Love's keen and frightful sting

I feel lost and empty. I feel so removed from every positive emotion I was once capable of feeling and the only emotion I can bring myself to feel is anger, over how brutally this has affected me. I can hardly sleep, I can hardly think right. I can hardly concentrate, I can hardly do anything but sit and wonder about what happened. It’s hard to believe that anything will ever be as it was again. Morbidly, I find myself even wishing it never did, because then I’d have moved on and the very idea of moving on seems unlikely. When my darkest, most disturbing thoughts come around, I’m at odds wondering if I want to hurt the person who’d been the cause of this, or myself. More anger and hurt comes when I realize what this is doing to me: I thought I was better than this, I thought I was stronger. How could I let my happiness depend on someone’s love and adoration, when before that I was fine with finding it for myself on my own, from the books I read, the stories I wrote, and the paintings I made?

Love’s ruined me. It’s a dramatic declaration, but then the whole business of love is dramatic. I fear the cliché of it; but love is a cliché. One begins to think it’s overhyped and not worth a bother, but I’ve been bothered by it, and it was worth being bothered with – until it was suddenly taken from me and I wondered what in hell was happening to me because of it.

I treat it with the wildest animosity when people tell me I’ll be fine, that this is completely normal (worse, that it's only a shallow hurt), and that I’m only going through stage such and such in the process of getting over it, which they assure me, painfully but eventually, will happen. I cannot bring myself to believe this, whatsoever I try. People tell me that time heals all wounds, but what am I to do about the wounds I’m nursing in the present? I try to keep busy, but even when I’m successful at what I’m busy with, I’m painfully aware in the back of my mind that the only motive driving me to keep busy is that what I’m doing (be it exercising, music, or drawing) will somehow win back the heart of the boy who once loved me.

And the boy remains my friend. It’s a painful dilemma I find myself in: Though on one account I was hesitant in remaining friends because I hated to have to tread a shaky ground with him, another was that I feared the warmth of a continued friendship would make it harder for me to move on. For my benefit I want to sever all ties with the boy who was, for a time, my lover; I want to know only the one I knew before, who was my best and only friend. But of course this can’t be easily done, because every time I look at him now, or speak with him, his voice and face will always embody both. I know I can still bring myself to love him as a friend, but my mind (or heart) finds it difficult as yet to separate the two, because that time, though brief, left a very strong impression. And I’m never sure, when I remember him, which of him I’m remembering. He’s welded himself so intricately between both personas that it’s a maze to work through to distinguish who it is; the labels of friend and lover seem black and white.

This relationship was not one initiated by a speech of, "Let's see how this goes, and if it doesn't work out, we can be friends." He came to me with a confession of his feelings for me, and for a few months we were in love, and he, ordinarily a bit cold and unsentimental, told me in all forced but genuine sentimentality how I was a great comfort to him and that he loved me, and hoped this would last a long time. Then one day without notice he didn't feel it anymore, was unresponsive to my physical affection, and lost interest in me. I had to find out through a painful way that he wasn't.

The only logical means for healing would be to not speak with him for a while. Somehow, I can’t accept this: he’s my only friend, he still contributes to my joy and life, and to be apart from the part of him that was my lover inevitably parts me from the part that’s also my friend, because they’re intertwined. Another logical means for healing would be to be around other people, and though I try to socialize with the people I know, I can’t tell them everything that’s on my heart and mind because I am the sort to maintain deep acquaintances, and when all they do is talk and I listen, I feel lonely, when I only feel alone when I’m alone.

You can see that I am trying to predict what advice you may give me by deflecting it with my reasoning of how it would not work; I do this because in my hopelessness I’m confident nothing will. The only thing that seems logical to me is to continue being his friend, with the hope that he will one day have a change of heart, and will want to be with me again, which will cure me of my pain.

Please try to set this stubborn girl right.

Aw cosmocoma,

I'm sorry you are feeling so sad.

I know it doesn't help your situation, but I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed how you wrote your post. Do you write stories?

