Well…not quite. When I first came up with the idea for this entry, I was overwhelmed by my recently severed romance (still am), and felt like my emotions at the time were about five miles past the border into love addict territory (still may be). After not nearly enough research with the trusty tool named Google, it seems that I may have over thought my state of mind. While I do exhibit some of the symptoms that lead to love addiction, I have not taken any of the typical actions associated with it.
Preamble: I’ve been exploring, in my thoughts, the reasons behind why breakups have been so world-shattering for me. I’m going on three in the last year and eight months, starting with the end of my longest relationship. None of them were initiated by me, and so that probably factors into why they’ve hurt so much. The pain caused by each varied in intensity and lasting duration. I hope that through this entry, and perhaps many others to follow, I can get at the root cause of my possibly self inflicted suffering.
Signs and Characteristics of a Love Addict: Lack of nurturing and attention when young. Feeling isolated, detached from parents and family. These are probably the top two sources for my condition. My parents divorced when I was five, but my father was gone long before that. I have one memory of being a family of four. Florida. The hotel room with a pot brought from home so we could heat milk on a hot plate, because I had to have my warm chocolate milk. I also remember being on the beach. I’d always “look both ways” before attempting to dive into shallow water. Just like when crossing the street. We also rode the teacups or something at Disney Land. All other memories of my father being in my life are post divorce. And they are few and far between.
My mother worked hard to provide a functional household. She did her job so well that I never thought to consider myself part of a dysfunctional family. I still don’t, but time has made it clear that it was far from “normal”. She worked from 7:30 to 3:30 as a nurse’s aid, three days on, two days off. Every other weekend she would be working, and so these were the weekends that my sister (mentally handicapped) and I would spend at my father’s place with his new wife. We more or less kept to ourselves, first watching Saturday morning cartoons, and then infomercials until bedtime. Sometimes we’d go to a nearby park.
On weekdays, my mother would have us up around 6am. Eggo waffles topped with peanut butter is the breakfast I remember most, though it certainly wasn’t an everyday thing. I’d sit on the side of her bed and eat, with the side table lamp on and darkness still outside. Shower. Have my hair combed. Out the door and at my neighbor’s, who just happened to be the neighborhood babysitter, by five to seven. Then we’d sit in the basement, watching French kids tv for an hour or so until it was time to walk to the bus stop. Cue normal day at school.
After school it was back to neighbor babysitter, until four pm when my mom got home. Dinner around 5, homework until bedtime (I went to bed super early as a kid). During this time, my mom would be doing her second job/passion for life: sewing. She focuses more on women’s clothing, but she could probably make anything. Suits. Bride’s maids dresses. Replica of an outfit she saw in a store. All with our without the normally required cutting patterns. She would do this most nights, and on her weekends off, long after we’d gone to bed.
For years this was the cycle. Eventually I was old enough to stay at home alone on weekday mornings after she’d gone to work. So then I’d only have to be up by 7, and I could come straight home after school. Weekends were still spent at my father’s place, until the age of eight and some minor physical abuse from his new wife came along. After that, every other Saturday and Sunday would be spent home alone in my pajamas. watching tv on the living room floor. Sometimes I would do homework.
I spent most of my childhood alone and isolated. I had friends at school, but school life and home life almost seem like two completely separate existences. I don’t remember seeing school friends on evenings or weekends, except for the occasional birthday party. While I’ve never felt uncomfortable socializing with others, I do feel like it has always been difficult to really feel at ease with people I haven’t known for long.
I’ve also always been accused of being quiet, or not having much to say, particularly in groups. I think this is just because I’ve never quite become accustomed to anyone having a genuine interest in what’s on my mind. These days, it normally takes a person two questions to get anything significant from me. How’s it going? Not bad, not bad. What have you been up to? Cue short and concise rant about my most recent doings.
In relationships, this trait initially comes off as mysterious and intriguing, but this sometimes turns to perception of a lack of trust in others, or maybe disinterest. I’m sometimes seen as cold and unavailable when sitting next to a person, or even through online chat. Beneath the surface though, is a timid little boy who’s afraid to be known, and desperate to share his life story with another. His ultimate goal is to make a lasting connection, one that promises to never break, one that will never be taken for granted. Such a thing is likely unattainable, however. All things change. All things, both good and bad, come to an end.
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