nathalie shushan

The love I knew growing up was a deafening explosion. It was a mercurial, toxic bond that gave license to abuse. I believed that all love was expected to be unconditional and that unconditional love meant you should accept even the ugliest behavior. When I got to college, I inevitably found myself an emotionally abusive boyfriend. He was possessive and manipulative and poisonous to any relationship of mine that existed outside of the two of us. We fought constantly, voices hoarse from yelling, neighbors flinching at the sight of either one of us in the morning. Over the course of three years together, I relinquished the parts of myself that I loved to appease him. I became a ghost of myself, lost 20 pounds that I couldn’t afford to lose, drank too much, receded from my friendships. All the while, I told myself that “this is what love is.” In its happy moments and its angry moments, it was supposed to shake your bones and leave destruction in its wake.

My first wedding invitation felt like an invitation to watch love blossom from a seed for the very first time. Already disheartened at fifteen years old, I was more concerned than enchanted. I believed in love’s existence but rejected its value, convinced that I’d spent my whole life watching it ravage our household. It was the only possible explanation for my parents inability to separate despite their unhappiness. From a young age, I vowed never to risk building a life around something as unreliable as the feeling of love. How could anyone be willing to accept love when what they witnessed was cruel and insecure?

I can trace my romantic trajectory back to the relationship that was modeled by my parents. I attracted the partner that demonstrated love the way I understood it and, later, pushed affection away however I could. I designed a life intended to keep me safe from love’s destruction and built myself a fortress, walls high and sturdy. When I finally made it out of that devastating relationship, I implemented rules to deal with people that called to my heart: never see anyone twice in a row, don’t touch after sex (get out of there as quickly as possible), certainly never spend the night, avoid any kind of quality time. Imagine denying yourself that intimacy. I ruthlessly maintained distance when my biology required closeness to survive. 

I tore my heart out of my body to exist in a way that seemed to promise less pain. What it gave me instead was a stunted experience, shallow connections still tethered by emotions. I was willing to gnaw my foot off to get away. When I could no longer outrun my heart, the strategy evolved: go in the opposite direction altogether. I began to get involved with people that I hated to be around in order to remain unattached. What seemed certain to protect my heart ended up being more damaging than I could possibly have understood at the time. Being intimate with people triggers chemical connection so my mind/body/heart/spirit were all engaged in a painful push and pull, years of which resulted in feelings of disconnection from parts of myself that I thought I was better off without. 

My experiments with real love, then, began safely in the confines of my friendships. In that space, I learned to pour love into people like water for a plant, and I accepted the oxygen they gave me in return. Finally, I could breathe in love. When my romantic trysts became toxic and painful, “only romantic with my friends” became a mantra that I repeated when I’d leave the cold contact of my lovers for the loving embrace of my friends. I created and maintained connections that were nourishing and mutually supportive, and that gave me the courage, at last, to move confidently toward more loving partners. 

I resolved the problem of accepting love on the surface but didn’t know how to address the root cause. With partners that I truly cared for, I began to create distance in different ways. I diverted my attention – even, in some cases, my affection – when things felt unsafe or unsturdy. I looked outside of my romantic relationships, instead of within them, for something to hold onto.

Lately, I’ve had the opportunity to think about the role I want love to play in my life and the role I want to play in love. I have finally felt secure enough to think critically about my patterns, how they evolved and where they stem from, concluding that it’s not too late to redefine love for myself and reimagine it something beautiful. I realize that love as a feeling is fleeting but love as an action builds, quiet and strong. It is compassionate effort that fosters closeness and peace. 

I just want love not to feel like a minefield. I need to excavate my body of its fear, it has rooted down deeper than my awareness. Mines like memories I can hardly recall of broken glass and my mother crying, bags packed hidden in the closet, chaos that became so comfortable I had to seek it out. I am planting softness in their place, dandelions that seed and multiply so we can make wishes on my love. We can lay down safely without fear of bombs or thorns masked by roses that only look pretty on the surface. One day, we can breathe in love together. 

Imagine I was really a romantic this whole time.