Love for me has primarily meant romantic love. Sexual love. Agape love is great in real life but it is not the stuff of fantasy. So love for me has primarily been a fantasy rather than a reality, an aching need rather than an actuality, a yearning, a wishing, a desiring, a song, a cloud floating by. My love always has an object, a young attractive female object, who takes away all my pain. Love meant to me connection, union, an escape from loneliness. Love meant rescue. Love meant transcendence from my self-destructive patterns. Love was a high, a fix, a pulsing rock song, a focus for my attention, an obsession.
I first tasted steady reciprocation of my feelings at age 16. It was very sweet but its potential loss set off my jealousy, which doomed my fumbling connection.
What do I think love is now? I fear that my emotional instincts and yearnings are not much changed from my earliest years. I want to suck that breast dry because I have no confidence it will be around later.
My dad says propinquity breeds love. It’s true. Women I’ve considered not worth a second look become over time the most attractive thing in the world. When I get to know a woman, her looks transform.
My relationships have been sobering. I will never be able to relate to somebody on a different level of differentiation aka emotional maturity than myself. I’m stuck with my level. I can’t climb. I’ll have to love somebody as flawed and frightening and dangerous as myself. There’s no escaping my limitations. There’s no salvation in this life.
