On Love and Fear

I've grown afraid of love, it seems.

Not the act of loving a person. That part is easy. I'm compassionate by nature, and I make my caring known to the people who matter.

No, I'm afraid of being in love, and of being loved. I'm afraid of it not being real, of them not being truthful. I'm afraid of having my world ripped out from beneath me, when life reaches a head, when things happen - arguments, hurts, upsets, whatever. It is those moments, when people are at their worst, that true feelings become known.

You can't love someone for only their good. You must also love their bad. You must love them as a whole, and I'm afraid because so many people have claimed that they did, and have lied. They discovered all there is of me, and they hated it. They didn't love me, not really. They loved the idea of me. They loved the good parts, but none of my imperfections.

Mostly I'm afraid that when someone comes along who does love me for me - all of me, every last bit - that I'll be so hesitant, wondering if it's real, that I'll end up losing them.

I'm afraid of becoming jaded to love.

I hope I'm not already there.