17

It was the same old story, really: boy meets girl (in a television studio, say), boy gets all smitten with girl, boy pursues girl, they kiss, fall in love, spend some wonderful time together, and then one day girl says to boy, “how do you feel about me?” and boy gulps because for the last two weeks he’s been mantraing these three little words around in his head – “I love you” – and now it seems like the time to let them out.

“I love you,” he says, and she smiles. She’s happy to hear that, he sees.

“I love you too,” she says, and in their smiles and cuddles, they kiss, and all is right with the world.

Something happens, though, over the following weeks: the boy starts to feel a need for distance; he feels pressured and overwhelmed – for the truth is that, as soon as he said those words it was as though he’d peeled off another layer of his inner onion, and underneath that layer – the one he’d been staring at for those two weeks – he saw fear. Suddenly, he was filled with thoughts of where “I love you” would lead – to babies, to mortgages, to jobs and commitments – and it freaked him out. He hoped that it would pass; it didn’t. He wanted more and more distance – he went on holiday, for Christ’s sake – and the more he pulled away, the more the girl pursued him, her insecurity warning lights going overtime, her need for reassurance unfulfilled by this running, ruining boy that she had come to love. He started to blame her; she started to believe him. She felt crazy. He got mad. One day they had an argument, and things came to a head, and they went their separate ways, amid tears and accusations and anger, and in the place where they met, their ghosts passed each other and couldn’t understand what went wrong, those in the past thinking only of the future, and those in the future looking only to the past.

For the two days the boy felt relief; he could justify all this, and see why it was a good thing: you was too young, he told himself; she was this and that; it wasn’t right. On the third day he started to miss her, and his thoughts for her grew. He wanted to talk with her, but she didn’t want to talk with him, and he waited, and tried his best to feel okay. Everyone reminded him of her, though, and he began to think of her constantly. Finally, after a week, she said hello, and chatted, on the most romantic of forums, MSN Messenger.

They talked about things: there was still anger, and explanations, accusations and temper, but beyond that there was also an openness and an honesty – nothing to lose now, since everything had been lost already – and only a desire to heal. In some moments there was tenderness, and the boy felt longingly for her presence, her touch, to snuggle up to the beauty of her body and to be how things were. In these moments of tenderness he would shed a tear, and feel something in his heart that had perhaps been missing; and in their conversations he began to realise more and more about what had actually happened, and to see how he was far more to blame than he had believed at the time; she allowed him to explore himself, and to come up with some answers.

The next time they ‘talked’ he expressed the fears he had had when he’d peeled back that layer of love; of how he’d realised that he could trace everything back to that moment, like a trail of crumbs through the woods, and the second that he expressed it he felt instantly transformed.

“You could have told me,” she said.

“I wasn’t sure I was allowed,” he said. “I thought you wouldn’t want to hear it – that it would hurt you, or make you doubt.”

A grim silence hung in the air – one that needed no explanation.

“You could have told me,” she said again, “you might have been surprised.”

Well, he told her now, and he was surprised: she allowed him to express, she held him in his emotion; she listened with openness and acceptance and she didn’t freak out, or think it unacceptable or weird, and he wished that he had said something before. Once more, he discovered that you can say these things you think unsayable – but how many times was he going to have to learn this lesson before it finally got into his thick head? His sadness at having ruined everything by keeping things inside was infinite; his knowledge at his failings; his inability to be good.

And immediately on expressing those things – another layer had been peeled back; the pressure was gone; all the justifications and reasons for running disappeared: what remained was what had been there before: the memory of her awesomeness, the love he had felt for her, the good times – the great times – the happiness and smiles and laughs and sillinesses, the tender moments, the generosities, the sharing and the caring and the thought of her beautiful chimpy face. At once, he wanted her again. At once, he began to think that maybe he could win her back.

