I love my grandmother. I love her very much. I love them both, actually – I love both of my grandmothers. But at the moment I love one of them more. I love her very much because she’s ill.
There is this funny thing about love – we may admire someone for being strong, but we can only truly love them for being weak. For being vulnerable. It is a chance to give – that’s what love is. Loving someone provides you with an opportunity to give. To be needed.
That’s why it is a totally selfish act – loving. Loving someone is the most obscene act of selfishness. It’s offensive to morality. The desire to love. The desire to be needed.
I was raised to be lovable, I think – to look good, to do good, to behave. To be nice and sweet. To fit every possible norm of acceptance. I was taught to please. What I haven’t been told though, what nobody ever bothered to bring up, was that loving someone is so very different than just being lovable.
That’s why I’m no good at loving, I guess. I have plenty of love for the human-kind, but I haven’t got enough love for a single human-being. I have no patience to hear somebody out, I have no strength to follow them through with their hardships, but what I hate the most about loving is this – I just can’t bear to witness my loved one suffer.
Regardless – I do love my grandma. I love her very much. I love them both, actually, I love both of my grandmas.
*written in spring 2018.