My younger self was certain: love and hate could not occupy the same space. They were opposites, and to feel one was to negate the other. Growth, however, has a way of blurring the lines you once thought were permanent. I now understand that “there is a fine line between love and hate” because I’ve spent years walking it.
I have loved people I felt I should hate, my heart refusing to align with my judgment. Worse, I have hated parts of people I deeply loved, a bitter resentment poisoning my fondest memories. I look back and hate that a beautiful connection was cut short, leaving only the phantom pain of what could have been. I also look back on certain chapters and hate how long they dragged on, each day a lesson in endurance.
The whiplash of these conflicting emotions is its own unique tax on the soul. And nobody gives you a manual for this. People talk about feeling love or feeling hate, but they don’t tell you what to do when you’re feeling both at once, toward the same person, at the same time. How do you move forward when your own heart is a civil war?
I’ve read the books. I know the techniques. But knowing why I love so intensely doesn’t stop me from hating the weakness it reveals in me. My love often feels like a door I can’t close, and I hate the draft that comes through it. I lose myself in the way I love, and that loss fuels the resentment—the hate—that turns my affection into a battlefield.
So here I am, caught in turbulent water. It’s chaotic and it’s exhausting, and part of me never wants to get out. I love the water, even as it threatens to drown me. It’s a confusing place to be. Every day is a balancing act. Some days, love wins. It feels warm and whole and right. Other days, hate doesn’t just win—it dominates. It’s a gale force wind that knocks me off my feet, and all I can do is wait for it to pass.
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