Love & Other Drugs

Feb 14

Feb 14 Love & Other Drugs

I’m not sure why there’s such a thing as being unlucky in love. I think I've sought after it, cried— taken hiatus after hiatus to “cleanse my palette,” if you will (eye roll, I know), and then come back ready each time to face the dating pool head-on. A routine that has always proved unfortunate and always, ironically enough, to my dismay.

As a teenager, I think you often get the brunt of insults accusing you of being too “naive,” too “fast,” too “immature” blah blah blah… when it comes to love. As if your age strips you of all credibility.

Although, I don't expect to know all the answers at nineteen. I'm not Bell Hooks; I can't even pretend to claim to know, All About Love.

However, I have seen other people my age get it right. Be on the same page, same book even. Hence, upon this realization, I ask myself. Why can’t I? It’s not like I haven’t given it my best. The next statement may come across as a bit bitter or maybe even a little desperate: but, GODDAMN have I tried! And the more I do, the more I hate how it makes me feel. It seems that the only point of clarity I've earned while going down this dark, long, miserable tunnel has been that:

Love is NOT like other drugs.

For one, I don’t get that dopamine rush every time I'm pursued. On the rare occasion I do, it’s too fleeting to really put me at a high. Whenever a new romantic interest presents itself, I can’t help but think, “here we go again.” Making sure to hold my breath during the dive. I do all the things you are supposed to do. I talk, text, go on these little dates— we kiss, and if we even make it that far… maybe even…

Then what?

Well, usually they’ll go, “I don't think it's gonna work out…,” followed by a list of reasons. I listen diligently, taking in what they have to say, and for the sake of ending it on a good note, willfully agree, and that's that. It's over. I can breathe again.

The bad part comes next. I’m aware I have an attachment problem. I cling to people like a baby loves to grip. Just as the palmar’s grasp is an involuntary neurologic reflex, my clinging too, I feel, is instinctual. If you believe in that sort of thing, attachment theory has suggested that I have a “disorganized fearful-avoidant” attachment style. A manifestation of both anxious and avoidant attachment habits. So I guess it makes sense that my post-ending-it ritual consists of an overwhelming wave of self-doubt, self-pity, and self-loathing — essentially a shedding of all the things I may have once liked about myself.

Don’t worry I usually get them all back.

But, during this stage, I’m suddenly whining about God knows what, measuring myself up, questioning whether I’m deserving or even worth someone’s time and commitment. To some extent, I do that too during the pursuit. But, it’s somehow far worse after. I adopt this unhealthy practice of placating my feelings to the side. Hoping that if I do so long enough I’ll eventually forget them (it's not very full-proof, I never do). Then, I spend a period (the length fluctuating based on how much I liked them) strongly disliking myself for allowing them to have had even just a sliver of me. And the minute I think that it’s over and I’m all recovered—there I am once more; stuck— disliking myself more for wanting to do the entire thing again with someone new.

But why?

Why would someone sane want to torture themselves in this way?

I’m sure with everything I just told you, you probably read that back and thought: well, maybe it’s because… you’re not all that sane? But stay with me; I promise I have a point to make here.

Here’s what I think. People like me, though yes, we struggle to keep ourselves afloat, knowing we’ll have to work to put ourselves back together after we let others in and it doesn’t pan out; still, all share the small faith that one of these days, it will ring true that love is the superior drug.

Better than any substance I could take in (I do not care how potent).

Better than anything that could provide me with any semblance of real joy.

Maybe, love is NOT like other drugs because love is perpetual; in all its formats. It might just be the hopeless romantic in me talking, but whereas Like is ephemeral, with feelings fading as quickly as they came, Love lasts. And sure, though I think the memory that you once loved someone may vanish. After all, “It’ll pass,” was the Priest’s response to Fleabag shortly after she confessed her love for him. When it comes to the feeling, Love as an emotion— I’m not sure you ever stop loving someone you had truly loved, in that sense. Romantically or otherwise. No matter the circumstances. And as to why we accept the torture. To that, I'll say: love may take a lot out, but strangely enough I think it also helps us feel less empty. It’s why we crave it. Even though that desire may seem somewhat greedy or selfish, I think that’s what makes it human to want a little bit for myself. Not to mention, as an added bonus, my romances have helped me meet a lot of pretty dope people along the way.

So, no matter how hard it may be to find or how grueling the aftermath-ritual, as of now, I’m committed to the craft (whether that is subject to change in the future is a different story).

‘Cause, when it comes to “love & other drugs.” Love is by far my drug of choice.