Long-distance Lover

I am one of the many single people who has mused to my friends at some point, “I would never enter into a long-distance relationship.” This declaration came up in the midst of a story about a friend of a friend who met someone far, far away and ended up in compromising situation trying to have a relationship with a new lover over a long distance. This story ended in infidelity and a dramatic description of how the feelings ‘fizzled out’ and the lovers just didn’t feel the same again. Perhaps many of us relate to this story and feel a sad shiver when we think of our own lost long-distance lover. I was always sure it wasn’t the way I wanted love to be.

But I have learned that having a long-distance lover is often not a choice, but rather a situation that one is forced into. One minute, I was wandering alone around a foreign city, and the next minute I encountered someone who stirred something in me, and I noticed the exciting, giggly feeling, and stepped up into it. I encouraged myself to be open when travelling, because what is there to lose? It took a good kick of optimism once him and I retreated to our respective cities, to discuss how it could continue and what would make it possible to continue. This optimism seemed healthy at the time and was driven by the strength of my emotions for him.

But when you both make the decision to try, how do you know the effort is worth it? It’s hard to express why, how, where the feeling is different from the last love I had. It is hard to anticipate if the feeling will change or be sustained, long into the night? Or into season after season? A pervasive infatuation or a sturdy love? They seem to start the same. But end differently. So perhaps the difference is in the energy and the flow of that energy through me, and whether it clings or glides, whether it’s stale or fresh. When I decide my passion has the strength and capacity to survive the distance of time and place, I decide to try and explore ways to fuel that passion.

I communicate with him through writing with a subdued and hesitant tone. The writing is a relief to my questioning, ruminating mind, which seems to dance around doubt (how does he really feel?) in the moments we don’t converse. It is a strange version of infatuation that has wrapped itself around us and not let go. It is a fusion of joy and natural terror of loss. Of letting go. Because you always have to. And then there’s an absence, which feels like a presence. When someone is not there, they actually seem to be there in the mind, as a hard block of pain. A pang of loss, a shadow of love. These feelings are more evident on Sundays.

The tricky part is trying to maintain the passionate feelings over and across every electronic device we can get our hands on. And then trying to find the right balance between healthy contact and loss of connection due to neglecting contact. When we find that balance and somehow maintain warmth and love over a great distance, it is infinitely satisfying. It is testament to what can happen when I drop my misconceptions and open myself up to experiencing something different from what I thought I wanted. I remember what I said to my friend that day and then conjure up the image of the lover in my mind, and giggle at myself and the decisions I am making. “I swore I’d never do this, but here I am…”

The forced distance is actually a bright opportunity to watch the difference between attachment and love, and to try and manage the balance between the two. The attachment side of my emotion insists that the person be here, next to me, despite their distant life and what they might want now. The love side acknowledges quietly that the person is happy where they are now, and there is no need for the merging of your lives, until the point you both want to live together, and you are both ready, and even then, that is a big maybe. A long-distance lover teaches this succinct, painful lesson in love.

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