Am I Actually Hard to Love, or Did Enough People Just Convince Me That I Am?

Sometimes I genuinely wonder if I’m hard to love.

Not in the cute, “I’m a little complicated” kind of way.

I mean sitting alone at night, staring at the ceiling, genuinely wondering:

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Why does everyone eventually leave?

Why am I always the person begging for communication?

Why do I always seem to care more?

Why can somebody make me feel like I’m everything they’ve ever wanted, only to eventually make me feel like I’m too much?

At some point, when enough people hurt you, there’s one common denominator you can’t stop noticing.

You.

And that’s when the questions get fucking ugly.

Maybe I’m the problem.

Maybe I’m too emotional.

Maybe I love too hard.

Maybe I need too much reassurance.

Maybe my mental illnesses make me exhausting.

Maybe my abandonment issues eventually push everyone away.

Maybe my overthinking ruins everything.

Maybe there’s something fundamentally fucking wrong with me that everybody else eventually figures out.

And maybe that’s why nobody stays.

Fuck.

Even writing that hurts.

Because there is a part of me that genuinely believes it.

A part of me that has collected every abandonment, every betrayal, every broken promise, every unanswered message, every person who suddenly changed their mind about me…

and turned them into evidence.

See?

You’re hard to love.

Another person leaves?

Evidence.

Someone chooses somebody else?

Evidence.

Someone stops trying?

Evidence.

Someone promises they’re different and ends up hurting me anyway?

More fucking evidence.

Eventually you stop asking why people treated you badly and start asking what you did to deserve it.

That’s the dangerous part.

Because when enough people mishandle your heart, eventually you start believing the problem must be the heart itself.

And mine?

Mine has been through some fucking shit.

So yes.

Sometimes I need reassurance.

Sometimes I overthink.

Sometimes a tiny shift in someone’s energy scares the hell out of me.

Sometimes my brain takes one unanswered message and turns it into an entire funeral for a relationship that isn’t even dead.

Sometimes I get scared and pull away.

Sometimes I get scared and hold tighter.

Sometimes I need someone to remind me we’re okay even though they literally told me yesterday.

Sometimes loving me means understanding that my brain doesn’t always play fucking fair.

I have wounds.

I have triggers.

I have mental illnesses that don’t disappear just because somebody loves me.

I have days where I’m not easy.

But here’s the question I’ve finally started asking:

Who the fuck told me love was only meant for easy people?

Why did I decide that needing reassurance makes me unlovable?

Why did I decide that being emotional makes me a burden?

Why did I decide that somebody else’s inability to communicate meant I was asking for too much?

Why have I spent years taking other people’s failures and turning them into character flaws inside myself?

Maybe I’m not hard to love.

Maybe I’ve just been loved badly.

Maybe I kept handing my heart to people who loved the way I loved them but couldn’t handle what loving me required.

Maybe they loved my loyalty until accountability came with it.

Maybe they loved how deeply I cared until I needed that same depth returned.

Maybe they loved having someone who would fight for them until I finally asked them to fight for me too.

Maybe they loved my softness while benefiting from it, but called me sensitive when their actions hurt it.

Maybe I wasn’t asking for too much.

Maybe I was asking the wrong fucking people.

Because what have I actually wanted?

Consistency.

Communication.

Honesty.

Effort.

Affection.

Reassurance.

Someone whose actions don’t constantly make me question their words.

Someone who doesn’t punish me for being vulnerable after begging me to open up.

Someone who doesn’t learn every scar on my heart just to eventually leave another one.

Is that really impossible?

Is that really “too much”?

Or did I spend so much time accepting crumbs that eventually a full fucking meal started feeling unreasonable to ask for?

Maybe that’s what I have to unlearn.

Because somewhere along the way, I started believing love was something I had to earn.

If I’m prettier, they’ll stay.

If I’m calmer, they’ll stay.

If I don’t ask what’s wrong, they’ll stay.

If I stop needing reassurance, they’ll stay.

If I’m less emotional, they’ll stay.

If I don’t complain when something hurts me, they’ll stay.

If I’m useful enough, loving enough, sexual enough, understanding enough, forgiving enough, patient enough…

maybe they’ll finally fucking choose me.

Do you know how exhausting that is?

Trying to become impossible to abandon?

Constantly editing yourself so nobody has a reason to leave?

And the fucked-up truth is…

People will still leave.

You could become the easiest person in the world to love and somebody could still decide not to love you properly.

Because their decision to leave isn’t always proof that you failed.

Sometimes people simply don’t have the capacity to meet you where you are.

Sometimes they aren’t ready.

Sometimes they want the benefits of intimacy without the responsibility of protecting it.

Sometimes they love you and still don’t know how to love you well.

And sometimes?

They’re just fucking assholes.

None of that means I’m flawless.

I’m not.

I have things I need to work on.

I have reactions I need to take responsibility for.

I have patterns I need to break.

Mental illness can explain my behavior, but it doesn’t excuse me from growing.

Healing means looking at myself too.

But there’s a difference between accountability and self-hatred.

And I’ve spent way too much fucking time confusing the two.

I can say:

“I need to work on this.”

without saying:

“Nobody will ever love me because of this.”

I can admit:

“Sometimes I need extra reassurance.”

without calling myself needy.

I can say:

“My brain is struggling today.”

without deciding I’m a burden.

I can have scars without believing somebody has to be a fucking saint to love me.

Maybe I am complicated.

Maybe loving me requires patience.

Maybe whoever loves me will occasionally have to remind my overthinking brain that we’re okay.

Maybe they’ll have to understand that sometimes I’m fighting battles inside my own head they can’t see.

But they’ll also get the woman who loves with her entire fucking chest.

The woman who remembers the little things.

The woman who will show up.

The woman who will sit beside someone through their worst days.

The woman who will celebrate their smallest victories like they just won the fucking lottery.

The woman who doesn’t run at the first sign of imperfection.

The woman who knows what it feels like to feel alone and will do everything she can to make sure the people she loves never feel that way beside her.

Why did I never count those parts?

Why did I keep a detailed fucking inventory of everything supposedly difficult about loving me while completely ignoring everything beautiful about it?

Maybe that’s the real damage hurt people leave behind.

Eventually their voices become yours.

They leave, but the insecurity stays.

And years later you’re still looking in the mirror through the eyes of people who didn’t know how to fucking value you.

I’m trying to stop doing that.

I’m trying to meet myself without everybody else’s opinions in the room.

And maybe the answer isn’t that I’m easy to love.

Maybe that’s not even the goal.

I’m human to love.

Messy.

Complicated.

Emotional.

Loyal.

Scared.

Strong.

Soft.

Sometimes fucking chaotic.

Still healing.

Still learning.

Still worthy.

So when that little voice inside my head asks me again:

“What if you’re just too hard to love?”

Maybe I’ll finally answer it differently.

Maybe I was never impossible to love.

Maybe enough people just loved me poorly that I started believing I was.

And I think it’s finally time I stop carrying other people’s inability to love me properly as proof that there is something fucking wrong with me.