Love ... and those two other little words

Just love me, he begs. There are tears in his eyes when he says this in heartfelt plead. Love me the way you used to love me ...

My heart breaks. I can literally feel it tearing. I think back to that beautiful day in June so, so many years ago. The Rothko panels, the solitude of the chapel. Just us, our parents and a handful of close friends. Perfect, just the way I imagined. I think about my simple white cotton sateen dress. Little rosettes on the bodice. Not being suspicious, I let him help me pick it out. I still feel tenderness for this man. But at some point, I started dropping his hand soon after he reached for mine. I stopped sharing with him. My voice took on "that" tone -- that blase, disinterested note because that's the way I felt toward him for the most part. He'd become an annoyance. I could not ... damn it, friends, I could not be kind. I could not treat him right.

It's long after the affair. After discovery, he handled it inappropriately every step of the way. The counselor told him to sever ties immediately and send a "no contact" letter to his mistress. She advised us to change our home and cell phone numbers. Any mutual friends they had in common were to be avoided. Of course this was appropriate, I wouldn't have expected anything else. He agreed to "end it," but still wanted to be her "friend." I thought of them sitting in the little vegetarian cafe that used to be "our place," where he complained to her copiously and bitterly about our marriage. The mere suggestion was so offensive I wanted to draw blood. His, to be exact. So I threw him out of his own home. As soon as he had done what the counselor told him to do, then he could come home. He did. Or he said he did. Actually, he learned how to hide it better. I had to throw him out ... a second time.

Now she was finally gone, and he was here to make amends. I knew it was me who he loved. He always let me know that. Now it was too late. I felt something for him, I couldn't help it. Till death do us part. I take those words seriously. I take each relationship seriously. I never go into one thinking, "One day all this will end." I've always made it Windex clear that if I get serious, it's for the long haul. But then something inevitably happens to turn the tide. I can hang onto love but not those two other little words, which are just as important, if not even more important: Trust and respect.

In one of C.C.'s blogs on serial monogamy and first love, I forget which one, I asked if she believed that love can exist without trust and respect. She suggested that I hammer that one out myself. So I pondered the demise of past relationships. I pinpointed the feelings that I had as I was walking out the door. There was no more trust or respect. Sometimes both. Okay, usually both. Usually, the loss of one had led to the other. Because once you stop trusting your person, it's for a good reason. You see a pattern of rash decisions on your person's behalf -- decisions that make you take a step back and think, "Whoa! Ya know, that's not just a one-timer; my person might be really ... stoopid?" And thus commences the decline from respect into disgust and finally into apathy.

Can you totally trust someone you love? I pose that you can't. Surprised? Well, you shouldn't be. But that's okay, because none of us are completely trustworthy. Your person is going to show you in small ways that there are certain areas in which they cannot be trusted. The man I'm telling you about picked me up late, chronically. While I was standing on the street corner after work waiting for his happy ass to show up, he was still finishing up the last of his precious Formula One race. I came to expect that 5:30 p.m. actually meant 5:45, or maybe even 6:00. I couldn't trust him to *ever* be on time. No big deal, though -- it wasn't fatal.

I also knew I couldn't trust him with any grocery list. If I wrote down "Rotel tomatoes" and "Velveeta cheese," he'd come home with fresh tomatoes, jalepenos and a block of cheddar. And he'd have an adorable, hopeful look on his face because he'd thought it would please me more that he took the time to look for fresher, higher quality ingredients. I never once got mad; this "creative ingredient substitution" was one of his more endearing qualities. Of course, what I was making was plain ol' microwave queso, you all know that, right? So while he was upstairs puttering, I'd sneak next door to the market and buy my Rotel and Velveeta. He was none the wiser.

But then there's capital-T-Trust and capital R-Respect. While the revelation of a single act can blow trust out of the water -- getting caught cheating is a classic example -- often, the loss of respect is surreptitious and comes about in minute increments until finally you find yourself bereft of it entirely. The person you put up on a pedestal has taken a tumble from grace, and it's captured in slow-motion for you to see. A string of really bad judgment calls. Getting caught in a crisis and handling it in a piss-poor way that shows lack of diligence and care -- and a lack of general self-respect, too.

It never fails to amaze me how low people set the bar when they lack self-respect. Forget the subtle red flags, his mistress was festooned with them. A woman -- girl, really -- ten years younger, barely employed, living in a shitty apartment complex, they indulged in drugs together, woo-hoo! I heard everything from coke to crystal meth to hallucinogens, courtesy of the grapevine. This was a thirty-three year old man, not a child. Even after he lost me, lost his job, and alienated his friends, he still couldn't separate himself from her. I always knew when they'd had contact; his language was immature, filled with jargon that might have been appropriate had he been a teenager. He was petulant, pissy, and irresponsible. Even the way he dressed and carried himself was in the manner of a surly adolescent. The affair brought out his worst. God, it was painful, too, especially when I recalled that regal, well-heeled man who stood next to me in a chapel. No respect for him. None at all. He was acting like a total jackass.

So back to the question. Can love exist without trust and respect? Maybe a form of love -- a diluted love. "I love him but ... " (DOT-DOT-DOT)" That "but" says it all, doesn't it? Something is missing from your person. You might love 90 percent of them, or maybe even 50 percent. You might love that they can still make you laugh or engage you in a lively conversation about politics, art and culture. You might still be able to summon up some physical attraction for them. You might, as I did, love the part of them that still loves you and wants to be with you. This is the hardest part to reconcile; see, I know that I'm a good catch. If someone has chosen me as a life mate, that tells me that they're looking toward the future. But absent trust and respect, I don't believe one can have a future of 100 percent love. There's always that black, cancerous piece that you wish you could just cut away. You can't do this. Because that cancerous piece is a part of them that's still getting a blood flow.

The natural side-effect of disrespect and lack of trust is distancing -- that is, if you have any self-esteem. But the more you back off, the more frustrated they become. "Trust me! Respect me!" he insisted. But it's not that simple. Unlike love, which can be executed by an active decision, trust and love are intuitive emotions that cannot be summoned at will. When someone tells you that they've lost trust for you, or that they disrespect you and then they spell out specific reasons why, there *are* magic words: "I understand completely. If I were you, I'd feel the same way. Tell me what I need to do to regain your trust and respect." (Yes, I've had to suck it up, too.)

Wow. It's so simple. Trust and respect, regained first by humility and then by sheer force of will! I've regained respect for people who've dashed all hope in my eyes. I've come to trust the last person I thought I would *ever* trust because I saw him work his ass off to turn over a new leaf. That person was the man I described above. Folks, it's wasn't easy for him, and it wasn't quick. He worked on himself so painstakingly, you'd think he was the one who painted the Sistine Chapel. Sadly, by the time this change was complete, my heart had moved on to another. That's the risk you take when you don't act post-haste.

The man I once loved is whole again. He called it quits with his mistress and almost immediately turned back into the man I once fell in love with. I'm only human. Sometimes I still wonder if the affair was worth it to him, why he just didn't do the things he needed to do when he needed to do then, before everything was lost. But now he has someone who loves him very much, last I heard. This is wonderful news, because I don't want him to live bereft of companionship. Everyone deserves a second chance. I just wish I could have been the one to give it.

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Has someone you loved ever regained your trust and respect? How did they do it? Did they follow your conditions? Can you love someone you don't trust and respect?


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