A thought crept into my brain the other day, and it scared the hell out of me:
Maybe I’m just always going to be the one who cares more.
I don’t know where this idea came from, but it frightened me because I couldn’t think of an instance where this hasn’t been true. I mean, it’s not like I’ve ever been one to be quiet with my heart. I’ve always known this about myself, so this isn’t some huge, life-changing revelation or anything.
I guess the reason it hurt was that I used to think I’d find others who love in the same reckless ways I do. I believed that, eventually, whatever laws this universe abided by would work in my favor. You know what I mean. Karma or whatever.
You get what you give.
What goes around, comes around.
What goes up must come down.
Gravity has yet to grace me, however. Instead, I’m still here bleeding out whatever love I have in hopes that maybe someday I’ll feel it back.
I’m not saying I don’t have love or good friends or family. I do! But the way they love is so very different from the way I show mine. I can come on too strong and be too much and things get lost in translation.
I know I haven’t met everyone there is to meet while I’m here, and this includes those I will one day cherish. And, look, maybe there is someone out there who loves just as loudly as I do. I’d like to think so.
But then again, maybe being the one who cares more isn’t such a horrible thing after all. Maybe it doesn’t make me weak but brave. Maybe it’s liberation to own who you are rather than wishing to be someone else.
So that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m learning to accept the fact that perhaps I’m just always going to be the person who loves harder and crashes faster. Who calls first. Who doesn’t time my text replies. Who will do anything and everything for those she loves. And maybe that’s okay. I like to hope so.