There’s an R.E.M. song called The One I Love that I never liked because it’s simple, repetitive, and boring. It starts off as a love song, a dedication to a former lover:
This one goes out to the one I love
This one goes out to the one I’ve left behind
But in the next line it twists into something bitter, almost angry:
A simple prop to occupy my time
This one goes out to the one I love
And later in the song:
Another prop has occupied my time
This one goes out to the one I love
Fire (she’s comin’ down on her own, now)
Fire (she’s comin’ down on her own, now)
Yeah, he’s a little chapped.
The One I Love came out in August 1987, when I had just turned 19 years old. I’d only had one serious girlfriend by that time and hadn’t experienced love or loss yet, so I didn’t understand what ‘a simple prop to occupy my time’ meant. But it was obvious to me that The One I Love wasn’t a love song. This dude was clearly bitter. Simple prop? Occupy my time? Clearly something had gone sideways with the person he was singing about. If the lyrics didn’t give it away, Michael Stipe’s plaintive wailing certainly did.
And YET. This tedious, dreary song inexplicably became R.E.M.’s first Top 10 hit. Despite the fact that they’d already had a bunch of great songs hit the airwaves–Begin the Begin, Superman, Fall on Me, South Central Rain, and 7 Chinese Brothers to name a few–this lame, repetitive, angry ditty somehow struck a chord with people. Incredibly, people liked it because they thought it was a LOVE song when it clearly isn’t. Stipe, the song’s author, who appears above in his better hair days (he’s bald like me now) has said that it’s not a love song:
“I didn’t like the song to begin with . . . I felt it was too brutal. I thought the sentiment was too difficult to put out into the world. But people misunderstood it, so it was fine. Now it’s a love song, so that’s fine.”
Sidenote: The morose bookend to ‘The One I Love’ is ‘Losing My Religion,’ which came out a few years later in 1991. Equally dreary, equally repetitive, but more complex. The video is chock-full of metaphoric religious imagery that would take hours to decipher, with Stipe dancing around like an obsessed, despondent madman. By this time, I was 21 and had experienced love and loss for the first time (shout out to you, K!), so the song resonated, as did Stipe’s nutty dancing.
Here’s a snippet:
Oh life is bigger
It’s bigger than you
And you are not me
The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes
Oh no I’ve said too much
I set it up
That’s me in the corner
That’s me in the spot-light
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don’t know if I can do it
Oh no I’ve said too much
I haven’t said enough
I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try
Still tedious. Still repetitive. But better. Maybe because I was able to relate to it by then.
That people are so delusional about love they don’t look past a song’s title to learn what it’s really about–a bitter guy who is still upset about a breakup (or possibly a guy who used someone as a romantic prop; there are two ways to go on this)–is a metaphor for the blindness that love can induce in a person.
As I get emotional distance from my most recent breakup and am able to put it in a more objective context, I’ve been thinking about the confusion generated by The One I Love and that one lyric that makes the song slightly interesting to me: ‘A simple prop to occupy my time.’ Simple prop. Occupy my time. It got me thinking: In romantic relationships, are we all just simple props for others’ dopamine hits? Are our significant others simple props for our dopamine hits? Are all relationships just occupying time? Are they all simply meaningless, temporary attachments generated by fleeting needs and overflowing brain chemicals? Is there a point to these experiences that always seem to have a shelf-life?
People are so delusional about love, so blinded by a desire to connect and attach to someone, that much like the confusion over the true meaning of The One I Love, they seemingly fail to read the lyrics of a relationship to understand what the relationship is truly about, what’s really going on, the unconscious dynamics at work, until it’s over. Perhaps not even then. Or maybe they did read the lyrics but they ignored them because they were enjoying the melody too much. Their attachment was too strong and their needs were too overwhelming to accept the other person’s signals. Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.
Now, as I’ve said many times, there’s humor in everything. One hilarious thing about a breakup is the contrast between the intensity of how things once were–all the things you did together, the things you said to each other, things you truly meant and intended forevermore, the plans you made, the amorous notes you left each other on a law school desk, under a dormitory door, or buried in a travel suitcase, the I love you Schmoopies, and I miss you my loves, the gutting angst generated by distance, separation, and goodbyes, the cassette mixtapes and Spotify playlists you made for each other with carefully selected songs that had DEEP MEANING and PURPOSE and were IRONIC and FUNNY, the way you zinged each other because you knew each other so well, the way you looked into each other’s eyes, saw a kindred spirit and said ‘Yes,’ this is my person, I love this person, I want this person, I will always be with this person, the way you met each other’s families and thought, I like these people, I could see myself with these people, I fit in with these people, the EFFORT you made to be with this person, to listen to this person, to share experiences, to create memories, years of effort and listening and intense, deep emotion–the contrast between all of that and….
