Self-Love Isn’t As Selfish As You Think
Everybody wins
“Oh, sorry. You’ve got company?”
Standing in the doorway, Ron glances at the kitchen table. He notes the candles, wine, and bowls of food.
“No. It’s fine. You’re not disturbing me. No one’s here.”
“You did this all for yourself? Really? I just open a tin of beans when I’m on my own.”
“Me too. Unless I fancy a three-course dinner, music, and Rioja.”
That was over twenty years ago, and nothing’s changed even though I’m married.
Many, in fact, most of my friends are more like Ron than they are similar to me regarding self-love.
“I can’t be bothered to cook unless it’s for someone else,” they sigh, and they don’t carry out other acts of self-cherishing like I do either.
I didn’t know I behaved differently until it was pointed out numerous times.
“Are you using your best tea set?”
“Sure.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“I’m drinking tea. Same as every day. That’s the occasion.”
Or
“Going somewhere nice?”
“Upstairs to my playroom.” (Other people call it my office).
“But you’re dressed like you’re going somewhere nice.”
“It is nice up there.”
Or they say:
“You’re taking the afternoon off to look at spring flowers?”
“That’s right.”
“But you’re busy!”
(I’ve got responsibilities, the same as everyone else, and I’ll clock up the required hours later when it’s raining.)
“You’ve got to make hay while the sun shines,” I tell them, but they don’t always understand.
“Why don’t you do lovely things for yourself?” I ask Ron.
“It wouldn’t occur to me to make myself a beautiful dinner and light a candle.”
He smiles, though, and lets the idea sink into his head.
“Try it sometime,” I suggest.
“Naw. It seems wrong. I mean, it’s fine for you. I’m glad you do it. But I don’t think I’m worth all the trouble to do it for myself.”
“Trouble?”
“The effort.”
“Who would you be expecting too much of exactly? Or giving too much to?”
And something unexpected happens. Ron’s eyes well with tears, and he removes his glasses to wipe the deluge.
“It’s something you do for someone you love, and I don’t love me.”
Ron didn’t have terrific role models to demonstrate self-cherishment as a kid. His parents didn’t show themselves much love, nor could they pass much on to anyone else.
And that’s the thing about positive self-regard; it’s a quality you are born with and build by watching others show you it’s good.
The majority of parents do the opposite. They demonstrate self-neglect or self-harm, and their kids learn to do likewise.
Ron refused point-blank to perform acts of self-cherishing but didn’t mind if I did them for him.
When you’ve been taught the only love you’ll ever get is from other people rather than yourself, you soak up as much as you can get. You might attempt to claw it out of someone and frighten them away.
Then you are lonely, and the idea you aren’t lovable becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy — or, at least, it looks that way to you.
My time as a counselor taught me self-love is rare. It occurs in varying degrees, and loving yourself helps you open to loving others.
When you know it’s okay to care for yourself, you stop needing everyone to love you. You want them to love you, of course, but you don’t require their love to feel all right.
If you’re needy for love, it’s essential. Your sense of self-worth plummets when it’s not forthcoming. You send out love me vibes that attract rescuers and repel other people.
Folks who would rescue you won’t help because they only want to be with people who seem broken. There’s no good reason to fix you. If your self-esteem rises, they will leave and find another needy person to save.
“Self-love is selfish,” declares a friend one day.
“How so?” I inquire.
“Real love is what you give other people.”
“And when you give them love, do you want something in return?”
“Well, yes. You want them to love you back.”
“And if they don’t?”
“They break your heart, and you must find someone else.”
I attempt to get through to my pal and explain real love is unconditional, but she doesn’t get it. She can’t easily do so because she hasn’t experienced much unconditional love to draw upon.
Another friend, though, Lin, is accustomed to self-love.
If she loves someone and they don’t love her back, she doesn’t fall apart. She’s disappointed, but her self-esteem is intact. Plus, she sees love as a reward in itself.
“It feels good to love, doesn’t it?” she comments.
“Yeah. It’s like the experience of gratitude. It expands your heart.”
“Yes. Love comes back to you, no matter how the person on the receiving end of your loving responds. You self-produce love.”
Lin is right. When you love without insisting on getting anything back from someone (since you already fulfill your own need with self-love), you create feel-good chemicals with ease. They flow whether or not others validate you.
Self-love, far from selfish, is healthy. It liberates you, giving you wings. You stop suffering so much because you don’t rely on anyone to raise your happiness level; you can do it alone. And the upshot? You’re less fearful about loving others, so everybody wins.
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