Years ago I wrote a song in which I lamented that the lover I had written the song about did not “disturb the beat of my heart”. He, instead made me feel steady and stable, BPMs not spiking. That was a calming, soothing feeling. It was a good thing.
Something deep within my twenty-something self knew that lovers who caused those knots in the stomach we romanticize as butterflies and made my heart race were not the good guys. They were parasites, feeding on my love to fuel their mischief leaving me depleted emotionally.
It would take me until thirty-three years old, many men removed from whatever lover I was seeing at the time to encounter a book that instilled me with the scientific knowledge and understanding that love is not anxiety and butterflies. To quote the book: true love is peace of mind.
They call thirty-three the Jesus year because that’s the age Jesus died and was resurrected (if you’re a believer). I never really liked that euphemism but, culturally, it’s a thing.
Maybe there was some value here though. At thirty-three things started to shift for me. Old patterns of behavior have become intolerable to myself and I’ve let go of a lot of belief systems that no longer serve me. So maybe part of me has died and endured a sort of resurrection to a higher understanding of myself.
This man was not a stranger. He was actually a familiar face, voice more than anything. We knew each other from years ago but this time it was different. We agreed that we sparked interest within one another and we chased that high. It started off slowly but fairly quickly we were each other’s nightly go-to, a warm place to land after a day of work during this pandemic life. We vented about work, I relayed the drama of raising my four-year-old, we exchanged interests; our major intersection was music. A playlist we created together became our “baby”. We added songs we both vibed to and then we began to rely on the playlist to transmit messages to one another. I raise your “Distant Lover” by Marvin Gaye a “Toronto” by Snoh Aalegra. Check, mate. We shared a similar sense of humor and candor. We both laughed at the same shit on Twitter. We tag teamed on each other’s shows. It was comfortable and good.
Long-distance relationships never made any sense to me, but as a very busy mom now, this worked for me. Planning a visit was fun and gave me something to look forward to. In total we saw each other in person five times over the course of ten months, twice in my territory, twice in his, once on neutral-ish ground as I was visiting a friend who lives near him. Each visit became more and more of a whirlwind weekend vacation than the last. Each time I left feeling more and more attached and ready to say “I love you”. Wanting to feel that he too wanted more. In my mind, I was ready to implement a six-month plan to intertwine our lives as much as possible and within twelve months be ready to get married.
But something was off. I recognized that he seemed to really like me and did exhibit care on some level. But in one conversation a tongue-in-cheek comment rubbed me the wrong way, I spoke up about it and suddenly I was being told to not come for our scheduled visit which was to occur that weekend. If your lover lives a flight away, ticket is booked, and she’s coming on Friday, her questioning your intention behind a slip-of-the-tongue statement cannot possibly make you cancel those plans, can it?! Accountability is that hard bro?
And when asked to put a true framework around the relationship, you know the works: titles, defining what we are, outlining value, I was met with vagueness that left me more unclear than before.
In our final conversation I asked him what my value was to him, what did I bring to him? I also outlined a desire to see him move the needle in our relationship sometimes. Plan something, be intentional about me. The conversation concluded with him saying “I have nothing positive to add here”. We hung up and never spoke again.
To the point about thirty-three being my Jesus year, if the old me hadn’t yet “died” I would have fought like hell to get him back on the phone with me to make sure this wasn’t over. To over explain myself with mile long text messages. Maybe even would have booked a flight, showed up at his place and pushed for a discussion to make things right. But when we hung up that night something in me knew it was over. Though I was very sad, this person meant so much to me, I cried, I skipped meals, I vented, but I knew this needed to end. It wasn’t healthy for me. My needs and desires deserved to get in the front seat and out of the trunk I’d been dragging them around in for so long.
A few weeks later in therapy I asked my therapist about attachment styles. She smirked and referred me to a book, she loves to do that!
Attached. The New Science of Adult Attachment And How It Can Help You Find - And Keep - Love showed up via an Amazon Prime order a few days after that session. I cracked it open and was instantly bored. A few weeks later I’d given in to Audible so I downloaded the book and began one of the most important discoveries of my adulthood.
Hi, my name is Michelle and I have an anxious attachment style. This is neither good nor bad, it’s simply pertinent information to help me determine the ideal partner to spend my time and, hopefully, the rest of my life with. I desire closeness. I desire intimacy. I require security, availability and reassurance. When these needs are met I’m able to filter more clearly and I have no reason to protest (or “act out”). And for the love of God, I’m now clear that me asking for these things is never asking for too much.