NOTHING.
The nothingness that arrives when it all disappears, sometimes overnight or without warning. The nothingness you encounter when it’s over and they’re gone from your life like they never existed at all. When you’re hit in the face with a vacuum of oxygenless air like George Clooney’s character in Gravity when he untethers himself from Sandra Bullock’s character to save her life and then waits to suffocate and die:
You’re gone from their life and they’re gone from yours. You’re floating in a soundless, sensory-deprived expanse. You don’t see them and you don’t hear from them. You have no clue what’s going on in their world, and they have no clue what’s going on in yours. After being completely entrenched in each other’s lives for years, you are complete strangers to each other and may never see each other again. And if you ever do encounter this person again, your relationship won’t be the same. It will be a shell of its former self. 2-D instead of 3-D. You’ll both just be Somebody That I Used To Know. Awkward conversations. Things untold and unsaid. Censored thoughts fenced in by memories of what used to be, the life you shared together, everything you’ve done since, and what could have been but never was. Shit you can’t or don’t want to talk about. Or more likely, you’ll feel indifferent and apathetic towards each other. Really not giving a fuck about them and their life. Superficiality. Like you’re looking at each other through a fogged-up window. That’s a far better situation to be in, all things considered.
It’s bonkers, honestly. Completely insane. I’ve experienced this too many times to count, so you’d think I’d be used to it by now, but you never really get used to it.
Why would I call something so incredibly sad ‘hilarious’? Because it’s both. Of course it’s sad. It’s beyond sad. Having one’s dreams crushed, one’s imagined future blown up into 1000 pieces is depressing as hell. Depending on the significance of the attachment you had (i.e., how many brain chemicals got released during your relationship, how long it lasted, how much you shared, and how strongly you felt about the person) a breakup can feel worse than death. At least with death, your pain has an ending. Broken relationships are like dying every day but you’re still alive. Someone you cherished more than anything and made a huge priority in your life is gone for good, and you’re attending a seemingly endless funeral. Your life has been turned upside down and you’re immediately thrown into a pool of loss, fear, and insecurity.
And oh, the existential questions that suddenly arrive to pester you like a bunch of annoying Minions:
Will I ever meet someone like this again? Will I ever have a connection like this again? Am I destined to be alone forever? Why did I ignore so many signs? How could I have avoided this pain? Was this relationship worth it? Why do I perpetually pursue emotionally unavailable people and dead-end situations? What does this say about me? Do I really want love, or do I really just want a Simple Prop To Occupy My Time because deep down I’m emotionally unavailable myself? Is this all I ever was to this person? Is it all she ever was to me? What the fuck was the point of it all? What did this relationship mean? How could I/she let it go so easily after everything we went through together? Now what?
Yeah, definitely sad. A lot of questions. A lot of pain. For a while at least. Time is a great healer, and it always works its magic if you let it. Thank God for that.
But this scenario is also funny in a way. There’s something hilarious about the contrast between the intense effort you put into a relationship and how meaningless this effort and intensity ultimately proved to be because the situation was never in your control. How there’s such a massive disconnect between expectation and reality in most romantic relationships because you’re dealing with two people, not one, and they’re individuals with different and ever-evolving wants and needs. There’s comedy in this. When a relationship ends, especially when it’s a surprising ending for whatever reason–delusion, infidelity, a sudden mid-life crisis, a secret life with a second family you knew nothing about–it’s an existential pratfall. A Three Stooges doorknob to the face when you tried to pull a molar by tying a rope to the door. Jack Tripper falling off his bike while checking out a woman’s ass in the intro to Three’s Company. Any Jerry Lewis movie. The way we think we can control events and think we know what’s going on, but really can’t and don’t. The way we go about our business, skipping down lovers’ lane with Cupid’s arrow sticking out our ass until a 2×4 hits us square in the face is fucking funny. Wile E. Coyote trying to kill Road Runner and getting an anvil dropped on his head instead. Elmer Fudd’s gun blowing up in his face when he tries to shoot Bugs Bunny. You get my point. This shit can be awfully cartoonish at times. Okay, maybe it’s only funny to me.
