Somewhere along the line, what was once a personal quality in which I took great pride became my Achilles heel. I’m not sure exactly when or how it happened, but I’m well aware of the havoc it has wreaked on my pursuit of a picture perfect existence. The irony is that while I can see with stunning acuity just how this particular character trait has allowed me to mangle myself over the past several years, I am completely unwilling to do a damn thing about it. The bottom line is that I will go to my grave defending this conviction whole-heartedly, maintaining with what can only be described at present as stubborn faith that the torture is absolutely worth the payoff. I’m all about delayed gratification. Those who know me well have heard me say this time and time again. And here it is, the proof in the putting.
The nature of the impediment, you might ask? Love. I love. I am a lover. I am a passionate, deeply feeling individual, and I care for those close to me with tremendous devotion. The very substance of my being is made up of an intricate emotional manifold anchored to every nerve. The bonds I form with people fuse directly to my core, and remain forever. No matter what happens, no matter how much it hurts, the love is and always will be there.
Is this completely insane? If insanity means marching willingly into a dyadic snare with the potential to cause great harm, then perhaps. If it means woefully mourning the loss of a lover as one would her own flesh, then possibly. Do I have any intention whatsoever of changing this seemingly masochistic inclination? Not a chance.
I’ve been told countless times that I’m too nice. I’m not entirely sure what this means, but I know it has something to do with my inability to get mad and foster a healthy antagonism toward those who have turned their backs on me. At some level, I agree that for my own protection I should promote the proliferation of emotional scabbing after being wounded. But the thought of doing that is about appealing to me as a frontal lobotomy. To me, it would actually
be a kind of lobotomy. An emotional lobotomy that would change the nature of who I am and the sincerity with which I am able to love. I’ll pass, thank you very much.
This conviction is so entrenched in fact, that I can not see how it is even remotely possible for me to dislike, let alone hate, someone I once adored. Affecting such an about-face of the heart would subjugate the instincts that allow me to love so truly. Their voices (drowned out at the best of times by my constant tendency to “should” all over myself) would become muffled, or after repeated insults completely silent. When so wounded, they burrow themselves into the calloused epidermis of measured, rational thought and hide. But since instinct is the pilot light for motivated action of any kind, its burial culminates in the stagnation of intrinsic vigor. Such a deadening presents a profound detriment to carving out any kind of authentic growth.
That friend of yours – the one who tags along to all the group functions but always leaves you feeling a little drained – who continually seems to be in some kind of a rut and can not for the life of him make the simplest decision with easy assuredness? He suffers from this affliction. Perhaps maintaining the capability to coolly deliberate what he should do or how he should feel, the dulling of his intuition nevertheless renders him incapable of taking action.
Knowing all of this congenitally on some implicit level, I have always indulged rapturously in deep, sincere feelings for my lovers. And I have never been able to break the affectionate fondness, even when the end of the relationship threatens to break me. The intensity of my connection with other people enables me to love easily, sincerely, and unconditionally – undoubtedly all good things – but comes with the price of not being willing or able to dissolve these ties into indifference so as to spare myself the injury that inevitably ensues. I suppose that’s why so many of us work diligently to avoid feeling anything in the first place.
Despite the extravagant cost of investing in love time and time again, I can not fathom living without its tremendous dividends. To dread love as a weakening force is perfectly irrational, and really, just plain silly. The bouts of grief that must be waded can slow us down occasionally, but love
per se is actually the greatest source of strength and determination that exists for us human beings. It should be nurtured and honoured at every opportunity. Love is an unparalleled performance-enhancer. It allows us to do more, better, faster than we could without it. And most importantly, love saturates our lives with everything that makes them worth living – peace, ecstasy, purpose, faith, selflessness, pleasure, courage, passion, and drive. It just seems unconscionable to me to forgo all of this as a vaccination against the risk of hurting when you have to let someone go.
