Meg Dowell Writes

Looking at Maslow’s Heirarchy again, one thing is clear: we all want to be loved.

Not only do we want it, but we need it, too. Think about what would happen if you went your whole life without a single person telling you they loved you. How would that make you feel? You’d feel worthless and pointless, like you didn’t belong anywhere at all. You’d think that no one loved you, because no one ever told you so. The sad part is, this happens to people sometimes.

And then there are the people that abuse the idea of love. Don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing wrong with loving people unconditionally. But to some people, love is a big, scary word, and bluring it out left and right (whether you mean it or not) can be dangerous, damaging, and even more harmful to someone than never telling them you love them at all.

I’m not one to play around with words, as they have a much deeper meaning to me than they do to most other people. When I say something, I mean it. I don’t lie (at least, I try my very best not to), and I don’t tell people things just to make them feel better about themselves. My honesty with friends and peers displays my trust in them, but I also expect them to be honest with me in return. I had a friend a very long time ago who told me something I’d written was amazing; astounding; perfect. When I finally figured out myself that it was anything but, it was very hard for me to forgive her for lying to me. If you lie to me, and don’t tell me you’ve lied to me, and I find out, I lose all respect for you, and you won’t get it back.

So that four-letter word they call love isn’t a word I’m one to mess around with, nor do I appreciate it when other people use it in the wrong context. I express my feelings about this in the novel I’m plotting. Through Leah, I opinionize the idea of love as being more than a lighthearted emotion people use to mean a plethera of other things—I love this show, I love this book, I love this person that I’ve never even met before. I won’t have it, and neither will my character. Why?

Leah’s mom was a terrible wife and mother, for reasons you’ll only find out if you ever read the book (you probably won’t, but it’s okay—secrets are fun). When Leah was five, she and her dad left. Just like that. At the start of the book, she’s seventeen. She’s lived alone with her dad for twelve years, and never once has he told her he loves her. He’s tried to, through his actions and gestures, etc., but he’s never actually said the words. That’s because the word “love” is what started the whole mess between he and Leah’s mom. But this girl has never been told by anyone that she’s loved. So how is she supposed to feel? Certainly not happy. Certainly not worthy of life.

But you’d have to read the book. Which is impossible. Because I haven’t even written it yet. So unless you’re going to figure out some way to take the story that’s in my head, rip it out, and put it in book form without me doing any of the work, get the idea out of your head. Not happening. Ever.

Well. Maybe not ever.

But the moral of the story is, don’t say “i love you” unless you mean it. Because, if you say it when you don’t mean it, and overuse it, it loses its magic after awhile. A person can only hear that phrase so many times a day from the same person before it doesn’t even register as emotion anymore. Don’t play around with the L-word. It’s full of happiness and joy, sure. But use it the wrong way too many times, and you’ve gotten yourself into a mess you’re not going to get out of easily.

We all need to be told we’re loved. But saying it to somebody when you don’t mean it? That’s just mean.

Unless you’re like me, and mean every sincere word you say. Then you shouldn’t have to worry.

Love&hugs, Meg♥

(By the way, see that signature? Totally mean it. Every time. For sure. You’re reading my blog. Therefore, I will always love you.)