I know that I am loved. Loved by one, maybe two, people. That’s it. Oh, there are lots of people who say “love you,” or who, when I’m having some life trouble, might text “call me if you want to talk.” No, you friggin’ call me if you care! Why would you wait for me to call you? Then, there are those whom I can only presume love me, but who betray their “love” by saying biting comments, getting in digs that have been building up over the years, or by expressing “concern” when what they’d really prefer to be doing is watching Netflix. It just does not feel authentic, these pretensions of love. I feel like I could go away without causing much of a fuss. I don’t write this in a pitiful way. I’m just being a realist. How do I really matter? Who really cares about me? I’m just not sure. It hurts.
My husband of 28 years loves me. I respect and feel that from him. We’ve been through so much together, some of which has only now – me 55 and retired – has built up steam. Funny, the pain seems to have come to a head now that I have more free time. It’s as if the busy schedule of full-time work kept it under a lid, and now the release valve of retirement has allowed it to boil over. The love that Tom has for me is reciprocal, built from years of conversations and shared experiences that have brought us both great happiness and great sadness. When I tell him that I’m hurting, he listens, and vice versa. He sees the light in me even when I don’t. We’re careful that he doesn’t become co-dependent or enabling, and so letting me know when I’m out of line is part and parcel of our relationship. I do the same with him. With the heated words behind us, there’s no sense that either one of us would leave. We accept our differences and move on.
Our son is an ass. Hasn’t cared one wink about me since we adopted him. I’ve spent years trying to figure him out, but have realized that releasing him from my psyche is the only way to calm the hurt of relational nothingness. Oh, the poor dear was so traumatized during his early years. Well, screw that. I’ve been on his roller coaster for at least the last eight years of his stint in America, so I’m thinking maybe that it’s my time, not his. I will not devote any more to this. Done.
There are the old friends and family whose relationships have become distant over time. We try via text or phone calls, but it’s no longer the same, and I just don’t have it in me to share my life with them, so the calls are superficial, leaving me feeling empty. Oh, but they often end in a “love you.” Ugh, you don’t know a thing about me except what you knew 25 years ago, and still I get a “love you?” Yikes. And the thing is that I just no longer have it to give. One friend checked in via email, and I replied that Tom and I were new grandpas, and that we had both retired. Crickets. For six months! Then the “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch” voice mail message that includes a “how’s your granddaughter?” Spare me the faux care please.
Lately I’ve had a “no bullshit” rule that has allowed me some clarity as to whom I want in my life and whom I don’t. That’s freed up some space in my head to focus on relationships that matter to me, with folks whose eyes light up when I walk into the room. I recognize that I may sound like a bit of a curmudgeon, but I just can’t shake the notion that not too many people care about me, and that if I were to perish right now at my keyboard, some tears would be shed, albeit with a quick return to Netflix, or some video game. Tom would miss me, as would our beloved dog Gracie. Oh, and I think our little granddaughter would miss me too. So with them in mind and heart, I shall share them in image form. They are my three unconditional loves. I am grateful.
Brad Mazon 