I had a friend once who was crazy in love.
Knowing how much he meant to her, I listened patiently while she talked about him, always in excruciating and obsessive detail, what he said, what she thought he meant when he said it, and how she’d responded.
They’d met at a game arcade in the mall. Both their kids had been invited to the same birthday party. “Try having a conversation next to Street Fighter 2,” she complained. “We were yelling the whole time.”
He was “separated.” That was the first red flag. I didn’t know whether to tell her. To this world-weary and cynical observer, “separated” is usually (but thankfully not always) code for two things: 1) my wife and I are separated, but I’m the only one who knows it, or 2) I’m going on a sexual sabbatical without my wife, but we’re getting back together as soon as I’m done.
Either way, it wasn’t looking good for my friend.
In my own life, I’d fallen for “separated,” one time and one time only. But I’d seen the same stale drama play out for others. They’re always going to leave their crazy/bitchy/horrible wife who doesn’t love and appreciate them the way you do. They’ll end things in two months. In six months. A year. In two years.
All too often when the lover does leave, and you guys get together, you eventually became the one he’s cheating on.
Water is wet. Cheaters are cheaters. And it’s not even the cheating that hurts. It’s the million times they lie about it and make you feel like a chump. It’s knowing you can’t trust your own judgment anymore, not after this. Why didn’t you see what was going on? Was it obvious to everybody else? What if there are a whole bunch of other things you’re too stupid to see?
But my friend had both feet in the boat, and this guy was taking her for a ride. “I found a motel receipt in the footwell of his truck,” she told me. “Do you think he’s seeing somebody behind my back?”
Okay, stop and marvel at the irony. Still, I kept my mouth shut. She loved him, and she was hurting. How many boneheaded things had I done for love? Plenty. Besides, I knew how lonely single parenthood could be. Not for me, actually. I loved being single. But for many others, it was hell.
The truck receipt morphed into a lot of mysterious business trips, then a text—a text!—saying it was over. My friend sat on my couch, crying. “What kind of asshole does something like that?” she said. “I had no idea he was such a jerk, did you?”
And there it was. The fork in the road, albeit a bent, dirty one that was probably going to give me tetanus when I stepped on it. I could either tell her the truth, or continue my far wiser tactic of plausible deniability.
“He never invited you to his house,” I said. “He only called you from work, never at night. Even texting. I know how much you love him. Unfortunately, he just didn’t love you back. Not because you aren’t lovable, but because he’s a shallow, lying—”
“Shut up!” my friend yelled, grabbing her coat and purse and heading for the door. “You have no idea what we had. Don’t pretend you know what you’re talking about.”
And that, as they say, was that.
Through mutual friends, I heard she was badly obsessing, which made me feel crummy. I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have lied to her just like that guy lied to her. Some people really can’t handle the truth. But the one thing that stood out to me was how she was still in love with him and kept trying to get him back. Even though he treated her terribly. Even though he didn’t want her. Even though he really was a shallow, lying scumbag.
The question I kept asking myself was why. Why do we love people who are awful to us? I’ve done it. Maybe not as often as some people have, but I’ve done it. And now, I really wanted to find an answer to that question, even if I had to do some painful soul searching to get there.
First, I had to delineate the two types of love: mature, unconditional (or reasonably unconditional) love, and romantic love. The first can be real work; the latter is a thrill ride. Unfortunately, it’s also, at its roots, intensely narcissistic. We think we’re falling in love with a person, but all too often we’re falling in love with the way that person makes us feel about ourselves (which is wonderful, by the way). Romantic love holds up a mirror, albeit a distorted and shamelessly flattering one. And boy, do we love gazing at our idealized image.
The beloved finds us beautiful, and suddenly, we are. The world has exactly two people in it: us. No one in the history of love has experienced the deathless love we have for each other. Our sexual possessiveness surprises even ourselves, yet further proof that we are destined for each other.
All thoughts we used to have about not being lovable suddenly vanish. As if by magic, the narcissistic wounds of childhood appear to heal themselves. That sneaking suspicion we had about Dad leaving because we weren’t worth sticking around for? Gone. Except a haunting fear that the beloved will wake up one day and realize they don’t love us after all either—or worse, they love someone else.