They arranged to meet a few days after that. Boy was nervous and ashamed; girl was forthcoming and friendly. They hugged, and sparks flew off them; all boy wanted to do was hold her, to slide his arm around her and feel her close to him – but he felt undeserving. Maybe she wanted it too – but he couldn’t tell, and he wasn’t prepared to risk it; still, repression of expression had stunted him once more, and he was unable to speak, or move, or feel anything but not okay. They glanced at each other when they thought no one was looking; but the whole room noticed anyway. The room knew what was going down.

The boy made a resolve; he was going to try. He stayed up late at night investigating “relationship issues” in a bid to find out what was wrong with him, why he had been unable to give himself to someone who was amazing and beautiful, who he loved, and who he had shared incredible, wonderful times with – I mean, sure there were a few challenging times in there on occasion – but most people would give their right ears for a relationship like that – and he just seemed to want to throw it away. What was wrong with him? was what he wanted to know. Why couldn’t he just be normal? Why was he acting so foolishly and idiotic?

“Relationship issues” lead him to a Wikipedia page entitled, <a href=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fear_of_commitment>”fear of commitment” – and what he read there both horrified and thrilled him – for what he read there seemed to describe him to a tee. <a href=http://www.relationship-remedies.com/Commitmentphobia.html>Another page</a> was discovered and perused – a list of forty-five behaviours which commitmentphobes display, of which the boy could see in himself maybe forty – and this dawning of what was wrong with him fell like a ten tonne weight. He had an illness – he had a bona fide illness. He had a mental disease – it was like he had a parasite inside of him, something that was in control of his mind, making him act in bizarre and hurtful and destructive ways. He was totally unaware of it – but now that he saw it, it was obvious that it was there; everything made sense. He was horrified because he had never been ill before, never thought of himself as even capable of having mental issues, and because of the sense that he was not in control of his life: his words, his actions, his thoughts and emotions were powered by something else, something that was in him, but was not him, and had been doing it for longer than he could remember. More than anything, though, he was horrified because of the way this disease affected other people – that it made them feel crazy, and in the wrong, and was “emotionally devastating” for them – things that he had been accused of doing, but could never see, always felt it was the other’s fault – and this he could barely handle. He felt like he was, on the whole, a good guy, and the thought of hurting those he loved and cared about was too much – these beautiful women, these kind and sensitive souls, that had given him love; he didn’t want to mess them up. He felt like damaged goods, like he should have a warning sign around his neck: keep away. He wondered how he could ever be with anyone if all he was going to do was screw them up – but he was also resolved to conquer this, and to find a cure, come what may, and that is why he felt too thrilled. “Imagine,” he thought, “if I do fix this – I’ll be a completely different person. I’ll be better. I’ll be great! And it seems to permeate all aspects of life – wow, everything will be different.” He had work to do, the realised that – but this wasn’t the kind of work he shirked from; he was keen to get it on. It horrified him, sure – but it made him more hopeful than ever for the future.

And what about the girl? Well, he decided he couldn’t let her go, and told her that he would give her what she had wanted – to be a proper couple, a boyfriend and girlfriend – if only she would deign to agree to it. He told her everything he had felt and thought, and cried his tears unashamedly, and felt his vulnerability, and in his heart he was grateful for her presence and everything they had been through, because even if she decides he is too much, and not worth it, her specialness, and his love for are what have driven him to this place of wanting to get to the bottom of himself and finding a cure for his ills; so he can better, for her, and for him, and for all. He knows now he is ill; he never knew before. He knows now he needs help; he’ll go and get it. The only question is, will she be by his side while he’s doing this – it won’t take long, he feels, he’s always been a speedy learner – or will she decide this is just a little heavy for what she wants right now? Well, he’s a heavy guy; there’s no getting away from it; he thinks he’ll understand. And he’s sorry for the hurt he caused – and he honestly didn’t realise what he was doing. He’s determined to get better – he really is – and if you want him, he wants you too. For real. Some things are hard – but it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do them. He’s going to write more about this later.

Adieu!