Help, I don’t want to be in love.

Please, not again.

Window to my soul—entry 1.

In my little life, I’ve been many versions of myself. Growing up, my self image was a blur for quite a long time. I didn’t know who I was or who I could be. I didn’t know my capabilities or desires. All I knew was how to be a continuation of my siblings and a mold cast by the opinions of everyone around me.

Since I didn’t know who I was, I worked hard to materialize people’s opinions until they become who I really am. No originality, just a walking diary carrying the thoughts of everyone who met me.

Primary school was all fun and games. It was easy to live out other people’s expectations because the world was still gentle with that chubby little girl. But in secondary school, I met dragons—minions of the one dragon I’d met before.

And so one of the first things I learned about myself was this: I didn’t like people. People were too different from what I was used to. People were mean and rude. People were inconsistent and inconsiderate. They were healthy, healthier than I was and I was jealous. What do you mean you don’t randomly fall ill? I hated people because they didn’t understand. I hated that they weren’t burdened with survival like I was. They didn’t know pain like I knew it and they had the audacity to behave anyhow. I hated people because they seemed to have no excuse for being imperfect.

I couldn’t fashion my life after the opinions of such people. So hating them meant reclaiming the control they’d have had over my identity. I finally chose myself. Rather selfishly.

But I met Christ, and healing came—as expected.

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“Chinelo, stop beating around the bush. Tell us why you don’t want to be in love.”

Fine I’ll say it plainly…

I was healed yet I loved selectively. I protected myself to the core. I went on with life and one day, it hit me like a ton of bricks that I hated people but I finally loved someone. I loved him. I screamed internally.

It terrified me as I watched all that hate for people become…you thought I was going to say love for him? No. All that hate for people became hate for myself. Deep-seated self-loathing.

I realized something awful: I hated people because it was the only way I could love myself and when I eventually loved someone, I inevitably hated myself.

Balance, I guess. Or protecting my fragile identity.

The pain I was carrying flipped inward: self-hate became the cost of loving someone else.

Why? Because the version of me that loved was disgusting. She was cheap.

Love brought out intense parts of me. Parts I don’t like, or even recognize.

I’m an advocate for vulnerability but I really hate that thing. I hate picking myself apart, begging someone to hold me. But all I am when I’m in love is vulnerable. I’m raw. I’m unfiltered. I’m exposed. And since I’m too real for this plastic world, my vulnerability is someone’s ticket to abuse.

How dare I fall in love without first learning how to protect myself? Everyday, love felt like a threat to my life. It felt like an allergy caused by all my favorite foods. Irresistible yet deadly.

Love made me delude myself into seeking safety, while I sat in a car with someone who couldn’t drive. It was only a matter of seconds until we crashed to our death, yet love told me to hope we’d survive. When I’m in love, I’m foolish. It weakens my brain cells and chips away at my IQ.

Love convinced me that with more love, I could control people’s perception of me. That if I loved them loudly and proudly, I’d get a glimpse into their minds to see what they think of me because my love will be their undoing, and they’ll bare themselves before me.

Love said it’ll satisfy my curiosity and fix my insecurity, all I had to do was give more of it. But guess what? With more love came more poison. The more I loved them, the more I became a nightmare—both theirs and mine.

When I was in love I was irresponsible. I stayed awake dead into the night waiting for his attention. I wasted precious time on calls and I starved my eyes of sleep. I yawned til my jaws hurt but I refused to rest. Because love told me to abandon myself.

When I was in love, I compulsively hurt myself. I had to train my heart to accept harm in order to preserve connection. To keep love alive, sensitivity must die.

Love wrote me a beautiful story but the more I read it, the more I had to erase myself because parts of me were overwritten on every single line.

The version of me that loved, never learnt to coexist. All she knew was sacrifice. Dissolving into a person so that they can be whole. And what about her? Who cares. At least she tasted love.

Love came dressed as hunger and my pride won’t let me stop feeding. I gave and gave and gave. I left myself at the altar, feeling like a true worshipper. For love was a high calling.

Love dealt harshly with me, yet I’d never felt more alive. I was brave and daring and feeling. Oh, what a thrill!

You see! Am I even okay!?

Help, I don’t want to be in love again, because the only love I’ve ever known made me disappear?

Sincerely,

Chinelolum.

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Thank you for reading my Substack.

Welcome to my new series—Window to My Soul—where I’ll be writing unfiltered words from the quiet corners of my heart. If something here resonated, you’re welcome to linger, share, or simply return for the next entry.

See you when next I open up.🤍

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