Not every breakup is the same, so it’s important not to generalize too much. But one thing is true of all breakups: like every good novel, there’s always a protagonist and an antagonist. The antagonist is the person who wants a change because they’re secretly (or openly) dissatisfied with the status quo. Maybe they’re tired of the person they’re with. Maybe they’ve discovered something about their significant other that they don’t like and can’t live with. Maybe they’ve felt emotional or physical distance from that person for too long. Maybe they want their freedom more than they want their boyfriend, girlfriend, or spouse. It could be anything. The scenarios are endless.
The common denominator is the antagonist always knows they’re done with the relationship before the protagonist. The protagonist is typically clueless about all or most of this, or they’re ignoring signs because, well, you know, brain chemicals. Just based on the numbers, I’ve typically been the antagonist in this situation, and I much prefer it because I was mentally prepared for the imminent death. In fact, I was usually the one planning it. I was the hit man. It’s far easier to move on when you’re the killer. This doesn’t mean it was easy, or that I didn’t feel emotional pain when things ended. Of course I did. But it was a different kind of pain. A numb and resigned pain. An I’m-sad-but-oh-well-I-knew-this-wasn’t-going-to-work-so-better-to-rip-the-Band-Aid-off kind of pain. I was sad, but I spent less time thinking about the person afterwards because I had already processed most of that emotional shit before I pulled the trigger. I had one leg out the door with my car running. I was already thinking about new people, new possibilities, a better situation than the one I was leaving. It’s waaaaay easier to be the antagonist. Especially if you have a new dopamine hit ready and waiting for you. There’s no easier way to transition out of a relationship than to get a new drug dealer before you leave the first one. Usually that person is a counterproductive mistake long-term, but as a temporary fix after a relationship ends, there’s no better medicine than another warm body.
Conversely, being the protagonist in this situation sucks balls. As a protagonist, I’ve rarely been blindsided completely. I usually saw it coming. It’s in their eyes. The emotional distance that precedes the end is always palpable, like when ocean waves recede before the tidal wave hits. Predictable or not, whenever I was the protagonist, I was deeply emotionally attached to the people who wanted out and hadn’t processed the reality of living without them before things ended. Even though my higher mind could see the end coming, my conscious mind hadn’t fully accepted it. So I’d do everything possible to stave it off, immersing myself totally in their orbit like a misguided asteroid, contorting myself to meet their every need–emotional, physical, intellectual–while forgetting myself and my own needs and wants. This goes back to my childhood relationship with my mother, which is a subject for another day but this dynamic is totally fucked up and something I really need to work on.
This mindless one-sided devotion and need to satisfy someone else’s needs while my own aren’t being met by that person is not a loving relationship. No, it’s emotional attachment, which looks and feels a lot like love, but isn’t. Perversely, the more you invest in a person in this situation, the more you value them. It doesn’t matter if they’re worth it or not. The mind plays this trick by convincing you that this person must have incredible value otherwise why would you have invested so much time and emotion in them? More work, more effort, more emotional investment = more value. The dynamic becomes this fucked up, self-fulfilling prophecy. But there’s a major difference between love and emotional attachment. The former involves a long-term commitment and devotion to a person that goes beyond temporary need satisfaction. It involves planning a life together. Compromising. Living connected lives. Wanting the same things. Putting the other person first sometimes. Emotional attachment is loaded with feeling too, but it’s basically like being connected to a feeding tube. Once the body heals and there’s no need for the machine, it becomes disposable. When the mood strikes one of you can move on and inhale the first filet mignon that crosses your path. Nom-nom-nom. Mmmm, mmmm, good!
So what are most romantic relationships? Real feelings in the moment, sure. Real dopamine hits. Real experiences. Real emotion. But when you look back on them (or maybe when you look at the one you’re currently in) I think a good portion of them are really about emotional attachment and momentary need satisfaction, not real love. Does this mean that we’re all simple props occupying time for people and vice-versa? Are most romantic relationships ultimately meaningless? No, I don’t believe that. I would never be satisfied with a prop, and I don’t think most people would. Most people aren’t that premeditated. I think all of this is inadvertent because most people are clueless about the unconscious factors that are motivating them in any given moment. It’s not until they think about them later that they can see clearly what was directing their behavior. Only after a relationship ends can a person be objective and put it in perspective. That requires distance and time.
So what’s the lesson here? What’s the point of romantic relationships?
