Whoever said, “love is blind” was definitely onto something.
Think about it. When you have a crush on someone or fall in love with someone or even just have that gentle and persistent liking for someone, you tend to be a little more than slightly oblivious to their shortcomings. You notice the sparkle in their eyes and their big 100-watt smile and all of the idiosyncrasies that differentiate them from the masses, but you don’t really notice the way they’re rude to their mother or the way they’re only interested in stories if it’s one they’re telling. You don’t see the jealousy or the bitterness or the selfishness, or any of the other character traits that we’re supposed to allow God to work out of us.
Sometimes that blindness, that inability, or maybe even resistance, to see every facet of a person, can get us into really deep trouble.
I fell in love about a year ago. It was hard and fast, and I knew there was going to be a body-crushing splat at the end, but I didn’t care because I thought he was perfect. He was strong, but he was caring and kind. He was intelligent, scary-smart, honestly. He was creative, but also logical. He professed his love for Jesus without caring who heard, without worrying of judgment.
It’s funny how love, or what we believe is love, can alter reality; our emotions can alter truth. What I saw as devotion and a desire to protect was actually a jealous nature and a desire to control. What I thought was empathy was actually manipulation. What I thought was love was actually the furthest thing from it.
This weather is killing me.
Don’t get me wrong, I adore it. I love the crisp winds and the cold air that bites at my nose in the early, early morning when the gray pre-dawn light is beginning to come in the window. I love being able to wear scarves and sweaters and tights and boots without feeling like I’ll die from the heat. I love the days being so clear and beautiful.
But this time of year is full of memories. Those pre-dawn hours are constantly echoing a sleepy voice in my ear, burrowed beneath the covers. I keep imagining a phantom weight at my throat; I keep reaching up to touch the pendant that isn’t there anymore. I keep looking at my closet door for the pictures that I tore down months ago. I keep reaching for the shirt that isn’t hanging up, that isn’t anywhere, actually.
It’s all gone. Everything of him has been disposed of. All of the letters, the photographs, the shirt, the trinkets, the necklace –
Darling, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t think about you at night, he doesn’t see your face in a crowded room. He forgot the color of your eyes, even though he told you he had never seen something that beautiful. He doesn’t talk about you and about how bad he misses you. he doesn’t remember what it feels like to kiss your lips. Sweetheart, he doesn’t care about you . . . He doesn’t love you anymore. I’m sorry.
– Let Him Go (written_on_polaroids)