I met Michael on Black Friday. My best friend and I had an epic, break-up fight earlier that day, and Michael came into my life like a window after the proverbial door had shut. Nothing concrete evolved from our relationship at first. After being in touch and out of touch, and in touch again, we met up for brunch and this time, I fell hard and fast. We had that rare chemistry and I was intoxicated by him. I remember one evening after too much wine, laughing as I whispered between kisses, “I think I’m addicted to you.”
I had no idea the truth behind my flippant statement that night. Like every kid, I was taught about addiction in school. I was familiar with the usual suspects: drugs, alcohol, cigarettes. But I was unaware of the definition: the state of being enslaved to something that is habit forming to an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma. Ironically, the origin of the word is from addictio, which means, surrender.
Surrender was not my word. My word was struggle. To fight, force, push, pull, kick, and scream until my point of view was understood. That’s how I approached my relationships – through not merely struggle, but also through contortion. I contorted my emotions and tried to be quiet when what I wanted was attention. I remained detached, when truly, I longed for a connection. I gave into requests rather than establishing boundaries because I was afraid to be alone. I failed to consider my own needs, ask questions or be my own advocate. And when I failed me, I failed Michael too. Because by contorting myself, I hid my authentic pieces –not merely my quirks, humor, and strengths. I wore a mask , making assumptions about his needs. And by doing so I deprived him of the chance to know me and maybe, ultimately, to love me.
The fact that I was loveable eluded me at that time. I was unaware of my intrinsic worth. I was looking somewhere else – and in my case, to someone else – to provide it. Specifically, my romantic partner. I made Michael – and every other man before him – my higher power. Subconsciously, I knew this. I knew because I attracted the same man over and over. Michael was “a runner.” A relationship avoider. He was busy filling his life up with work. His sister’s children. And in hindsight, other women. I’d dated him a thousand times before: the boy that was so present only to disappear when I yielded to his chase.
After several months of acquiescing to Michael’s needs, I became exhausted and broke it off. Not in a swift, dramatic way, but in shaky way – like when George from Back to the Future whispers, “No Biff…you leave her alone.” I said, “I think we want different things…if I’m wrong, let me know.” Rather than a confirmation - or what I was hoping for - a resounding, no, you’re wrong, I want to be with you, I was met with silence.
I set off attempting to mend my broken heart. Months passed and some days I was fine. Other days, I thought about Michael constantly. I missed him the way I would miss my right arm. Six months later, I found myself back in LA attending a lecture. The lecture was in Hollywood, and to my chagrin, I was suddenly in Michael’s old neighborhood, driving past memory upon memory. The street he lived on. …we’d had brunch there once. I remembered our second date at that wine bar. Each street elicited another memory and another longing to have him back. I was face to face with my loneliness. How could I be in LA and not be with him? I physically, tangibly missed him. It was as though I was possessed, and a physical form of crazy had engulfed my being. A disease had grabbed hold of my nervous system. He was Cesar Milan and I, an angry pit bull, calmed only by his presence.
I didn’t call Michael, but the palpable nervousness still plagued me. I relayed the experience to my girlfriend once I created a safe distance between me and Hollywood. I explained the angst that would not let go. And in her infinite wisdom, she said the words that forever changed my life:
You are addicted to him the way I am addicted to brownies.
BOOM! Fireworks, light- bulbs, angels! Could that be? Could I be addicted to a person rather than just alcohol or drugs?
Yes. I found Facing Love Addiction by Pia Mellody, which explains how those afflicted with the disease fall into one of two categories: love addicts or love avoidants. And because God is hilarious, we’re attracted to each other like a magnet. It’s part of a perverse and painful courting ritual in which one person pursues the other, and once the prey (the addict) is enraptured by the spell, the pursuer (the avoidant) promptly withdraws. This, in turn, causes the prey to grab hold of the pursuer, which further causes the pursuer to withdraw, until the whole scene collapses. After much back and forth, the pursuer either returns out of guilt and they resume the dance, or the process is repeated with new prey, or another endeavor that allows the pursuer to emotionally withdraw from the relationship: career, mountain biking, an affair....
I studied my own shortcomings: what I had done to play my dysfunctional role in each liaison. As a love addict, I learned that I cling to love like a life-raft. From the avoider’s point of view, love means being needed and “saving” someone; but at the same time, love feels suffocating. The pattern explained the confusion I had experienced in being so aggressively pursued, only to give in, and be vehemently rejected. But more than recognizing the dynamics of my past relationships, I realized why the end of each felt so incredibly fatal. I was extracting my self-worth from my partner. Which was why when I was rejected, the bottom fell out of my self esteem. I was looking for my worthiness in another person -- a fallible human, warts and all. And that is an extremely volatile and dangerous place to be.
Of course, there is a big stop-gap between recognizing and changing behavior. The diagnosis of an illness is not the same as a cure. My next test came with a conference in LA. I’d successfully made it two days without contacting Michael, but as I started South, the traffic was appallingly slow, even by LA standards. I looked to my left at the Northbound lane moving swiftly. It would be so easy, I reasoned, to phone Michael and drive the few miles to his exit. I found my willpower quickly dissolving. As the traffic stood still, it was as though my drug dealer was handing me the needle and saying, just this one time won’t hurt. I grabbed my phone and scrolled to Michael’s number. I caught myself. The traffic would move…and then not move, and I would grab my phone again…scroll to his number…toss the phone back down…repeat the process. And again. I was so tempted. I had the needle in my hand and it was all I could do to not inject it hard and fast. Panicked, I chucked the phone into the backseat, out of reach.
As I sat, I rolled up my sleeve and began tapping the inside crease of my elbow, much like a heroin addict would to shoot up. You are fixin’ to get high, I reminded myself over and over, attempting to find some perspective. I was no different from any other junkie. And I knew I could not give in, because the regret that awaited me the next morning would outweigh any high from the night before. I would only be left with a behavior hangover. I had a choice: I could fight through this – cold sweats, panicked anxiety, and all – or I could give in to a quick fix that would leave me empty and ashamed.
I continued to tap. The traffic finally began to move. Finally I was home. It was a turbulent, frightful test. Upon further reflection, I realized that I was still looking for validation. I thought the silence after our break-up was personal to me. And what did that say if I wasn’t even worthy of a response?
But what I came to realize is we all do our best in the moment. In the moments when we’re not our best, we’re merely focused on stopping our own pain. Michael’s silence probably wasn’t personal to me. Most of us created our habits long ago, and it never occurred to us to stop, re-exam our behavior, and make another choice. Hell, we may never have realized that we had a choice.
But recognizing that choice is incredibly freeing …something like…a surrender.
