What my mother taught me about love.

I don’t think we learn to love from our mothers. At least I know I didn’t. I don’t think she taught me anything worth remembering. Yet her twisted, fucked up lessons are burned into my brain. She taught me to love recklessly, carelessly. She taught me to put up with anything. She taught me love was taking someone’s shit, as long as they were good in bed. She taught me heartbreak is nothing a few drinks can’t fix. She taught me cheating is OK, as long as you’re both doing it. She taught me to keep secrets, she taught me to lie. She taught me you have to change yourself, if that’s what they want, but you can break character when they aren’t around. She taught me lovers come first to family and friends. She taught me when it’s over isn’t really when it ends. She taught me screaming and fighting is just something that you do, and a couple bruises don’t mean they don’t love you. She taught me to never take responsibility for my actions, that love can make you do crazy things. She taught me to go after the bad boys, they keep things interesting. Go after the guys who get into 2am bar fights and start drinking at noon. Go after the guys with domestic violence charges and face tattoos. Go after the guys who really fuck you over. It’s not love if you don’t end up with makeup running down your cheeks and bloody knuckles every few weeks. She taught me love had nothing to do with following your heart, it was just two people trying to tear each other apart.