Let me answer it this way. I watched a TikTok the other night where this old guy was talking about his near death experience. (I watch a lot of these – they blow my mind.) He had died and was having this incredible experience in the Other Place, reviewing his life and feeling this incredible, unconditional love as he was welcomed ‘Home’ by what he described as ‘light beings’ without bodies. Hundreds of them. He didn’t have a body either. He had shed his at the bottom of a lake like a pair of old jeans. When he left it behind, he felt no attachment to it at all. He didn’t care.
The old man was given a choice to stay where he was or to go back. He wanted to stay, of course. They always do. He felt like he was home. Back to the REAL reality. Where he had just come from wasn’t real. He described it, our reality, as a play in which we are all just actors playing roles. Our bodies are costumes. Everything’s scripted but we have choice too. The point of all this is learning, experiencing things that the all-knowing, all-loving light beings–our true selves–are incapable of experiencing in the form they’re in, which is our true form. It’s like a hyperrealistic virtual reality game for light beings or whatever the fuck we really are. Our relationships with other people are our primary means of learning and spiritual evolution.
Sidenote: every time I hear an NDE like this I wonder why the hell these light beings–our supposed real selves–would feel the need to experience the absolute misery that is this reality. Okay, I guess there’s beauty here too, fine. But if they’re already omniscient and all-loving and perfect, what’s the fucking point of swimming in this sewer over and over again in multiple lives? I honestly have no clue. I really don’t understand it.
Then the old man said something interesting. When he said that he wanted to stay where he was in the Other Place, his guide–I’ll use that term; he was talking to someone/something that was explaining all of this to him, even though he understood a lot already just by being in this Other Place–said that’s fine, but his life wasn’t done. He had died too soon. The old man said ‘So what, I’m cool here, fuck it.’ Then his guide said: ‘If you stay here and don’t go back, you’re going to need to re-live your life over again because you made a contract with these other beings to live this particular life and experience certain things. You didn’t finish what you and they were supposed to experience because you died too soon. You’re not done. You didn’t satisfy your agreement with them. If you stay here, you’re going to need to do it again.’
To think that life after death–the Higher Plane, the Real Reality, Where We Go Next Before Reincarnating–involves legal technicalities and contractual terms that must be satisfied before our spiritual evolution can progress is funny as fuck. ‘You made a DEAL, fucker! If you stay here, you’re gonna need to be a miserable homeless person again. Or the next Hitler. Or Donald Trump. You don’t really want THAT, do you?’
So apparently God is a lawyer. I guess that makes me more god-like than I thought!
Of course the old man went back. ‘I didn’t want to have to do it all over again,’ he said. Really, who can blame him?
Upon hearing this–and I believe every word of it because the old man was totally credible, and I’ve heard similar things before–I acquired a different perspective on relationships and breakups. Or maybe I was reminded of an outlook that I’ve always had about them. Some relationships are more significant than others, so I guess some people can indeed be ‘simple props to occupy our time.’ But even those superficial relationships are intended to teach us something. Accordingly, no relationship is totally meaningless. Breakups happen for a reason too. You learned what you were supposed to learn from the person you were with, and it ended because it was time to learn something new, either by being alone for a while, or by encountering someone new when the time is right. Or maybe you were in their life for a reason, and that reason was satisfied.
The bottom line is we’re all here to learn and experience and evolve. That can happen in many ways. It can happen by being in a long relationship with one person for years or decades. (I wonder what that’s like?) Or it can happen by being in a series of shorter relationships. Or it can happen by being perpetually alone, in a relationship with ourselves. If you believe the old man, all of this is scripted before we’re born. The people we’re supposed to meet and the relationships we’re supposed to have with them, is all scripted. The specific roles they’ll have and the specific way you meet them may not be, and clearly there’s some freedom of choice operating here because the old man hadn’t done what he was supposed to and would have had to re-live the same life again if he didn’t return to his life. The freedom of choice part is still a mystery to me. But it’s comforting to know that every person has a season. Every relationship and every ending has a purpose, even if we can’t see it in the moment. Things happen exactly how and when they’re supposed to.
The key I suppose is to make the best relationship choices we can, learn as much as we can from our relationships, both good and bad, let them go and heal ourselves when necessary, and be truly open in heart and mind for the next person so we can learn our next lesson while trying not to repeat the same mistakes we’ve made in the past. The goal is learning. Progress. Evolution.
Easier said than done, but I guess that’s the point too. If it were easy, we’d just stay Home.
