Love

So this post was going to be completely different (same theme, different everything else), but as they say 'shit went down' at my house tonight, that made me a) completely unmotivated to finish revising what I had just written, and b) really, really hate what I had just wrote.


Love. One of my friends rather eloquently (although she would beg to differ) wrote a blog on the imprecision of the english language, and its use of love. For there are many different forms of love, and only one broad term. But how does this relate to the 'shit that went down'?

Here is what happened: 
Year 12 is a notorious year for many reasons. One of them (particularly for females) is weight gain. My mother, out of some misguided love noticed my weight gain within recent weeks, and decided that in order to 'help' me, she would make me losing weight her personal crusade. Never mind the gentle, and not-so-gentle suggestions from myself and my grandmother (who I love beyond words), that this was possibly not the best time for her to begin this mission. The reason for why the timing is so astronomically bad is thus: I love food. I truly do. There are probably several underlying reasons aside from the fact that it just tastes amazing, not the least of which was discovered in a conversation I had with my friend (questioned as to why I loved food so much, I responded with, 'it is a constant'). So. I like food. Food is my go-to, when I am stressed...see where I'm heading here? Year 12, is high stress. 
My mother, constantly telling me that I need to watch my weight, is not conducive to a less-stressful working environment in the six weeks or so leading up to my final exams (oh god).
So, back to the story. 
Tonight culminated in me getting really, really worked up at my mother, after she got me to try on some clothes for a particular occasion. They were her old clothes, from when she was disgustingly thin (ie before childbirth and the dreaded middle aged spread that widens the hips etc etc etc). Needless to say, they were not the best of fit, and not only did it contribute to my ever-dwindling self-esteem, it got me thinking about this weight-loss crusade. And I made that decision to get angry.
I think the worst part about this, is that my mother honestly believes that she is doing what is right for me, that she is helping me (when in fact, as my friend so eloquently put it, she is systematically eroding my self confidence). It's like the religious fanatics who send their son off to un-gay camp, telling their gay son that he is leading a wrong lifestyle (ok, so perhaps slightly extreme example here, but you get what I mean). They love their child, and they honestly don't want their son to go to hell. My mother loves me, and she has decided that this is the way that will help me best. She is wrong. 


I managed to drive my mother out of the house, I was so worked up and borderline aggressive. So I sat down and had a little cry for a minute, and then I called up my Grandmother, because I needed someone to talk to, and basically, tell me that it would be ok. God I love my grandmother. She is the epitome of elegance and love.
Then I started talking to my two best friends. Both of them were simply there for me, each in their own ways. And their love meant so much.
Without these three people, I would have probably been hysterically curled up in a corner sobbing, when my mother returned. As it was, I was far more collected, although when I tried to explain to her why I was so upset, it didn't quite get through. She doesn't get it, yet she honestly believes that she is trying to do what is best for me. Needless to say, she went to bed, and I am here, calming myself down (again). 
But this outpouring of love from my friends, it is something that literally, was like a blanket enfolding me, letting me know that, yeah, I could deal with this, and get back to that study! 
To illustrate my point: 
 Z: is there anything i can do?

 me: just keep talking to me :)

 Z: okay, if you want me to do anything other than talk to you let me know :)

and: 

A You are beautiful and lovely and not fat. I will not allow you to sink into apathy and/or despair

I hope they know how much I love them.

Now. My original point. 

How many times was love used in my above story? 

And how many meanings did it have when relating to the type of love expressed? 

Now think of love, just on its own. When you, dear reader, read the title of my post, you probably (and kudos if you didn't), thought it was going to at least make some mention of romantic love. 

And did it? 

See what I'm getting at?