"The most important thing in life is to learn how to give out love, and to let it come in." -- Morrie Schwartz (subject of the book Tuesdays with Morrie.)
I've been giving a lot of thought to relationships lately; what makes them tick, what makes them work, what contributes to their failure. The fact that I’m dating again (and is my ex… or so I suspect...) has led to a great deal of introspection. I've been poring over old journal entries I wrote before, during and after my last relationship, in an effort to clarify what worked, and what didn't. An exercise in self-defeat, perhaps, but a useful one nonetheless.
On paper, my ex-boyfriend is what I’ve always looked for. He is easily one of the most intelligent people I know. He is equal parts nice guy and quiet rebel. He’s funny, both in the “ha ha” kind of way and in the sharp, witty way that I so deeply appreciate. He can make me laugh with as small a gesture as a raised eyebrow. I can have a conversation with him for hours, never get bored and always learn something. He is equally interested in music, sports, art, books and film – all of which he can speak about with both intelligence and passion.
In short, he is a beautifully complex and interesting man, multi-faceted, and faaaaaar from average. (And the last thing I'd ever want is someone average; average often equals boring.) Throw in a big dash of chemistry -- I swear, sometimes he’d give me that look and my breath would literally freeze in my lungs -- and you have the makings for a pretty great relationship.
So if he was so great and everything I always wanted to find, why didn’t it work out?
Well see, that's the tricky part. It wasn't the difference in our religious and political affiliations. It wasn't our in ability to communicate with one another. No, if I’m really being honest, the hardest part of being with him was the way it made me feel about myself. I sometimes felt so small and insignificant. There were times when I felt crushing insecurity. That’s now how people in healthy relationships are supposed to feel.
Every time he did something to make me feel that way (like not wanting to say, “I love you,” or not returning an email or text in which I asked him to do something…), it was a damaging blow not just to our relationship, but to my self-esteem. In fact, I once wrote in my journal, “I don’t like fighting with him. I just want things to be easy. But I can’t lose pieces of myself to him, either. I’m afraid that’s what’s happening every time I let something slide.”
Those little insidious betrayals of our relationship made me feel insecure, they made me feel weak. But instead of trying to fix things, I rationalized. I rationalized all the time. Things would always get better, so I ignored the insecurity and the feeling that I was unimportant or wasn’t worth the effort to him. It was easier to just ignore it than to argue.
Besides, anytime I brought up something he didn’t want to hear, he’d get in one of his moods, and I just didn’t have the energy to deal with his moodiness any more frequently than I already was. (He even said after we broke up, “You got more patient with me and I got less patient with you.”) And I loved him so much… I didn’t want the walls I so frequently erect to get in the way and damage our relationship. Instead, I went in the opposite direction. I was too vulnerable.
That was the fatal flaw in our relationship. I wanted so badly for things to work out that I was willing to trade off occasionally feeling worthless and insignificant and unimportant, just to keep the peace and keep the relationship intact. That is a “me” problem, not a “him” problem.
I guess that’s what has been the hardest part of the break up and my dive into the dating pool. It’s tough to admit that even after I talked to him about what was important to me and how I wanted to be treated, I didn’t respect myself enough to walk away when he couldn’t give me what I needed.
That’s what I’ve been struggling with lately. It worries me that if I find another guy who seems worth my time, I’ll make dozens of tiny concessions and lose pieces of myself to him. And when it doesn’t work out, I’ll be left with nothing but regret and heartache… and so will he.
So how does one suss out whether someone is going to treat them right in the long run, not just while we’re starting out? How can I be open and vulnerable to falling back in love, but still be strong and demand a certain level of respect? And when do standards go from being status quo to abnormally and impossibly high?
And am I in danger of erecting more walls because I can’t figure this out and I never, ever again want to think I’m going to marry someone just to have the relationship fall apart?
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