The Lies I Tell Myself

I read back what I wrote the other day about the moments of love I’ve experienced and I suddenly realised I shouldn’t be grateful for them or happy because of them. No! I should be angry about them.

Why? 

Because four years of being with Danny and all I could remember was TWO moments of feeling loved.
Because ten and a half years with Greg and I didn’t write a single thing. 
Because seven years with Tom and I could only recall ONE moment.
Because one night with Theo does not constitute love and I’m a fool for even including him.
Because fifteen months with Gary and the only thing I can think of is something he did when he was drunk!

These aren’t moments of love. This is all just evidence of me desperately trying to find proof that there has been genuine love in my life when there bloody well hasn’t been, other than with Phil. These things were not love. Love is an everyday thing. Every day for four years or ten years or seven or fifteen months. Love is not FIVE things in twenty-two years. 

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