I LOVE YOU

article by Meredith McKinnie

I. Love. You. The way the “I” rolls off the tongue and the “Y” rounds the lips into a kissing pose makes the words discernable across the room. We’ve all had an “I love you” that took us by surprise. The unexpected “I love you” floods the body with butterflies. Someone loves me and feels it enough to tell me so. It’s flattering and humbling and sometimes leaves us feeling obligated to say it in return. The “I love yous” can be tricky. We want them, but from the right people, at the right time. I’ve always wanted to be shown more than told. I’ve learned that’s not true for everyone. We say it casually to our friends, “Love you,” when saying goodbye. Taking the I off the opening makes it seem less personal, less intimate. Intimacy still makes people uncomfortable, even with those we’ve known for years. Saying it is important, but them knowing it is most important. It’s that balance of saying it enough, showing it always, and meaning it most.

My dad told me he loved me on a telephone call when I was a teenager. He may have told me before, but that’s the first time I remember. He had begun to work out of town, and hearing our voices was his only connection to home. Perhaps it made him more aware of his love, more certain that we knew. I remember smiling when I hung up, being a little stunned. I shouldn’t have been. I knew he loved me. He worked for us, took care of us; the words weren’t imperative for me. But they were for my sister. She told me she needed to hear it. That was one of my first realizations that my experience didn’t speak for everyone else.

My first husband never missed any opportunity to tell me, but he missed all the opportunities to show me. The routine made it less special. Some find comfort in consistency. I didn’t. The words allowed him to show me how unloved I was. He felt better for saying it, so I resented the words. “I love you” meant “I can hurt you” and still feel okay about it. The frequency of the words added insult to injury. He didn’t love me. He didn’t love himself. I doubt he ever even knew what love meant. He had to have seen it; perhaps he wasn’t paying attention. Perhaps I had to learn to love myself enough to get out of a relationship where I wasn’t loved.

I know who loves me now. I pay close attention. And rarely does it have anything to do with them telling me. The words mean they want me to know that they know. But I already do. Husband shows me daily. Works are his love language. We have this routine where he waits on me before bed. He’ll tuck me in, stroke my forehead, and kiss my lips, ever so softly. As he cuddles in beside me and nuzzles the side of my cheek, he sometimes says the words in a soft, whispery voice. He says them in an exhale, as if it’s his last effort of the day, the last thought of the day. Sometimes I don’t respond. Our breaths in cadence serve as my reply. I don’t need an “I love you” at the end of each phone call. I prefer the randomness of the sentiment, as if something I did reminded him how much. I like the butterflies of the unexpected even from the most expected source.

I tell myself I love me by taking care of myself. I’ve had a few, “I love yous” in the mirror. I cried once, sad that I needed to make eye contact with myself, that I needed to be reminded. It’s important to remind myself that I’m enough, even from my harshest critic. We pick ourselves and each other apart. We’re quicker to criticize than compliment. And better still, we resist compliments. We have a hard time giving and receiving love. It’s the most natural emotion, and yet it’s the one we complicate. We should give love more, without question or doubt or expectation. Love without looking for it in return. If the words need to be said, say them, but make sure the actions back up the sentiment. Show me you love me. Just telling me is too easy.