Because no one else has gotten this close. Because no one else has loved you in all of your glorious imperfection. You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to be something that nobody could ever be.
Loving this woman, day by day, is loving yourself. Is loving your quirkiness, your spontaneity, your little inner parts that you are accustomed to hiding.
No one person, including yourself, could ever know everything about you. It is unimportant, really, to know yourself completely. What is important is that at any given moment, you are projecting what you feel. Feelings shift like the sand dunes in a storm. Even glaciers are melting beyond millions of years of definition. So this cinema of you, this panoramic view of your inner self, these snapshot photos of personality are necessarily vague and indeterminate. Necessarily, you squabble with her, you shout at her, she hits at you. You make up, and you re-connect at some essential level. It is this potential for long-lasting harmonizing beyond momentary partisanship that constitutes love.
I don’t ever want to stop squabbling with her. Our playful wrestling often ends in tears. Our uncertain future creates stress, sleeplessness, and so forth. But the re-uniting. The reconciliation. The reinforcement of all that is truly meaningful between us is worth everything. It is worth the years of loneliness before I met her. It is worth the suffering of uncertainty that every day brings. It is worth myself, and my fears, and my ego, and for this, I gladly sacrifice.