NeverGoingBack

Helpless

A song I know says, "Love is watching someone die." I have not had to experience such an event, but I cannot think of a situation where one would feel more helpless than to watch a loved one slip away. But how much difference does it make when it is happiness, not life, which hangs in the balance? Without happiness, the difference between living life and living death boils down to hope.

I keep finding more evidence that I have an uncommon character flaw: I care too much. I lost Nadya that way, and I strained yet another friendship — one that, thankfully, remains intact. I'm not exactly sure how I manage this feat, but I must do it well. I always believed that it was impossible to love or care about someone to excess. Sure, there have always been the obsessed stalkers and the psychotic crazies out there, but one could argue that their psychosis does not qualify as love. (At least, it does not qualify within my own definition of "love.") If I look in the mirror I see someone devoid of such a psychosis, so now I must either add "delusional" to my list of traits or continue searching for the true cause. Perhaps I love the way I do because, deep within my soul, I wish someone would love me the same way. Of course, someone probably does, but I cannot say I ever really felt loved outside of a few fleeting moments.

My father probably wins my category for childhood demonstrations of love. I remember playing in the yard when I was elementary school-aged, on a pile of scrap lumber for some cosmetic upgrade to the house. Young boys doing what they do best, I managed to scrape the back of my hand to the point where it began to bleed. (Fair warning: some readers may find this a bit graphic.) I looked down at the wound covered in dirt and sawdust and I could feel the growing sensation of pain bubble to the surface along with the blood. By now, Dad had heard my yelp of pain and was examining my hand. Calmly, he brushed away the majority of dirt, bent over, and cleaned the wound as you might suck the venom out of a snake bite. It may sound disgusting, unclean, or totally weird, but that's what made it a manly thing to do — running into the house 30 yards away just to reach fresh, running water would have been overkill. My point is not so much what my father did as what was his explanation. There I was, a little kid and in complete awe that he had sucked away dirt and blood because I scratched my hand. When I asked him why he would do such a thing, and didn't he think it was a bit gross, he simply said he did it because he loved me. While that story is more likely to turn stomachs than jerk tears, this is the example of a selfless act I want to set for the rest of this article.

Something about today's society makes us throw the word "love" around like its worth only the ink used to stamp its four letters on the surface of some chalky-flavored sugar candy distributed in February. Teens tell each other they're "in love," when they barely know enough about their own bodies to differentiate between the effects of hormones and caffeine. Mass media only adds fuel to the fire with their after school specials, sex-driven network advertising, and 24-hour news coverage of the latest hook-ups and break-ups in Hollywood today. It is really easy to point the finger at the teenage crowd, but try to find a better role model in the adult world. Divorce rates are higher than ever, adultery is common place, and we file prenuptial agreements that make marriage look like a mere formality. The word "love" doubles as a synonym for "really, really like a lot," and even I will admit I use it in that context from time to time. But there are other times when I say, "I love you," and I mean it, in all seriousness, and the difference is obvious. I do not give out that version often, and when I do it is only after long and serious deliberation. When I decide that I love someone, it is assumed to be unconditional because otherwise it would be trivial. To this day, I still love Nadya. She hurt me and it took years for the pain to subside, but I told her I loved her, and I cannot take that back. Often, I wonder if the recipients of my love really know how deep it goes. Some of them would believe they do, but neither I nor they know for certain until the test comes.

People may deny it, but in general they have a hard time allowing themselves to be loved; it is a phenomenon I simply do not understand. They will say there are "different kinds" of love, or they don't love you "in that way," but all that does is marginalize what would otherwise remain a very powerful concept. I have been accused of speaking in absolute terms, and I admit to doing so when I speak as an idealist. I do that now when I say that you either love, or you do not love. There is no in-between, only confusion. I cannot impose this concept on the masses, but it is a truth as far as my own love is concerned. So, what happens when you care that deeply about someone, particularly when your version of "love" seems stronger than most others'? You get in trouble — trouble from the incongruity between your willingness to love and the marginalized societal concept of what love should be. True love scares most people, even though they claim to seek it, and there exists no cure but time and patience.

You may recall I mentioned another friend, one whom I also love quite dearly. I made the mistake of trying too hard to show that I cared. I made the mistake of offering more than she needed. I made the mistake of trying to demonstrate that I didn't use the word "love" purely to make her feel better, that it was genuine. I'm nearly certain this same kind of demonstration made Nadya constantly fear that I would ask her hand in marriage. The truth is that no one has yet to return a fraction of the love that would cause me to forsake all others. Of everyone I can remember, Nadya had the best chance — and I think that's why losing her hurt as much as it did. But I still have other friends I love — with one in particular in my mind as I write — and as a result of all my pure intentions, there exists a larger — not smaller — chasm between us. It is not her fault. In the name of love, arguably, neither is the fault my own — though I will accept responsibility and the consequences. But I must not lose another dear friend through my own actions.

So now I feel helpless. I have a friend I love dearly, and she feels miserable. If she reads this, she might think "miserable" is too strong a word, but miserable is the sense I get when I look at her face and she speaks of being alone. She's strong and hates to appear weak, but loneliness is not a weakness — neither is the self-doubt, the sadness, nor the futility we feel in that condition. Those are normal. But what can I do? History has shown that I cannot comfort her with words or actions, though I yearn to do one or the other, if not both. I would take away all her pain and replace it with hope, were it possible. But I know not how to accomplish these desires, and she would not let me if I did. I can only stand at a safe distance, trusting that she prefers it this way, and hoping that I never have to watch her "die."

February 13, 2007