Because I Love You

A personal essay of opinion

It’ll hurt me more than it hurts you.

When my parents used to say this before dealing out my punishments—be it a belt, a hand, or a projectile object—I believed them. After I screamed so hard my throat burned raw and cried until my eyes nearly swelled shut, they would hug me and tell me they loved me.

And now that I’m an adult, may I just say…

what the fuck?

It took me years to realize that love and pain were not meant to coexist. But in my childhood, they had been tangled so tightly that I didn’t know how to separate them. If you asked me, that’s just how love worked. I didn’t question it. I thought beyond “they know what’s best”.

And I wish it would’ve stayed there, tucked in next to my bike that still had the training wheels on.

By my teens, I had already learned that love can hurt, and worse than that—it always would. So when it did, I never saw it as a warning sign.

I saw it as familiar.

As long as he told me he loved me, I believed him. His actions didn’t have to match his words. Because pain and I were already in a whirlwind romance, and I was head-over-heels.

“So where was the shift? What changed for you?

How did you know you deserved better?”

The answer is complicated. But it’s also so simple.

I didn’t. I still see his shadow. Still flinch when I hear his name or when someone raises their hand too quickly. Still lean on pain as a crutch when love has weakened my resolve.

But I demand better. I no longer believe love should hurt, no matter who it comes from.