Choosey Lover

"What type of love do you want"?

     I didn't have an answer for that question because no one had ever asked me that before. (I was used to being the one interested in asking those kinds of questions). Naturally I deflected, "That's a great question, babe". Immediately after, I felt like my whole life had flashed before my eyes (think: That's So Raven).

     I thought of a man that I loved, but made it so hard for me to love him. At times, without actually begging, I begged this man to love me. It hurt for me to see other fathers choosing to be in their children's lives, despite circumstances, without an explanation for why my own was absent. I knew that he was choosing to be in the lives of his other children but somehow had left me out of the equation.

     I thought back to the man that chose to love my mother but only tolerated my existence, to be with her. I was not his child, so perhaps he didn't have the capacity to love me as if I were. I can't quite say that it was hate that he showed but whatever it was, it increased after my mother bore his children.

     Then, I thought of the men folk in my family that could never choose to love "both/and", it was only "either/or". I never questioned whether it would be, me or her? The answer came soon enough, and I was never one to question love. As I opened up my heart, I would be reminded that it was either their needs/wants or my feelings/safety/well-being.

     I briefly thought of lovers past. They were always too broken, selfish or shallow. They chose me, but never over pussy cats and pride. They could never live up to the standards set before them and always raised the white flag, "I'm not good enough for you".

     I thought of all those men and tried to think of how to answer this question presented to me. I reasoned that I was not the same woman, so I could no longer accept mediocre love. So, what type of love did I want? I felt an answer rising from my heart...

"I want someone that chooses to love me"

     It was honest. It was revealing. It was perfect. I did want someone that chose to love me. A choice that required understanding, humility and patience. At that point, I realized that I had picked up those broken pieces and put them back together. I filled the spaces with gold, made of the love that I had for myself. I had chosen to understand every imperfect part of me. I had chosen to humble myself and accept my imperfection. I had chosen to be patient enough with myself to learn me. I choose to only accept the love that I accept from myself.