes are starting to get a little clearer lately. I think I’m less afraid.