How to Be Loved: A Girl’s Primer

It would be the same at the end of the journey, 
 If you came at night like a broken king, 
 If you came by day not knowing what you came for, 
 It would be the same.

~T.S. Eloit, From Little Gidding

Feelings are hard. Really hard. And I have so many of them. Like … seriously … sooo many. In the emotions category, I would rate myself “your high school girlfriend.” Right now, I’m sitting at my desk trying to think of a single person in my life (including the Vietnam vet who tends bar at the BBQ joint across the street from my apartment) who hasn’t seen my cry. I can’t do it. Everyone is a witness.

But the upside, I guess, is that I also can’t think of a single person in my life who wouldn’t believe me if I said “I love you.” And that’s something, right? I want to be the person who loves people. But I don’t want that to be all.

A year or so ago, I ended things with a guy I’d only seen a few of times, and after a drink or … probably many drinks, he called me and told me that I would never be able to let myself be loved. I suspect that he was right. Being loved means being vulnerable, and that isn’t something I do well. But that seems fair, doesn’t it? We’ve all hoped to be on the receiving end of someone’s affection — all wanted to be wanted — only to find out that we were too complicated, too involved, too emotionally expensive for what they could offer.

Give everything. Expect nothing. That’s the perverse, would-be mantra of every person who falls in love too easily. But no one is an island. We need someone or something to take on the disappointment of having unmet expectations, someone or something to help us with the messy business of life.

Last week, I lost mine.

For the whole of my adult life (and some of my childhood), I would drive the seven or more hours home in anticipatory relief, because I knew that the moment I opened the car door, my bear of a dog would absorb all of the weariness and sadness I’d been hauling around. He would ask with his nose where I’d been so long, hurriedly search for something for us to play with, and stand expectantly waiting for me to disembark.

I don’t really know where he came from. I think he lived in my brother’s college dorm room for a while before he officially joined our family. Like the rest of us, he was nervous — afraid of thunder and wary of strangers — but proud.

He made himself the guardian of our tiny universe.

I have often wondered what it would be like to live without prejudice: to accept others with all of their mistakes and love them unconditionally. That’s what he offered. He was happy when I was happy and hurt when I was hurt, and if I didn’t know what to feel, he would show me. He was there for me in a way no one else ever has been.

I didn’t want to see him how I knew he would be when he got sick: crumpled and slight. But there are some choices we don’t get to make. I walked over, kneeled beside him, sunk my fingers into his thick mane, and whispered “it’s ok. I’m here.” He was quiet. He let himself be still, then nudged his head against my leg and left it there for a long time. One last comfort. One last sacrifice.

To be honest, I don’t really know how to say goodbye to a friend. It’s hard to accept that something so real in your heart and mind doesn’t exist anymore. But what I want to say more than anything is “thank you.” Because of him, I know how to be loved.