Love Makes You...Hypocritical?

“I used to kick back, watchin’ movies and the news / But now I’m lame, it’s such a shame, I used to be so super cool” — Audrey Hobert, “Thirst Trap”

It was a summer night and I was in the car with my high school friends after getting dinner together. It felt nostalgic and sweet, even though our differences were growing increasingly apparent. In moments like this, it was easy to pretend we were all seventeen again. The air was sticky and hot—typical for Pennsylvania—and the sky had begun fading into a clementine orange.

We were talking about having a sleepover—something I’ve always hated—but there were six of us, so we were hardly available at the same time. I said yes, knowing that moments like this would only grow more scarce.

At some point, my phone lit up. It was a text from the boy I had been talking to since May. What started as casual texts throughout the day morphed into calling whenever both of us had ten minutes to spare. What would begin as a “quick call” would often end in 3 a.m. goodnights, but I’d rather be tired having spoken to him than well-rested without. Exhaustion the next morning only made me smile. I wanted to yawn and have someone ask me why I was so tired, just so I could coyly smile and say I was up late talking to someone (as if anyone cared enough to be jealous.) Lately, though, he’d been working long, physically grueling days, so the calls were becoming less frequent—more of an exception rather than an expectation. And they’d always end strictly at ten. Not a moment before, not a minute after. It’s like he had an internal alarm that not even I could silence.

He asked me if I could call soon. I couldn’t and I should’ve said that, but I didn’t even hesitate. For him, I was always available, always willing to rearrange my plans. Would he have done the same for me? Of course not, and I knew that. But I liked to live in the fantasy of hardly knowing him. In this fantasy, he absolutely would have. So in my reality, I did. It was nice being able to project how he ought to act and treat it as who he was.

“I hate to do this,” I prefaced, feigning guilt, choosing him, already stuffing my things messily into my purse. “But can you drop me off? Ben said he can call soon.”

My friend scoffed, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. “So you’re not hanging out tonight?” You’d understand, I thought. You’d get it if someone made you feel like this.

“I’m not sure. Maybe,” I responded half-heartedly.

“So no then,” she pushed, more of a statement than a question.

I sighed. “Maybe.”

As I stepped out of the car, I knew they’d talk about me. Maybe they’d say I revolve around men. I’d argue I don’t, but I knew moments like this make a weak case. I walked inside and texted him.

Ready to call when you are :)

I’m sorry. I think I’m too tired tonight. Tomorrow?

My heart sank. I looked at the clock. It was barely fifteen minutes after eight.

Oh ok that’s fine. Sure

Sorry. What are you doing?

Nothing really hbu

Playing guitar and then getting ready for bed

I scoffed. Too tired to talk to me, but not too tired to play guitar? Right. And I had just left five people who weren’t too tired to see me. I felt ridiculous—so mad I could actually cry. The frustration stung behind my eyes and I was so unbelievably annoyed with myself. I quickly wiped the hot tears away and texted my friends.

Nvm. I’ll come over

When I arrived at my friend’s house that night, I framed it differently. I decided to not call and instead prioritize my friends—what I should’ve actually done. When I don’t have a crush, my judgment is as clear as just-polished glass. The moment I do, it fogs.

The girl who says to never schedule your life around a man does exactly that. The girl who says “don’t wait around” keeps her makeup on until midnight in case the guy she’s seeing decides to come over after work. The girl who says there is no such thing as “too busy” rereads a text from hours ago, convincing herself otherwise. The girl who says to not lose yourself for anyone takes naps to ignore the fact that she, herself, is being ignored.

I’ve always resented the way love—if you can even call it that; some form of twisted “love” it would be—seems to undo me so easily. I know how quickly I’d bend my life to fit someone else’s. How I’d sacrifice my dreams to make space for theirs. The countless sleepless nights I’d endure if it meant I was the last person they talked to that day.

I’d move across the country. I’d sit through movies I hate. I’d stretch conversations even when there’s nothing left to say. I’ve judged my friends for doing these things until I began to shrink myself around someone else, too. I’m often seen as smart and logical—which I think am, as long as my heart isn’t involved. I can preach wise truths that I conveniently forget when they apply to me. Don’t give more than what you’re given. Don’t show up for someone who wouldn’t show up for you. And still, I do.

I’ve become someone else to better cater to someone I hardly know. I’ve grown accustomed to saying “no worries” as tears well in my eyes. I try to be easy. Convenient, agreeable. I think, when you’re always trying to be at someone else’s convenience, it’s easy to forget who you are and what you need. I often lose myself in relationships. I stop reading, writing, and watching movies. I stop paying attention to anything that once made me feel like a person outside of someone else’s orbit. I become fully engulfed in their shadow. When I’m not with them, I think about them. I melt myself to become the water that’ll help them grow. Over time, it becomes a job I never applied for; a position that had no “help wanted” sign. Really, it’s a vacancy that never existed—one I created just to feel needed.

I become less interesting—devoid of who I was. And in it all, I begin resenting them even though they never asked for it. I make myself available to people who never asked me to be and who would never do the same.

I become a boring hypocrite whose sole purpose is to please the person I like. It’s almost ironic because they like me for who I am—a writer, a reader, a lover of art in all of its forms. I am a girl who has never been silent about her opinions, and yet I’d swallow all of them to avoid seeming too intense—which is beyond counteractive, because I know my person will also be just as opinionated as me.

And I think it’s true that, for the right person, I still would move across the world. There’s some truth to the idea that love makes you crazy. I’d just do it for someone who would do the same for me. I will no longer diminish who I am to be more palatable, becoming an easily-digestible version of bland vanilla. At a certain point, I need to listen to my own words the most. After all, they’re what make me worth wanting to begin with.

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