You're right; you can probably predict what I'm going to say. I wonder if that's partly because a small part of you knows it's true? Yes, time does heal all wounds. This too shall pass. And you very likely will love again.

That doesn't make it any easier now. But you can choose whether you focus on now or the future. You can concentrate on analysing your pain in all its glorious detail. You can even try to love your sadness.

Or you can focus on your recovery. Think ahead to a time when you feel better. Put all your creative energy to a more positive use!

There's an article here on Mending a Broken Heart. Maybe have a look, and write back some more with your thoughts. I'm sure there are other users here who've suffered from a broken heart with stories and advice to share.

Cosmocoma,

That is a beautifully poetic title and post.

2 things stood out for me;

ordinarily a bit cold and unsentimental

Could this be a defensive/protective position?

Then one day without notice he didn't feel it anymore

Perhaps he felt it too much to feel safe and the only recourse was to "switch it off"?

So many relationships end, not because people "fall out of love", but precisely the opposite; love feels threatening to our sense of self and our control of our world. Something in our make up fears love more than anything else, perhaps because it fears losing so it would rather never have. It would be a mistake to consider this an act of will. Our strings are pulled by many hidden mechanisms, mechanisms for defence and protection. These can be observed in many ways; as the sudden withdrawing of feelings as you experienced, right up to the emotional and physical violence sometimes experienced in the Love/Hate relationships that people with borderline traits go through.

This quote from David Mann's "Love and Hate; a psychoanalytical perspective” rings true so many times;

Love can seem a risky business. Fairbairn (1940) makes the point that love can feel threatening. Love can close down psychological distance between individuals and, therefore, can be experienced as a threat to a fragile sense of self

You do have the soul of a poet. Maybe the fact that you're still friends is just like continually sticking your finger in the light socket. As painful as it is, my ex who was with me for over 5 years, said she wanted to be friends after the breakup, but when I tried out our friendship, she burned me again...maybe completely go no contact to heal. I'm sorry for all your pain.

Platypus, thank you for your reply. I do write stories, and it's nice of you to notice my passion for writing based on my way of expression. Once upon a time compliments like yours (and you, Simon, and bungalo, thank you) were what had taught me to appreciate what I naturally had and to love myself for it. It was the only source of warmth for me. I would continue to work on creative expression, but sometimes I'm a little sad and annoyed to find that precisely the thing I'm trying to avoid thinking about will in some way find its way into my work, if not directly, then in the themes and symbols I use, and this bothers me because it feels as though I have no privacy from my own mind.

I have to confess that in that post I wasn't completely honest about my situation. One reason is that my friend has an account here, so I've had to change things around to stop from being obvious, and another is that I feared people may not be open-minded enough to hear the truth. But my friend has already found me out, and though I should probably still remain edited for his sake, I feel so reckless I almost can't bring myself to care.

I'm not actually a girl, but a boy. Neither of us identifies himself as gay (though I have always known I am bisexual), but somehow, being lonely and rejected continually by girls in the past, it didn't seem too outrageous a thing for us to be together. I saw in him someone with the same internal and external conflicts, though with different ways in dealing with them; and sharing similar experiences, a passionate love for music, and a hunger for knowledge, there's been a lot to for us to talk about and I believed that, because of this, the boundaries of gender were removed, and we could bring ourselves to love each other for the spirit that was in us. But before this there were a string of painful experiences that eventually led to our relation: for what was probably a purely physical attraction at first, he initiated, with my consent, a sexual exploration between us. Twice he did this, over the course of a few weeks, and twice he pulled back saying he would like to never do it again. Seeing that we were at loss as to what this foolery could mean, I assumed that it was probably because we weren't on any grounds for it to feel justified, and so I began to think it could only feel acceptable if we were to be in a relationship. By this time I had already developed strong feelings for him so that the idea of a relationship didn't seem ridiculous to me.

