Out of all the mysterious things in this world, out of all the complications and misunderstandings, I do know one thing; Love is a mental illness.

We do not choose who we love, it just happens. Sometimes slowly over time, sometimes all at once. Love is it’s own being. I wouldn’t go so far to say love is a disease, but it is a sickness. It sets in, takes it course and for me at least, eventually works its way out.

I’ve been in love twice in my life. The first love, was the sweetest. I was nineteen years old, still a kid in my eyes. But in his eyes, I was a woman. Our love grew quickly. So quick in fact we said those three words before we were even official. There is some romance in that isn’t there?

One year, passed by, then two, then before we knew it eight. It was that year, we decided to  part ways. We still loved each other, but at some point our love went from being in love to just love. And although it was painful, and utterly sad, that was okay. Our love went from one form of being to being unconditional.

We still talk on the phone most days. We see each other often and as odd as it may seem, he is now more of a brother than anything. Absolutely no sexual desire between us whatsoever, just unconditional love. We didn’t choose for it to be this way, it just became so. As we age, I realize that him and I were meant to be this way.

My second love was the hardest. It was complete madness. It happened quickly, and ended just the same. This love, made me realize that no matter how fucking fantastic and amazing it is to be in love, it is the worst fucking feeling when it ends. It is this love, that makes me never want to fall in love again.

For us, our love was a sickness. Please, don’t misunderstand me. I am in no way degrading this experience nor am I regretful. In fact, I am thankful for it, for all of it. .

I won’t get into all the details of our love. But it ended with heart break and complete sadness. It was misery and nothingness. It was a blue meloncholy fog, suffocating my every being.

In truth, I never got over him. That isn’t to say I didn’t try.

I never chose to fall in love with him, but I did and madly so. The problem is I couldn’t get out. The love I had, made me sad, all the time. I was constantly crying, I was constantly anxious, and I was constantly disappointed in myself. I wanted to be with him so badly, but he had moved on and loved someone else. I suppose in some regard, that hurt even more, knowing that the love he once had for me has gone onto another.

I would rather be embraced by nothingness, than love, but the sickness chooses, I don’t get too.

Time does help. Eventually days and weeks and months passed, and my love for him was still very much there, but it was deeper in my body. A place were I often wouldn’t venture too, for fear of being suffocated by the sadness that came with it.

A year or so had passed now, and we started talking again. At first it was odd, but it was so familiar and I didn’t realize how much I truly missed it. Apologies were strung back and forth between our dialogue, intermittent with fond memories, and obscure political rants. And at the end, he said he still loved me, had always loved me, and never stopped. Of course, I felt the same, but I don’t think I can go there again, at least not now. As much as I would love to jump back the into lunacy of what we had, I was sick then. And all my symptoms have not been healed, even to this day.

I cannot choose love. And although it is still very much there for him, I’m choosing to love myself first.

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