How to ask for the love you need

 

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I recently did something that I thought would be silly, or selfish, or outlandish.

I wrote a manual on how to love me.

It gives the basics about me and my background, includes a list of my favorite things, discusses how to best communicate with me, describes how I interact within each of the five love languages, and has links to blog posts and book recommendations to help understand my trauma and triggers. It even has tips on how to help me through a panic attack.

I posted about it on my personal Facebook page and I expected some laughs and comments about how I was being super type-A.

But the response was nothing short of love and encouragement.

It’s okay to ask for love

It’s okay to ask for love in the ways you need it. It’s okay to say, “Hey could you love me this way instead?”

For me, one of the worst things is to ignore me or make me do all the work of initiating conversation or contact. Feeling like I have to chase affection is deeply painful. I am still learning that love is abundant and available, that I don’t have to earn it, and that I certainly don’t have to beg for it.

An unexpected message from a loved one can light up my whole day, reassure me that they are thinking of me, and show me that they care.

When I shared my manual about how to love me, people thanked me.

The next day, I posted a status to “love me louder,” and I got some people sending gifs and hugs… but I also noticed several friends leaving comments about how great a friend I am, how they’ve been inspired by me, how proud they are of my writing and my work. And that small shift in the way I asked for love felt really good.

It can be scary to ask for love

When I was in sixth grade, I was living with my dad after my parents divorced. I told him “I love you” multiple times a day. It was an easy way to check in, to receive that “I love you too” back. I was trying to ask for love. And one day his response was not, “I love you too.”

It was “You say that a lot. Seems like you might be trying to convince yourself.”

It has never really felt safe to ask since then.

It’s been twenty years since I felt safe asking for love.

When I check in with someone to ask for something they aren’t giving me automatically, my heart pounds. Tears prick my eyes. My whole body feels hot. I want to be anywhere but vulnerably in front of them showing the truth of what I need. Risking myself like that is physically painful.

I learned as a child that love can be faked.

Every time I ask someone to change the way they love me, it feels like I’m being ungrateful and selfish. Like I should change the way I need to feel loved rather than ask them to speak my native tongue.

It feels like I am flinging myself off a cliff and hoping they might catch me.

Sometimes it feels easier to sit around wondering why someone doesn’t love me than to say what I need to feel loved. Vulnerability is scary, but it’s where we get our needs met. It’s where we find resolve in our worth and value.

It’s where we remember who the fuck we are.

Vulnerability at work can look like asking for a raise or promotion. You’re risking a no. If your boss says no, you might feel unimportant or not valued. If your boss reassures you that you’re doing great and puts together a six month plan for you to be in a place where they can offer that raise when they have the next budget meeting — that’s a reward for your vulnerability, even though it initially feels like rejection.

Vulnerability with a partner can look like saying, “I feel like I’m chasing you down for affection and I want to hear from you more during the day.” This feels scary, because they could say no. They could say that’s not how they operate their love languages and they aren’t willing to learn yours. They could say this feels like a lot of work.

Or they could say, “I’m sorry that I’ve been loving you in a way you weren’t receiving, and I will remember that you need loved this way. It is safe to remind me, and please do until I make it a habit.”

Being told I’m hard work is one of my top triggers. It’s something that has been said by a parent and by a partner, and its message is clear: My love for you is conditional on how easy you make my life.

Relationships take work, but people are not hard work

It’s rare for two people to connect in a way that is 100% flawless all of the time. But if you are important to each other and there is mutual trust, respect, and caring, asking for what you need is a blessing. It’s a road map and a manual. It’s cheat codes to making sure you feel loved.

Interpersonal communication takes practice, and this can feel like a tough job.

But if people didn’t want to do the work of learning how to best love me, they wouldn’t be out here loving me.

Tell your partner your love languages and be specific

Your partner can reference your top love languages for a reminder that you really get a boost from a love note in the middle of the day or them offering to pick up dinner on the way home so you don’t have to. Maybe they buy you an awesome gift because you feel loved when you receive a thoughtful present.

Whatever your love language, it is okay to communicate it to your friends, family, and partners. In fact, it should be a regular part of interpersonal relationships.

Not sure what your love language is? Take the quiz here to find out and learn about all five languages, which are:

  • Words of Affirmation
  • Acts of Service
  • Physical Touch
  • Quality Time
  • Receiving Gifts

The hidden benefit of telling people how to love you

When you tell people how to love you, and especially when you tell people what makes you feel downright unloved or unappreciated, you have a measuring stick for people’s respect for you.

