Love and other Drugs

Once upon a time, humans were created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. These ‘double humans’ bound by love, were made out of either both parts female, both parts male, or one part female and one part male. Fearing their mighty power, Zeus split them into two separate entities, condemning them to spend their entire lives in search of their other half. These people were called soulmates.

Being the hopeless romantic that I am, I have held this beautiful piece of Greek Mythology in my heart for the better part of a decade. The literature that lines my shelves has given me a magical, enchanting perspective on love. Shakespeare tells us that "Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind, and therefore wing’d Cupid painted blind." Bronte notes that "He is more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same." Hardy elucidates that "Having begun to love you, I love you forever—in all changes, in all disgrace, because you are yourself."

Every writer pontificates that love is supposed to feel beautiful, consuming, secure, and euphoric. They warn that once you have felt love, there is no going back. Apparently, love is a feeling that lasts forever and only grows with time, except that is just not true, is it? People fall out of love as quickly and as easily as they fall into it, so how could it ever have been there to begin with?

I used to dream of love. For me, a life without love was not worth living. I wanted to love until my heart gave out, and I wanted to be loved in equal measure. However, in my introduction to love at the cliché age of sixteen, I have come to find that it has sorely missed its mark. Somewhere along the way when "I love you" turned into "I don't" and the laughter turned into tears, I began to wonder how it was ever possible that one day somebody could snap their fingers and simply stop loving you. That person who knows your every thought before you think it, every emotion before you feel it, and every secret before you speak it, just made you dispensable. Now stuck in a limbo where we are neither friends nor enemies, simply strangers with memories, I wonder if this whole time I had the wrong definition of love. What if what we call "love" is nothing more than a temporary addiction?

Scientists strongly compare the feeling of "falling in love" to the kick of ecstasy felt after consuming cocaine, alcohol, or nicotine based on the equivalent levels of dopamine released. Like these addictions, your brain becomes addicted to the validatory feeling of "love" (which I propose is simply the enjoyment and gratification of attention) and longs to keep the source of it around constantly to maintain the ‘high’.

Parting from the source that brings its user gratification (again commonly mistaken for "love"), just like when quitting the use of a drug, causes the body to experience withdrawal symptoms. For those who stop feeling the thrill of the "high" altogether, the drug is tossed to the side entirely in search of a stronger dose. The adrenaline that comes with the thrill of the chase, the game of cat and mouse, and the showering of affection comes from this drug’s intense intoxication. The "perks" of being in "love", including prioritization, words of affirmation, and quality time, are simply methods of validation. It is our way of gratifying our lover into remaining in a relationship we want to maintain because we are quite plainly addicted to their presence. When the drug wears off, so do the gestures.

But what is to be said for the billions of married couples around the world, or for those in long-term relationships? What binds them together? If love is simply a provisional obsession, the phrase "honeymoon stage" perhaps best reflects it. As a society, it is widely accepted that this so-called "honeymoon stage" is transient, and once it fades, a deeper, stronger love takes root. I disagree with this characterization. Once the thrill fades and the addiction wears off, this "deeper love" is simply the act of getting used to one another’s idiosyncrasies.

Of course, in many instances, this is an amicable process; there is still utmost respect, trust, and loyalty between partners as they fall into a comfortable routine, and some will stay together for many years. After all, the taboo and societal costs of separation are very high, and the search costs of finding a new partner are cumbersome. However, they mistake who, or rather, what, they are in love with. Partners fall in love with the comfort and predictability each other brings rather than with each other. They enjoy having a safety net, mutual reliance, and dependability. That is not love, either.

At this juncture, as I’m writing this, I realize that I sound like a depressed misanthropist. I assure you I am not, but perhaps in truth this piece is simply the closest to my heart. My biggest fear is that love does not exist at all, and by exploring whether it does, there is a sad vulnerability in the fact that perhaps the answer really is no. Or maybe love does exist, but not in the way we have learned or seen it today. Love is not safe, comforting, or dependable. Perhaps true love is maddening and dangerous, possessive and electrifying. True love is the delight in the unknown, where every day is unpredictable and risky but so wholly rewarding. A state where the addiction never wears off. The drug never ceases. The obsession never ends.

Perhaps true love is the most dangerous drug of them all.