Love

How do I know that it is the real thing, that I am in love, that this is the one? Such an awful, unanswerable, and misleading question. Everyone who wants to love and be loved has asked it. I have heard many glib answers. Like 'well... you'll just know.' The pervasiveness of bad relationships and failed marriages exposes this as a glib lie. Or it's an old theory of Finding The Right One, applied to the modern problem of making what was long a social/economic construct and jamming it into a Hollywood Ideal of Romance. Only by reframing the question can any sense come of it. Then, it is one of those answers that can only come out of experience. How do I know a particular individual seed will grow? By planting it and finding out.

It is far easier to be taught what love is not, and learning the red flags. Manipulation, jealousy, contempt, disregard, unfairness, hostility, all apparently obviously bad things, but how many folks in abusive relationships will say "S/he is wonderful, except (for one of these mean behaviours)!" And who of us, new at the idea of love, have not tried to control the one we hope to bed? Or lost our temper when they were not living up to our fantasy of them? Or indulged in selfish stupidity, or self-destructive envy? Why should we expect perfect love, when we are ourselves not perfect? Because we have to start somewhere, and I cannot climb a seed, I have to let it grow into a tree first.

I had lots of crushes in school, and by the time I graduated high school, having not yet had anything like a boyfriend, or indeed a date, I had formulated a Plan. I was only going to allow myself to indulge in a crush if the guy was interested in me. I am still convinced this was a good principle, but being unbalanced, led me into six years of misery. I succumbed to the "But he loves me," argument for staying in an unsatisfying and dysfunctional relationship.

I knew, in the deep of night, in the dark of my heart, that I was never in love with the ex. I loved him in the way I treated him, but I never had that spark. I simply did not think anyone else would love me. And he told me he was the only one who woud love me. He had the spark, but never treated me lovingly. There were always two different rules for polite behaviour, one for him, one for me. He would correct me for standing with my weight on one leg, or fingering my toes (a comforting habit indulged when home only.) He treated these as bad habits he was helping me stop. (Huh?) He always took the waiter's side against my ineptness ordering in restaurants, and hated losing any game to me. There were far worse things done that would drive me to escape, but these small acts of dismissal, competitiveness and petty complaint stay with me more. The signs I missed, the clues I can only see clearly now. What I could spot at a glance now, I did not even know to look for then.

When I got to know D, I was raw and damaged, angry and deeply distrustful. He was young and very inexperienced, with only his friends' misadventures with girlfriends throughout high school to inform him. We approached each other with great caution. We talked. We spent time together, quite a lot due to sitting in Colorado Springs waiting to be sent to Saudi Arabia. We joked and asked questions and offered confidences. We pulled back, and misunderstood, and tried again, apologized and spent more time together. We each proved ourselves trustworthy, and began to trust. We talked about everything, anything, and made each other laugh. He coaxed me out, never judging me or complaining about me, never forcing.

Early on, we discussed marriage, as if at the ends of proverbial long poles. I was terrified of the idea. He didn't want to be trapped in a restrictive conventional life with a house in the suburbs, kids in a mini-van, and a job that sucked out his soul for 20 years. But the spark was so strong, and all of the bored Army folk around us kept asking us when we were getting married. There was always such a sense of rightness between us. We made vows.

1. Don't lie to me.

2. Don't treat me like shit.

Which turned out to be a very good place to start. We would, over the years add:

3. Never take each other for granted.

4. Always get each other toys.

Again and again, he gives small acts of kindness and praise, without considering any of it extraordinary. He quotes me, his professors know who I am and what I think. He always greets me with enthusiasm. He takes care of my computer and makes phone calls when I get an anxious attack of call reluctance. When I stutter and cannot find words, he is attentive to the utmost. He attempts skills he knows are beyond him, because I need him, like driving on a long straight road when my exhaustion overcame me while we needed to keep moving toward home, like trying to tie my hair back when my shoulder hurts, like dancing with me at a company party. And he astounds me with his skill, playing guitar, writing dense cogent history, giving a serious, funny speech, writing music.

We try to love each other as best we can. We admire each other, and grow in order to live up to each other's vision of the other. We cultivate privacy, without fostering secrecy. We laugh. We hurt each other. We keep coming back, in humble awe for how well it seems to be working. We are perfect for each other, as imperfect as we are. Did I mention we laugh a lot?

And so two people, without malice, can find each other endlessly amusing and interesting. We grew a wonderful love. It's a very nice view from here. Utterly impossible, easy as breathing.