The Great Intimacy and Loss of Romantic Transformation 

It is no question to those who have experienced, who desire, romantic love in its preeminent form — to which I refer to a most recognizable feeling, a heaviness, a strength, a renewed purpose in living itself — that to love and be loved is a merciless transaction beyond one’s own control. Rarely does its arrival show signs, although one waits and waits desperately, and when it takes hold, if it does at all, almost always does it seem too late to turn back. For it is the very vastness of this feeling, sweeping vistas of internal valleys unknown, the absolute awe of what is being dealt with, an instant of mortality revealed, that all function ceases in service of this newness; which promises —  in the outreach of tightly closed fists in the sky  — the sweetness of reciprocation or the suffering of rejection. And one must wait, one can only wait, for which fist will reveal itself as fate or future. 

Much can and has been said about the disappearance of identity within the labyrinth of romance, especially the kind that is reciprocated; that in showing promise, motivates survival, which may come at the cost of oneself — a greater dedication involved, not of oneself or the other, but of togetherness. Closely shaved slices leave behind a conjoined personality, what was known before might never be known again; what is known in the moment could be lost forever. Disguising itself, identity chases validation and when the truth is revealed, it maintains the lie, which becomes the new truth, which becomes the foundation of that love. It is always surprising the degree to which one might compromise themselves to earn the attention of another. This we are capable of, brilliantly and sadly, this change, this bargain, might never be totally equal; one will always give up more, if it is seen as giving up, which it may not always be. For better or for worse, there is growth in the experiment of romantic self-mutilation. Although naturally, at some point, reflection arises in the unrecognizable void within. 

But who can blame those who do so. For each time the opportunity for love presents itself, any previously held beliefs are surrendered for an encounter with what seems on instinct like rescue from the current state, even if it is a satisfying one. How quick are we to abandon ourselves, consciousness being the highest traitor, finding with such ease the weakest parts of our own person and the greatest parts of them. There is beauty in the latter of course, in the hope that such is done to us in return, but it cannot come without a kind of masochism, for in admiration, there is envy too. Which arrives from a belief that the very things one lacks, that the other doesn’t, will become the cause for loss; as it is known by all, that love is to be earned and won if it is worthy. And when worthy love has at last been acquired — as each time it feels rarer than before — that lasting emptiness, that feverish doubt, could finally be put away at the simple cost of one’s own self. 

Thus they say, colloquially of course as I cannot know exactly who said it, that to be loved truly, is to be seen completely. And it is not with intention that one approaches connection with the hope for that sort of sacrifice; perhaps it is a demand of the other, though often it comes from within. Hard enough as it is to live with oneself, it is far more excruciating to imagine being despised for one’s own insecurities — what seems like it cannot be helped at all except to be shut away and forgotten in return for intimacy. 

Yet staying the same hardly seems acceptable either. If one resists this change, perhaps out of fear or even pride — commendable as that may be — they will become the receiving body of an unfair kind of love, the kind that validates one and punishes the other; hence self-sacrifice is crucial for any deeper connection. This condition reveals the difficulty of being honest to be loved honestly — and being unfamiliar to be loved at all. It is the malleability of the self that is most apparent under these very conditions, as in all relationships — familial, platonic, brief or extended — there is a degree of this depersonalization involved in rooting the connection; what is lost is filled with something new. And without then veering into the subject of who one really is, if one is different at all times, it is in romance that the extent to this change is entirely limitless, because the promise is most rewarding and addictive. 

Do not mistake this, however, as a claim that the depth of such transformation is in direct relation to any sort of length of time; feelings of love – beyond our control – beyond the temporal, may transcend our expectations of significance. In partnerships that outlast the period in which those within them have been alone, it is the communal personality that overtakes the individual — bringing out a struggle I am not equipped enough to speak on here. But it is important to acknowledge, for those who may relate, that this personal divergence will arrive upon its victim with no specific consideration beyond the desire to be loved. The object of this desire may entirely be unfamiliar to the lover, or a target in pursuit, an achievement in reach, even a mutual reciprocation; unaware of anything other than the feeling, the heart shall suffer in equal measure. The pain of love flattens difference. And when, as all things do, it leaves us — brutally or honestly — the earlier transformation is truly revealed, and a new kind of relationship emerges. 

Without the protection of love, what once violated the self returns with a fury. How cruel it is that in separation the instinct to idolize the other and demonize the self continues; perhaps worse than before, the desire to connect is most rampant, and the familiarity with oneself is at an all time low. Those who are capable of doing so might find a way to pivot into someone else, becoming someone else, becoming theirs — if even for a moment — rather than be nobody’s at all. This, however, doesn’t release one from the silent torture, the invisible relationship with the other party, with their once offered and reciprocated love and validation. And in an effort to hold onto them, hold onto what was lost, one attempts to become them. What was perhaps already a process in play, this radical new transformation is sped up by a void, that same old void, that threatens total self consumption.

In continuing to engage in what one knows about the other, what changes in the self were appreciated in the transformation, the rest — the accused personality responsible for this defeat — is left to rot. This being a matter of loss in the name of rejection or separation, it becomes increasingly impossible, equally frightening, in the new distance, to recognize the changes the other might undergo themselves. But perhaps if one stays the same as before, as during the partnership or courtship, there’s a chance to still be loved by them again. In this obsession, to keep up with who was and who is, one deludes themself into thinking that the love for and knowledge of the other continues to expand in the afterlife; that this romance, this love, must be far more fated than once anticipated; feeding into the facade, losing more and more of what was left of the true self. 

Of course this sounds quite pathetic and difficult. In the performance, one awaits applause, awaits — really — any acknowledgement, the slightest bit would carry on the show. To listen to their music, watch their films, read their books, speak like them, think like them, walk the same path, drink the same drinks; whether or not one enjoys it is beside the point, they must be done to maintain the connection, the connection which is nowhere in sight. So, yes, pathetic and difficult, but how impressive, how sad and how beautiful that a person may continue to engage in this sort of love without reciprocation, without hope. Self hatred is involved but there is pure love too, entirely reserved for the other; a shadow remains when the figure moves away, an ascetic commitment to what was, in the hopes that it will be again.  One can only wonder if the other is doing the same.

To think then, if this is true, if this is more than a personal recitation but an absolute emotional fact, that we — as lovers, wannabe lovers, the loved — pursue this change, and when left with it, let it solidify into ourselves, carrying it into our next encounters, our next transformations; if this is true, then the very experience of romance is, among other things, an effort to capture the soul of another within oneself.  Might it be wiser, for the sake of personal sanity, to focus — especially during the stages of yearning and loss — on the identity of oneself? Perhaps so. But, without losing identity entirely, it points to the intimate capacity of a person, in becoming another, to truly understand them, to truly get close to them. And what a waste it would be to move on, to change so easily or not change at all, and never get to know how deeply one might feel for another. So deeply that you might choose to become them, if only for a moment. If only for a moment, in your absence, I become you.