Caring Isn't Stupid

“The worst feeling is when you find out you didn’t mean as much to someone as you thought you did, and you look stupid for caring too much.”

A friend of mine posted this to Facebook.

I don’t think caring is ever stupid. It may feel stupid in the moment. It may feel awkward and confusing. It may not mean that you can actually have a relationship with that person, and it won’t take away any toxic energy that person brings. However, caring is a basic human emotion, and if we all expressed it more often, the world would be a better, and perhaps less awkward, place. What kind of a world is it when we are more comfortable showing anger and hate than love?

I didn’t grow up being shown love. “I love you” was never said out loud unless it was in the context of a spanking: “I’m doing this because I love you.” (My therapist had a heyday with that one.) There were no hello and goodbye hugs until I moved away, so when I did experience them as an adult, they felt very strange for a long time. I didn’t learn to really express love until I met my husband, and sometimes I’m still shy about it with him after 21 years of marriage. In fact, I’ve even told my husband that he says “I love you” too much. When he stopped saying it as often, I regretted saying that, but it also forced me to step up and say it more.

As a teenager, I very awkwardly told a boy that I really cared about him. I couldn’t manage to do it face to face, so I used my preferred method of communicating then, the written word. We lost touch, but over the years, I never stopped caring about him. He is one of the first people from my past that I tell new partners and friends about. That is how much our friendship impacted me. He passed away last year, and when I reread my journals and was reminded of the letter I wrote to him, I was glad. It was uncomfortable, then, but so very worth the brief embarrassment now. I am glad that even though we lost touch, and were never able to connect as adults, at some point in his life, he knew I cared.

In my experience with polyamory, I’ve been through a couple of breakups. My first instinct is to wish I’d never said, “I love you” or allowed myself to care about the other person in the first place. Did I say it too soon? Too often? Over time, that feeling passes. Life goes on, things happen, and I’ve always ended up being glad that I cared and that I’m capable of continuing to care. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside when someone says “I love you” to me, and I hope that my saying it does the same for someone else. Love is never a mistake. Even if it leads to eventual heartache. Being able to connect with others is an essential part of the human experience (it doesn’t have to be at the hip). It means we aren’t psychopaths! Yay!

Years ago, I tried to get to know a new friend. We took a long walk together one day and talked, but then life got busier, and we didn’t do it again. After I came home from the psych ward in 2013, she and her husband visited. I remember sitting in the backyard together. I was still numb from my experience, and barely able to communicate. They chatted and didn’t pry or ask questions. I really appreciated that. She passed away from breast cancer a few years later. I wish I had known her better, been a better friend to her, told her that she was important to me. She’s gone now, and I have regrets.

My dad and I have had a rocky relationship since I was a teen. I was rebellious in various ways - reading dirty romances, riding motorcycles, smuggling jeans, and sneaking out of church on 4th street in Newark to walk to the library to get more dirty romances, which I read during church. There were fights over boys, over the motorcycles, over drinking, and over the fact that Dad refused to hug my sister and me. When I told my parents that I was an atheist in 2008, Dad had difficulty handling it, and we went 6 months to a year without speaking. We still don’t talk much, but when we do, we focus on what we have in common. As I mature, I have realized that Dad did say “I love you,” a lot. It just came in the form of, “Make sure you wear your seatbelt.” “Don’t fiddle with the radio while you’re driving.” “Have you checked your oil lately?” and even, “You don’t have to get married just because you had sex” after behaving like marriage was the only thing that would save my soul. I used to think Dad was incapable of love. Now I know better.

My dad turns 79 this year. He’s learning to fly. I kind of think that’s awesome.

I reached out to my family and my closest friends after I reread my teenage journal to tell them that I love them. In one case, I needed to offer a long overdue apology as well. In another, the “friend” had already let me know that she no longer wanted to be friends. That didn’t stop me from caring about her. Responses were mixed, which I found difficult to digest. I’m holding onto the positive responses and letting them buoy me through the negative. However, I will never believe that it was a mistake to say, “I love you.” I don’t want to have regrets after someone is gone. I want to know that I reached out a hand, even if it got slapped, or in one case, gently but firmly pushed away.

I’m not convinced that I’m actually good at showing love. With depression, it can be really hard to express love or reach out, or perform the actions that show that you care. I’m not always up for socializing, whether it’s by phone or text, or having company, or going out. I’m an introvert on top of that, so that’s double the hermitage. If I’m bad at loving, I hope the people around me are patient with me. I know love is an action, but sometimes action is so hard to take. Words on paper are easier.

Love, because you never know when life is going to be snatched away. It can happen in an instant.