I think I have this misconstrued but unfortunately, annoyingly persistent belief that love will find me when I am whole; when my transformation and growth are complete; and when I am at my most emotionally presentable version.
But instead –
I keep finding myself stretched thin from multiple, seemingly endless, processes of becoming; less than whole – always with a jagged edge and missing piece somewhere, somehow – and emotionally all over the place. My default state is like missing the letter p in the word ‘perfect’ – so close, yet always falling short. I am, more times than I can count, at my weakest.
I think I have had it all wrong.
Love, when it finds me, will find a person who is disheveled, disarray, and emotionally too much. Love, when it finds me, will find someone desperately wanting to be whole – despite knowing she will fall short, no matter how much of herself she gives away. Love, when it finds me, will find me in my tattered, unkempt imperfections: always ‘too much‘, never ‘enough‘.
Love, when it finds me, will stand face-to-face with herself.
Because if love doesn’t come looking for me or it does but for unknown reasons, I cannot be found – after all, friends are always well-meaning, but short of love – I know I’m fine-just-fine because I am the face of my love. I am love and the lover. I must learn to love myself first, middle, and last. I must learn to love myself in always; in spite of; and less than.
I must (really) learn to love myself first.