What happened in March 2018 for me to have written this?
Should I allow myself to be diminished? Should I allow my self to disappear, bit by bit, in order to ensure that I hold his love? Is this what love is, the disappearance of one’s self in order to be ensure bondage to another?
Should my own self esteem be destroyed so as to prop up his sense of self, his security in his identity?
What is the worth of this love, such that I would let it crush my own heart, end my own life?
Because I coldly contemplated ending my life just now. I was thinking of the clinical ways in which it could be attempted, and the most efficient way I could go about it. What would be the way that would most alleviate the pain for those for whom I still maintain a modicum of care?
On the other hand, I should congratulate myself on finally reaching this level of emotional experience of “loving” someone to the point of wanting to kill myself.
Although I’m not totally convinced that it’s better to have loved and lost, than not to have loved at all. In this case, I prefer amnesia. A way to erase everything. Or a means to make it so that it never happened in the first place.
Does that mean it’s not really love?
So. Wanting to kill one’s self over love implies that it’s not real love. Because real love is worth fighting for. Death brings eternal sleep, dark forgetfulness that negates everything that ever happened. Real love endures so much that even painful memories are painstakingly preserved, to the detriment of its beholder.
Whatever it was that happened then, 2018 me seems to be a little bit wiser than 2022 me.