That’s the thing with narcissistic wounds. Romantic love paves right over them, only the patch job doesn’t last. Sooner or later, we hit a pothole, and romantic love either turns into mature, unconditional love, or we move on down the road. A lot of folks never stop moving.
At some point, we realize (or fail to realize) that people love us because they are capable of love. Full stop. Our “worthiness” has only a little bit to do with why they love us. Who we fall in love with may not be a choice, but making a commitment to love that person, no matter what, is. Not every day will be an “OhmygodIloveyou” day. Most are fairly pedestrian. But this is the person who knows you. Really knows you. They carry your history. The good ones carry your vision, as well. And each day, you make the choice all over again: I want this.
According to self-help author Melody Beattie, we love the ones who don’t love us back because there are three unhealthy ways humans seek self-worth, and they’re all external: 1) material objects (nice house, nice car, expensive jewelry), which demonstrate to the world that we’re special because of what we have, 2) other people’s opinions, like that of a lover, telling us we’re special because of who they think we are, and 3) job-related validation, assuring us that we’re special because, after all, we earned this.
There’s only one form of healthy self-worth, and that’s the kind you bestow upon yourself. You’re worthy because you exist. No one gets to tell you whether you’re okay or not, lovable or not, beautiful or not. That’s up to you. And sometimes that can be the hardest challenge of all, hacking and slashing away at the jungle vines of your own human experience—especially your childhood—to discover who you really are.
There’s another head game we do to ourselves after a bad breakup called “perceived value.” The beloved no longer wants us; therefore, his stock goes up. He becomes exclusive, discerning, the final decider of whether we’re worthy or not.
But that’s objectively false. Every one of us is damaged goods. Nobody makes it out of childhood without sustaining a considerable number of dings. Asking a damaged person to assess the worthiness of another damaged person is the very definition of insanity, even if, in the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.
Love is a teacher. We are her willing and unwilling pupils. But we will love. And we will hurt. Our job is to learn to love ourselves, even a little. Do that, and I promise you will never cast your pearls before swine again.
Do you have a love-gone-wrong story? If so, I’d love to hear it. Feel free to leave your comments below.
Like this article?
Want to share this article?
"Romantic love holds up a mirror, albeit a distorted and shamelessly flattering one."
Boy, howdy....
With any luck, age brings wisdom...and what wisdom will do is give perspective. I can look back at some of the silly/ill-advised/just plain stupid things I've done for love, all of the "WTF was I THINKING??" episodes...and realize that they were teaching me something. What those assorted lunatic moments were teaching was that I deserve to be loved AND treated with respect. For too long I was willing to get myself into situations where things felt good for awhile, but then the roller coaster effect would set in. Up and down and up and down...and I went along for the ride, because it felt good and I figured that's what I deserved.
Before I met Erin, I was in a rather tumultuous relationship for 2 1/2 years. The sex was great, but she was never sure that what we had was what she needed...and so we broke up and got back together on four different occasions. I would wait for her to call me, and I'd go crawling back. Finally, after the last time, I realized that I deserve better. Once I walked away from that, it was if a weight had been lifted from me. I met Erin shortly after, and she was willing to let me do what I needed to do to heal. There's a lot to be said for stability.
Hi, because 'in giving, we receive' !
Was trying to find an old saying I found to be true for me from my teenage years. Didn't see it anywhere but had a good laugh at how much in the dark a lot of sayings still are or (maybe, unfortunately) representative of our times. Ie, 'It's good to be loved. It's profound to be understood' , horrible, on so many levels. I rather have Joan Crawfords 'Love is a fire. But whether it's going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell.'
The German saying I was looking for was something on the line of: 'it's great to be loved, but to love, Gods, what a joy.'
To love is so totally it's own reward for it makes us strive to be better people, to pick ourselves up again when we stumble, to notice and share the miracles and wonders of this world.
I love Zarathustra's : Bless the cup that wants to overflow, that the waters may flow from there and bear the reflection of your joy, over all the world.
Our failures in loving teach us to fill the cups of others and that in being able to do so we're already blessed and further to widen that love to all that's in this world, including, of course, ourselves.
(My stories/failures to get thus far: Too many to list. Lol, maybe another time.