I was talking to my nephew on the phone the other day and as we were wrapping up our call (which is actually quite sad because he’s a super smart, chatty little boy), I told him I loved him. In turn, he responded that he loves me. I paused and said “I know.” Unlike his aunt, he didn’t a miss a beat when he asked how I knew. I told him that I just did, just do. I know he loves me as sure as I know anything. He said ‘okay’ and that was the end of that. His curiosity was satisfied and our conversation, concluded.
The thing is, it wasn’t over for me. Not unlike other events or interactions in my life, that brief interlude, our delightful but complex conversation, resonated with me, profoundly. There were so many questions floating around my head. How did I know? How was I so sure? Was I so sure? Is it possible for a 7 year old to truly love his aunt? Does he even really know love enough beyond the connection to his parents or his sister? Why is it generally easier for me to read this child or even to feel confident about my reading of this child? By comparison, why is it so difficult for me to read other people or feel assured in their feelings for me?
Well, I suppose it’s useful to start with how we know people love us. What that feels like. I’ve often been confused when it comes to this point. As adults, we muddle so many emotions together to the point where it is difficult to separate one from another. What do I mean by that? Well, before I get to the nitty gritty of that particular topic, I’d like to speak to a related matter.
I am going to revert back [just a bit] to a subject from another day, for good reason. I had shared a story about a young woman who was having difficulty letting go of a friendship that no longer served her. I explained that sometimes the worst bit is that stretch just after the initial sadness, disappointment, and rage pass. When we are in a proper tizzy regarding someone’s poor treatment of us, it is absolutely easier to justify our need to move away. We feel empowered and glorious. We tell our story with confidence and feel further emboldened when those closest to us share our outrage. And then, the emotional storm of an unpleasant interaction fades. The dark clouds roll out and we are left with quiet. A heavy, solid silence. And it is in that stillness that the doubt emerges.
We try like hell to grasp onto the absolute sureness we had and yet we feel it slipping through our fingers. Our sense of dismay and the desire to run fast and far from that human is muted, overwhelmed by a mad rush of memories. The remembrances that permeate our brain are not of disagreements or times of distress. Instead, we think of every lovely interaction with that human. We edit our history so that all we can see are the happy and satisfying bits. Our ‘I’m sick of this shit’ pronouncements are overcome by ‘maybe I made a big deal out of nothing’ or ‘I’m so sensitive generally, so maybe I’m just being difficult’ or ‘maybe s/he deserves at least one more chance.’
We wring our hands and stare at our phones. We draft emails and texts and then delete them or store them in drafts, ready to be sent through the interweb at a moment’s notice. I mean let’s just be completely fucking real here, right? You know, like we always are with each other in this space. When they don’t exist or aren’t easily available, we seek reasons to contact that person. Silly, nonsensical reasons. An article, a meme, a recipe, or maybe just a bullshit text under the pretense that we didn’t mean to send it to them or somehow a text from an age ago just finally dropped into their inbox. Please don’t tell me you’ve never been this person. Maybe your picture looks a little different, but surely you’ve experienced something similar? One moment, one day, one week, one month, one year…some time period where you’ve tortured yourself looking for excuses to reconnect with someone. Sometimes we take the plunge, hoping our efforts are rewarded with reciprocity. Other times we are too chicken shit. So then, we just endlessly cycle through our heads, waiting for an opportunity that never comes ‘round.
Where am I going with this? Why such a long diversion? Well, I’m getting there. I was speaking with a trusted advisor of sorts and explaining that I’m often quite focused on this nonsense because I’m frequently the person who folds or changes her mind during the period of uncertainty. And to make matters worse, I don’t want people to judge me for my weakness, so I tend to keep it all a big ol’ secret. I described it as a spiral of shame.
Then something occurred that rocked my world. Really. This individual I was confiding in asked me what I meant by shame. Asked me how I define shame. I said ‘ya know, like humiliation, worry, confusion, fear…all that stuff’. There was a noticeable pause in the conversation and then came the earth-shaking part. This person, with love shared that it sounded like I was taking a whole bunch of different emotions and shoving them under the cover of shame. “Shame” they said, “is the person who sees an unattended purse and dips in to grab a few bucks. Shame on them. But the sadness over the tragedy of that, the humiliation of the person who failed to pay attention to her purse, the worry over the loss of needed funds…those emotions, those experiences are not shame. They are different, no?” Oh shit. Yeah. They are different.
So why did I do that? Why did I take a trillion different emotions and make them one? Ease of application. It felt easier. Simpler. It’s arguably less stressful to contemplate the processing of one emotion than it is seven. Seems reasonable enough. Same thing, right? There’s an emotion and I’m processing it. Right?
Not right. Not even a little. When I choose this one emotion and base my actions, reactions, and life choices off IT, then I neglect all others. I make decisions based off “half” information or some fraction of the information available. I know, I know, this post is coming to a close (just for today), so what’s my fucking point? Ready….drum roll….
This is how we mistake love. This is how we misunderstand love. This is how we doubt love. We don’t have the tools to separate out love from everything else we feel and so, we get it wrong. Often.
Oh shit. Yup. I’m gonna leave you with that.
More tomorrow (said with love),
L.
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