Reading her profile, I'm wondering.
There was this angst thing I used to have. It was a big problem. I almost died of it, somewhere in the lands between time, in the place where nothing ever goes right, all the bright Powers of the universe are dead, or, worse, have forsaken you...
...There was this angst thing I used to have. I had too much love in my soul for anyone else to bear it. To be loved by me was to be loved by a hydrogen bomb -- safest to run away.
I almost killed the love in my heart, somewhere in the time between times, in the days where the day was dark and ash rained down from the sky, and the nights burned with the light of pain.
I don't like to think about those days now.
I loved too much. I picked the wrong targets for my affections. I didn't know what else to do. I was in love. I never learned how to redirect my emotions. I never learned how to say, "I care, but only a little." There were two states for me: on and off. I probably have some form of bipolar disorder. I don't know. I never cared enough to go to a doctor, and my parents couldn't really afford it anyway, so I dealt with it. The school counselor probably told them, "She misses her friends from camp."
It was more than that. I'd never in my life had any close friends as smart as I was, let alone a whole crowd of them. I was in love, I was missing out on intelligent conversation, I was ...
That's never a fun place to be.
I loved. I was not loved in return, or, when I was, in the wrong ways by the wrong people. There was just too much love that I had, and I had to find some way to express it or explode. I was forbidden from expressing some of that love, so I had to find ways to get rid of it.
I couldn't hate him for not loving me, so I had to hate myself. I did that quite well.
All my other friends hated him for helping me turn into the colorless person I'd become. He wasn't responsible, but he'd allowed it to happen, and it was happening because of him, so they hated him. I saw what he was letting me do to myself, and I hated him for it. Part of me did, at least.
I had power over him, though, and I was able to use it, and sometimes I did. He feared me. He did not love me. He did care, he did begin to love -- he was emotionally crippled, as emotionally crippled as I. We made a cute little couple, he and I did, and everyone saw that we were perfect for each other, if only he could realize that I loved him. He realized, all right, but the intensity that I was capable of scared him no end, so he refused to have anything to do with my love, refused to let me even speak that word to him, refused to hold my hand, refused to kiss me.
He was my first lover. We still have never kissed.
My current beloved, the person I love most, romantically speaking, in all the worlds...
...he knows I love him. He treasures my friendship. I treasure his. I adore him. He allows me closer than he allows many people. We both know that I would not endanger our friendship; that is the dearest thing in the world to me.
Most importantly, he allows me to love him. He doesn't want to make me stop. He doesn't want to push me into or out of doing anything. He occasionally has to ask me to tone down the stuff that makes him just a touch uncomfortable, but ...
...he doesn't say "go to hell" or anything like that.
It's just ....
....he's not what I'm used to. I love him especially for that.