I had proposed this idea to him, but the proposal was rejected. This didn’t hurt too much because I was almost expecting it, so I did my best to move on. During my month-long vacation away from him, however, I was surprised to find, after some weeks, how strongly I really did feel for him; and when it began to seem that I may not even come back from that vacation, the feelings had escalated to an almost unbearable point. They became so strong that they confused me; I’d never felt that way before, and ordinarily I didn’t allow such feelings to take over me because many a time I’d been a victim of unrequited love and I knew how unhealthy it was to harbor false hopes; but I couldn’t control them. They confused me because they weren’t sexual, when logically I told myself they should be, after what we’d done together. But I knew those experiences had somehow deepened them, and I began to force them out of memory and wish they’d have never happened.

While I was spending my days in Disneyworld and Universal Studios, the rides that looped and swirled were a blessing for me to scream out all the frustration and sadness I felt. But sometime later, when he told me that he realized his feelings for me were very significant and that he wouldn’t mind calling what we had a relationship, I had the chance to scream on those rides for all the joy I felt and no one would have had to wonder what it was I was screaming about; I felt the happiest I had ever been.

I didn’t allow myself to give in to this happiness too easily at first. A similar experience had happened to me once, where a girl had me believe she loved me for a good three weeks before she told me it was all a joke to prove to her friends how gullible I was (high school). I trusted my friend enough to know it wasn’t a joke, and that he had taken it under serious consideration, but because he’d acted on impulse before I had put on my guard for my safety and told myself that he could take it back without notice. I had a sort of mental checklist in my head to be assured that all was good before I allowed my heart to do things to me I’d later regret: I had him assure me that he wasn’t just getting into this because it was all he had now, so that if a girl came along suddenly and declared her love, he’d drop me like an outdated thing. He assured me positively of all I’d asked, and I felt safer now to feel what I felt uncontained.

When I came back from that vacation it felt as though I came back to a different boy. I saw sides of him I’d never seen, all surprising and unexpected, such that only love’s vulnerability can bring out in one. It was almost humorous to see this change, because before that I couldn’t picture him being the way he was with me, but to see him let loose in the way that he did made me appreciate him deeply as a person, and I was almost proud of myself over the fact that though this all could have easily slipped on rose-colored glasses over my eyes, I kept my head and saw him still for who he was. It felt a healthy sort of love because it wasn’t based solely on the sexual; but when that happened it was a shock to me to see how open he was to it compared to how he was with me before. I remember at times I was caught looking ponderous over something when he was being affectionate with me: at once I was shocked anyone could feel that way about me, and I was also slightly worried that indulging ourselves in this too much would have used up all the fire we’d had for each other.

I don’t know what happened after. I knew that I would be leaving soon again, so I did my best to see him as much as I could before I left. Goodbyes always bring about the strongest feelings for people in me because I suddenly realize I may not see them again for a long time and I realize how much they mean to me. This brought about an unrestrained passion from me, so that when I felt the need this time to be affectionate with him, it was met with a sudden restraint on his part and I was confused about the cause of this. When I’d asked him about it he said that he wasn’t attracted to me anymore. I didn’t take this to mean that he didn’t love me anymore, because I knew that our love was based on more than attraction; but soon he’d not stop talking about a girl he hadn’t seen since primary school, how she would have been perfect for him and how perfect she could be for him now, and though he kept assuring me it was just a little joke I couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed.

The night before I left, wanting to make the most out of our last time together until I supposedly came back in a few months, I especially felt the need to be affectionate. I was naturally at my most sentimental, but somehow my sentimentality lead to me being asked if I was gay. This hurt, because I know myself well and explained to him many times how I am: I fall for individuals, not genders, and if it seems I’m head over heels over a boy it does not mean I am all for boys, but that that person means a lot to me. He told me we’d better not be so affectionate anymore and we left it at that. I did not take this to mean that we had broken up. I had to find out through a post he had posted on this very site that he had met a girl he hadn’t met since middle school and was crushed to find that she was taken (and in between brackets I found, when he was questioning if he expected to have a relationship with her, that he had “been in one with a guy.” I felt the most insignificant guy there ever was.)

