You Love Me?

Noun definition (yourdictionary.com): A noun is a part of speech that names a person, place, thing, idea, action, or quality.

Verb definition (Oxford Languages) A verb is used to describe an action, state, or occurrence, and forming the main part of the predicate of a sentence, such as hear, become, happen.

I Love You.

And You Love Me.

Now what?

How do we “lock in” this glorious Love?

How do we nourish it and stay true to it?

Is there a formula which guarantees two people will stand the test of time?

Are we with our true Love or Loving the one we’re with?

Could we survive without our spouse or lover?

Do we have to lose a piece of ourselves to become part of someone else’s self?

Time has a way of telling.

Those who’ve had the fortune of having a single Love lasting their entire lives, what a wonderful, joyous, immensely powerful experience.

Those who’ve pledged their everlasting Love to someone only to have it fall apart and were brave enough to Love again, what a testament to the heart’s desire to heal and connect again.

Those whose heart has been so irreparably damaged, they will never Love again, never say never.

For some, Love is indeed a noun. There is nothing that needs to be said or done. It just is.

For others, Love is a huge verb. Either by choice, demand, or implicit necessity, their Love is dependent on doing things: achieving material success, remembering every birthday and holiday, being sensitive to each other’s trigger points and avoiding them, keeping up with household chores, saying the right thing at the right time.

But for one young, joyous, intellectually challenged, special boy, Love wasn’t a noun, verb, or anything physical or tangible at all. As the following story illuminates, until his path crossed an emotionally available occupational therapist, Love was an unquenchable, tortuous, nebulous concept, always just out of reach:

He was 9 years old.

In an exceptional education program.

His IQ was about 65.

His disposition was kind.

His speech and language were limited but he could easily answer basic questions, follow the school’s daily schedule, and read and write at the 1st grade level with one-on-one assistance.

He always wore a sweet expression on his face. Often cocking his head, a bit when he did not understand something.

He instinctively migrated toward his less fortunate classmates.

He pushed the kids who were in wheelchairs.

He held their hands when they fell and started crying.

Yet, as wise and caring as he was, he displayed a unique and peculiar insecurity.

He needed to be sure, to know with certainty, that his friends and teachers loved him every second of every day.

He would engage in activities for a few minutes then, predictably, look the person closest to him in their eyes and ask in a delightful sing-song tone, “Do you love me? Do you love me?”. Even if you answered him the first time, he always asked you twice in a row. As if deep inside he knew you probably loved him but thought you might just be saying it and needed that follow up.

But no matter how many times you told him you loved him. Or how emphatic and believable you answered his repetitive query, like clockwork, a few minutes later, he would ask again, “Do you love me? Do you love me?”

Both students and teachers would humor him the first 10 or 15 times he asked them if they loved him and answer as if he was not getting on their nerves. But, ultimately, they would snap at him, “We told you we love you 100 times already, stop asking!”

And you could see his heart breaking in his eyes.

For no matter how many times he asked the world if it loved him, nothing could satisfy and satiate that hunger and desire.

No affirmation sufficed.

Some added hugs, but to no avail.

He was stuck in a compulsive, “Do you love me?” endless loop.

Until one day, an occupational therapist took him for an evaluation.

He grabbed her hand and what should have been a one-hour assessment took the entire school day.

She must have told him a thousand times how much she loved him but each time, looked him in the eye, and tried a few psychological techniques.

First she followed her, “Yes. I love you.”, with the usual, “You do not have to ask over-and-over again, you know I love you?”, and “I have told you a million times, I love you.”, and “Can you try not to keep asking me if I love you. I already told you I do!”.

Then something different happened.

You see, his teachers and other students knew when they got a little tough or harsh with his “Do you love me?” repetitions, he would sometimes cry. It was the kind of crying that until people got used to it, was heart wrenching, but became clear over time was more reflexive than an expression of true pain.

But the occupational therapist did not know this student.

And when he cried, she cried.

And not just for a few minutes.

His tears triggered something in her and she cried deeply.

Much more than the situation warranted.

And long after the 9-year-old student pulled himself together.

And then something even stranger happened.

The little boy began to comfort the occupational therapist. And while the therapist had sincerely been triggered into a nearly inconsolable crying fit, she retained enough professional steadiness to explore this role reversal.

As he puts his arms around her, literally drying her tears, she looked at him intensely and asked, “Do you love me?”.

He said, “Of course I do.”

She kept crying though, and said, “No you don’t. I don’t believe you.”

“Yes I do”, he said.

She shook her head.

“No, I really really really do.”

She put her arms around him and said, “How do I know you really really really love me?”

“Because I told you so, silly.”

“Telling me is not enough.”, she said.

He cocked his to the side, pondering.

And she saw a light go off in his cute little innocent head.

She slowly got herself together and stopped crying and said to the little boy, “Do you love me?”

“Yes I do.”, he said.

“And do I love you?”, she asked.

“Yes you do.”, he shouted with a broad grin.

“I believe you.”

“I know you do.”, he said, grabbing her hand and taking her back to his classroom.

He did it.

And she did it.

She needed someone to truly comfort and love her.

And he needed someone who truly needed his love.

Once he realized his love was meaningful and powerful and healing, he developed a new sing-song catchphrase, and he repeated it frequently, “Can I love you? Can I love you?”

Yes, my little buddy, you can love me as much as you want.