Once you’ve told someone several times what you need to feel loved and they repeatedly ignore it, it can help you see who doesn’t belong so close to you. You deserve an inner circle of people willing and eager to speak your language.

It doesn’t make people inherently toxic or bad for you if they don’t speak your language, but it is okay to place distance between yourself and them.

Normalize love

Normalize talking about love languages.

Normalize telling friends you love them.

Normalize asking for what you need, without apology.

Read more from me!

If you dig my brand of encouragement, you might like my Patreon page, where supporters receive a weekly pep talk post! You can sign up at varying levels for different content access, starting at just $1 per month.

You can also support my work by purchasing my book, The Gaslighting of the Millennial Generation. I’d love for you to let me know what you think of the book, so please give it a read and leave a five star review on Amazon. If you’re morally opposed to Amazon, I have some other links here.

 

 

 

 

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My Real First Marriage

In recent years when I have discussed my first marriage, I’ve been referring to the one with legal paperwork, self-esteem turmoil, and a divorce at the end. In all of those times I have said the words “my first marriage,” I forgot that my first marriage was actually to my childhood best friend who lived two doors down when I was only four years old.

This is a love story I completely forgot.

I met Alex one fateful day when my mother heard a knock at the door. My sister was just a baby, and I was about four years old. A woman was at the door holding a little boy my age by the hand. She introduced herself and said that her son Alex, “otherwise known as Satan’s spawn,” was wondering if he could play with me.

Thus began a beautiful friendship marked by being near inseparable for the next 5 years. We were the very definition of best friends. I do not remember every day of my childhood, but I imagine that we saw each other daily, for at least a few minutes if not hours on end.

Our friendship was remarkable in that it was true love, devotion, and friendship in the purest sense. Friendship at that age is not marred by developing bodies, by jealousy, by body image issues, by wondering if men and women can have platonic relationships, or by assuming the worst in a given situation. We were five years old and our days consisted of doing whatever we wanted. Coincidentally, what we wanted was to spend every waking moment together.

We rode bikes, we ate McDonald’s happy meals, we shared banana popsicles, we played in the backyard, we ran through cornfields, we played with toys, and we watched television. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Power Rangers were our favorites. We made spiralized apples with his mom’s Pampered Chef counter-mounted apple peeler. We listened to music and went to the movies and were just all-around best buds.

When we were five or six, we had a small wedding ceremony in the basement of my childhood home, standing on yellow plastic Little Tikes chairs. I don’t remember if there were vows. I do remember there was a wedding ring for me, in the form of a small hair-tie (the weird double-looped ones with a metal connector in the center) with clear plastic beads on either end. Diamonds, obviously. He put it on my left ring finger and we celebrated by jumping and dancing on my full-size bed, holding the removable tops from my bedposts and singing into them like microphones. To the Space Jam soundtrack.

You have my permission to be super jealous right now. It’s okay. 

We did not “get married” because we were in love. Not because we wanted to kiss each other. Not because we wanted to have babies together. We did not “get married” for money, status, or to cover up an unplanned pregnancy.  We did not “get married” because our biological clocks were ticking, our parents wanted us to, or for any reason other than this:

We got married because we were best friends and the only way we knew how to express commitment and friendship was marriage. 

Kudos to our parents for that life lesson.

I regret that somewhere along the way I completely forgot that marriage is something you do with your best friend. Sometime after puberty began, my worth as a person was equated to whether or not a man would want me and subsequently I forgot all of the things Alex taught me about love and friendship and what commitment should be.

Alex and I drifted out of touch after my parents’ divorce and after I moved away. I drifted away from all of my childhood friends. I am truly thankful that Alex and I were friends when we were though. In those formative years where a person is really being put together, a real friend is one of the best things to have as a kid.

Alex shaped my life. Alex shaped who I am. That seems silly to say about a person who I haven’t seen in over a decade, a person who I last had a meaningful connection to when I was in elementary school – but it’s true.

I am sorry that it has taken me this long to understand how amazing a friend he was to me when we were kids.

I regret that, in growing up, I forgot about him and the lessons he taught me.

I regret most of all that the catalyst for all of these realizations is his death. 

My first friend is gone. He is gone, and I will never be able to tell him how important he is to me, how much of a difference he has made in my life, and how much he taught me about love.

The only thing I can do to move forward is to go back and re-learn those lessons about friendship and love and how perfect life can be if you chase the dreams that make you happy. I have to go back to being five and learn to love myself and others again, the way Alex and I loved each other back then.

Y’all better pack your bags, because the next few blog posts are going to be a feel-trip.