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What is Love? I can't say I truly know what Love was meant to be, because by the time I came around, society had changed it so much to their approval that I don't think even my grandparents knew what it was meant to be. I can say, however, that I know what Love is to me, because when you really get down to it, isn't that all that matters? What love is to us, each as the individuals we are, and not as a whole?
Love, to Me, is the smile you get from across a crowded room as they've just shown up for your date, late. However, you forgot about the time, because their smile—that one that only you ever get—makes the wait worth it. They smile at you, and you suddenly feel giddy and excited, yet somehow calm and relaxed, all at the same time. Like a school girl going to her first dance. And at the same time, like a woman who's had a horrid day at work, and is finally home in the arms of her love, able to exhale and escape the stresses of the day.
Love, to Me, is the special little touches of his hand on the small of your back, your shoulder, or your hand, to let you know he's there and you're safe, when he can sense your tension and agitation when you're out in public, and you've brushed against someone with such negative energy that you can't help but feel disgusted and sick. When you're out dancing and having a blast, then suddenly it's as if someone is sucking the air out of your lungs, because someone walks in that you get a bad feeling from—and he comes up, hugs you, and tells you "I know baby girl, I know. Let's get out of here, ok?" and walks you out to the car while helping you fight off the next panic attack.
Love, to Me, is You. You who sees your significant other's mental disease attacking them, and step up to the plate to fight for them, because they're exhausted, and can't keep it up. You, who knows your loved one isn't as strong and solid as they make themselves out to be to everyone else, but you don't point it out or remind them of such. You just allow them to keep up the image they feel they need to, while giving them a safe haven, and the cues they need to know that they can break down and you'll still be there, holding them up.
Love, to Me, is the way you maintain patience and a calm demeanor when everyone else is judging or ridiculing or downplaying what your partner is going through. The way you never once try to make it seem as if your person is overreacting or not thinking logically, but instead, you try your hardest to understand why they feel the way they do, even if they're crying about a fry that got dropped on the ground. You know that it isn't so simple. That to them, this fallen fry symbolizes something much larger, and much heavier, and you try to find out what it is, then help them work through the core of it. You don't belittle them or embarrass them over it, you stand by them, defend them, and help them.
Love, to Me, is someone who faces constant, life threatening battles inside themselves daily, but makes sure you know they're on your side; they love you, and are fighting for you. Someone who, even though their life might be falling apart, can still focus solely on you, and help you out of your current crisis, no matter how big or small it may seem. You never wonder if they mean what they say, if they're honestly trying to be there and help you, or if they're doing it "just to be nice." You know they care, and you know they're truly in your corner.
Love, to You, was having all control and saying, over every aspect of my life, to act as if you held ownership over me. To act in such a manner that implied ownership, control, or dictatorship that was not to be challenged, "or else." If I were to stand up for myself, you were quick to beat me back down. If I argued with your word, you would hit me until my face was too swollen to speak. If I disobeyed, you responded with violence and isolation.
Love, to You, was telling me pretty lies that made my eyes sparkle and gleam with hope and anticipation of what was to come, only to turn and blame me, and make it out to be my fault when you couldn't deliver what you'd promised. As if somehow, I were the cause of you getting fired, or getting pulled over, or whatever negative thing that had happened, whether it be prior to the situation, or a current ongoing ordeal that you had gotten yourself into. Every bad thing that happened was my fault.
Love, to You, was constantly belittling me and degrading my loved ones for our beliefs, our habits, and our rituals. You always claimed we were crazy, or mental, when something was brought up that you didn't believe in or think was legitimate. You couldn't ever leave it at a "you do you" sort of deal. You seemed to always have to go on and on about how ridiculous or stupid or crazy it was as a factual statement, you couldn't even let it be an opinion. You believed that what you were saying was facts, and there was nothing else. So because we believed differently, you thought us lunatics and idiots.
Love, to You, is Patience, Kindness, Understanding, Listening, and Partnership. You don't put me down for my beliefs, in fact, you ask questions and try to learn more. You don't try to control or dictate what I wear or where I go, or even who I can and cannot speak to or be friends with. You trust me to make the best decisions for Us as a whole, to do what I would want you to do, and not do whatever would be detrimental to our union. You allow me to be my own person, because that's who you fell in love with. You welcome my clinginess, because you know that it isn't always so easy for me to show affection. You embrace my demons, and help me in my battles with them, with myself, and you never make me feel like I'm less than for the diseases I was blessed with due to genetics.
Love, to Me, is You.