David McElroy

making sense of a dysfunctional culture

relationships

When love finally dies, it’s like a fever breaks and the pain is gone

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I woke up one morning and the fever was gone. Suddenly, unexpectedly, with no explanation. I didn’t love her anymore.

She was gone. I accepted that, but this was more. I didn’t want her anymore. It wasn’t sour grapes. I had moped and pursued her for a couple of years. She practically begged me to. But I had given all I could give to her. I had given her every chance. Finally, the love was dead. I was drained.

It was like the breaking of a fever. One day, my heart was sick that I couldn’t have her, that she wouldn’t choose me, that she wouldn’t reverse the mistake she admitted that she had made.

And then the next day, I simply didn’t care. I don’t know how it changed. I just woke up knowing that I didn’t care anymore. The painful longing was gone. I got out of bed and casually blocked her on Facebook. It was time to cut the last remaining ties.

She never heard a word from me again, not even an explanation or a goodbye. It felt liberating.

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Forget your partner’s best traits; worst traits predict your future

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See if you’ve heard this story before. Or maybe lived it.

It was about 12 years ago when my friend married a man who seemed like her dream guy. She cared about money and status and prestige in her church and community. He had it all. He was a successful businessman. He was respected and held positions in community organizations. He was a leader at his church who served on committees and boards.

Before they married, there were warning signs, but she ignored them. He checked every box on her list of things she wanted. Anything else must be insignificant. She could deal with the rest as long as she had her dream man. Her friends and family told her how lucky she was to have someone with his qualities. She agreed.

After the wedding, the fantasy started fading. Those little warning signs she had ignored — the flashes of anger and cruelty — became more common. He routinely called her vile names. He bullied her into not talking with friends anymore. He was insanely jealous for no reason.

And because she thought she had no choice — since she had her dream guy — she put up with it.

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Romantic interest no easier now than it was for me in sixth grade

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It was just after Thanksgiving of my sixth grade year. For about a year and a half, I had had the worst sort of crush on a girl in my class named Wendy Ford. When I was 11, she was my dream girl.

I was terrified for anybody to figure out that I “liked” Wendy, of course. And the absolute worst thing would be for her to know it. This is confusing to adult logic, but it made perfect sense back then. Somehow, she was going to “like” me first and let me know — and then I could confess that I “liked” her, too. And then we would get married. Or something like that.

Instead, one of her friends came over to me — in music class — and asked, “Do you like Wendy?”

My face must have turned bright red. I felt as though everybody was looking at me. My heartbeat raced. And I denied it. I assured her that it wasn’t true, but I doubt I was convincing. I just wanted to be anywhere but there.

“You should have liked her,” the friend said, “because she likes you.”

Thursday evening, I remembered what that sort of conversation felt like — and I didn’t like it any better than I did when I was 11.

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