When confronted about this after weeks of nursing a horrible fire in my chest, the whole experience was summed up in this way: he was unsure of his sexuality and was sexually curious and only allowed himself to entertain those curiosities because he was not doing well with women and that he’s really straight. I wish he’d have thrown that statement very firmly in my face from the beginning before he initiated anything with me. It was why I was so guarded in the first place, to be assured I wasn’t just a temp until the permanent replacement came. Now every time I hear, “I’m straight,” I can’t hear anything but that I’m unlovable. Gender was always trivialized in my eyes; it seems absurd to me that I’m shoved away because I’m simply not a girl; what of my spirit, that’s genderless? And if this sort of thinking seems special only to those with my sexuality, then why was I fooled to believe I was wanted, when all along it was just a big experiment?

Throughout the month’s journey with him there was a mixture of thrill, hurt, thrill, hurt, thrill, hurt, and this constant exposure to it acted like a sawing motion over my heart, which eventually reached deep into my chest and sawed it in two. I commended myself for being careful about this all, but this proves to show that even the strongest guard can be broken down. I’m doing my best to move on; I force him out of my mind when he appears; but this repression has led to very violent and terrible dreams: in one I’m castrated, and made to be a priest for being sexually repressed; in another, I’m chained to a bed and strangers come to do sexual things with me without my consent and then leave the room declaring me unsatisfactory. The only time I can put him completely out of my mind is when I am pleasing myself sexually, because my imagination can think up hundreds of scenarios to keep me busy; but when he suddenly features in them I stop, and refuse to finish. And because I’m not getting any release, I wake up from dreams to find I’m wet. I wake up feeling so much hatred and shame over myself that’s so passionate it turns breakfast into sawdust on my tongue. My own body betrays me.

It’s horrible to love. It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love. - Neil Gaiman

I think many artists draw from their own thoughts and life experiences. I would not be afraid to incorporate the inner workings of your mind into your work. I think it is a strength you can use to your advantage.

Most people here are open-minded. Many are here because they are seeking answers and support for their own issues. But I can understand why you may not want your friend to know who you are online.

I like the description of you being overjoyed at Disneyworld. If only love always felt like that!

Maybe your friend is confused. Perhaps he is not able to abandon gender stereotypes as quickly as you can, and needs to come to terms with his own sexuality?

I don't think you should feel rejected by people who want to adhere to heterosexuality. I like and respect your gender fluidity and your approach that you love an individual, regardless of their gender. But that outlook will not appeal to everyone.

Yes, love does make you vulnerable. Perhaps that's why it is so powerful?

I like these Regina Spektor lyrics:

No, this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood
And walking arm in arm
You hope it don't get harmed
But even if it does
You'll just do it all again

It’s horrible to love. It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.

I have felt the same way to love as you have written here. It is never fun learning that the person/s you opened your heart and soul to have instead ripped it all the shreds so easily. I have seen my heart break, sticked back together, a new break forms over the last.

Platypus' earlier advice ...

You're right; you can probably predict what I'm going to say. I wonder if that's partly because a small part of you knows it's true? Yes, time does heal all wounds. This too shall pass. And you very likely will love again.

That doesn't make it any easier now. But you can choose whether you focus on now or the future. You can concentrate on analysing your pain in all its glorious detail. You can even try to love your sadness.

... (while good and right) doesn't seem that way for a long, long time... and of course after you finally accept that things are good again, something new happens to reopen the wounds.

I see you are stuck in a quandary about if you should stay friends or not, I am a bit stuck in this myself. I was with a girl I loved since junior year of high school, things were fine for a while till she just used me as a way to avoid her family and I ended the relationship because it had became so empty for me. I stopped talking to her, most of her family and friends for 3 years. Now, she has decided she want to be friends again, but I can sense that she wants to be more then that again, while trying my best to survive a new relationship that has hit rocks again for me.

I guess what I am trying to say is there is no 100% getting over someone you had strong feelings for. But eventually, the feeling of hurt and anger will subside.


Continuation: Just saw Platypus' newest post while writing this one.

She (I assume she, please correct me if wrong), is right about people here being open minded and willing to listen and help as much as they can. I used to write poems during some of my darker times in school, using my life experiences in them fully, it is another type of release from your emotions. It has been suggested for people (all people) to have a journal or diary to work through those emotions.

I think your last paragraph should have been in quotes, cosmo

I am sure I have heard it somewhere before

Simon, I'm sure you’ve heard it from Neil Gaiman! People give me too much credit for being articulate; sometimes, there’s pains I can’t articulate. I took it from the mouth of someone else and hoped it wouldn’t be noticed. But here I’m caught red handed. Serves me right.

Platypus, I think it’s true what you said about incorporating my thoughts and life experiences into my work, and I have always believed that art isn’t art without emotion behind it. It’s only that these particular emotions I’m feeling now are so fresh, but perhaps it’s the more reason to be incorporated. Sorian, what you said is also true: maybe it would be best to write out my emotions. To see them on paper may make me feel an unconscious distance from my feelings, by seeing them transcribed in a notebook and then subsequently shut away in a drawer. Here is a poem that inspired the title of this post that inspires me to do this also:

Must the heart that is weary and taking its rest,
And the cheek that is wan as the waning moon,
Again in the service of love be prest
For the poorer wage of his afternoon?
Yes, sing, blithe prophet, and waken the spring,
For the day of love is fleet as fain;
Sing, sing of longing and love's keen sting
To the wintry sun, i' the wind and the rain;
Yes, sing, dear bird, till you can no more;
Sing, sing, young leaves, to the leafless tree,
And thou, my heart,—no, heart, give o'er;
Poor fool, he has no word for thee.

I should sing in the only ways I know, through writing and painting and by plucking the strings of the violin that I'm only just learning to play. It doesn't matter that the trees are leafless now; I have to believe they'll bloom in song.

Heterosexuality doesn't make me feel rejected. When I know someone is heterosexual from the start, I do not entertain any fantasies that I could perhaps be their one exception; I move on. And moving on is in my very blood: I've been forced by circumstances to do so. I haven't had a true home in years, and have been on the move, from country to country, hotel to hotel, since I was young. I have no attachments, I build up walls. Nothing hurts more than being forced to let go of something you thought was yours to keep. I had moved to the country where my friend lives with the intention of settling there, which would have been the first place for me to settle in years. I thought love and friendship could be the only stable thing to have while I forged my new life in that land of trees and rain; I was a fool. I feel I've lost so much more than I've gained. Nothing is ever stable, can never be.

It's true, Sorian, that wounds never completely close. Even at my highest points of joy and gratitude I'm aware of the stitches on my sides that hurt in laughter. Experiences like these rip open those stitches, when they had been on their way healing with time, so that the pain and despair and all terrible emotions you feel are not just over the new wound, but the ones that have reawakened; and you remember now why you had taken such pains to keep them soothed and salved. This song has become my chant:

"I am alone, | I've built walls. | I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain. | It’s laughter and it’s loving I disdain. | I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died;| If I never loved I never would have cried | I have my books, and my poetry to protect me; | I touch no one and no one touches me. | I am a rock, I am an island. | And a rock feels no pain; | And an island never cries."

When I trust and give myself to others, I make myself vulnerable to being hurt. So I build up walls and defenses, and hide behind them, but then I'll make myself vulnerable to being lonely and sad. I can't seem to find a happy medium. I feel cold; and the omnipresent desert and flashy buildings of the country I'm in makes me feel small and desolate. I hope that when I go soon to India, my heart will assure me once more of its feeling when I lay eyes upon rags and poor, unspoiled life. I can't bear to think that I'll become soulless and heartless.