“What does being loved really feel like? Not the kind where people are obligated to love, like your parents and brothers and sisters but the kind where people choose to love you.”
I turned to the curious question posed by a young woman, probably in her early 20’s although in today’s times, who knows with certainty. The question was directed to a woman late 40’s or early 50’s. She wasn’t attractive in an obvious way, in a room full of people you probably wouldn’t notice her in a hurry. Until perhaps a conversation started like this one.
I had heard snippets of the conversation. It was in a coffee shop after all. People seated close enough to hear tidbits of conversations over your own or even the whole thing if you were the nosey type or sitting solo, even with the noise from other conversations or the coffee grinder.
Like most places, the regulars would say hi, give a wave or smile to each other. This woman came in at least once a week, sometimes alone, sometimes people would join her, some she would know, others she didn’t. I often heard bits and pieces as we somehow sat close enough.
Occasionally when the shop was packed and she was alone, someone would request a seat at her table. A handful of times this was me. We engaged in conversation, and it was impossible not to see her intelligence and wisdom. She was curious and keen to explore topics of all sorts. She saw me in ways I never expected as she did with every person who sat at her table, well the ones she liked anyway. There was the random arrogant fool or the odd perfectly nice person who for some reason didn’t seem to inspire her interest or conversation and vice versa.
Her response was a simple “I don’t know.” I couldn’t help but look up and catch her eyes for a brief second. She looked away. The younger woman looked as shocked as I imagined I did. I looked away. It wasn’t my conversation, but my curiosity piqued.
“What do you mean? You have lived life; you have people coming to your table and you always have everyone at ease. Surely you must have loved and been loved?!” The strain in her voice was clear. If this woman who sat before her wasn’t loved, then what hope would she have? From the conversation earlier it was evident that she had her relationship concerns and was looking for answers.
The older woman sighed and said, “Don’t misunderstand, there may have been people who cared and possibly even loved me in their way, but you asked what it feels like, and I haven’t felt that love directed at me, the few moments here and there sure, but real love with consistency and effort, the true investment no.”
“People are always too busy, have too much going on, a million reasons why they can’t and that’s just the way it always has been. How many of those people have you seen come to meet me more than once or twice? How many of the people who asked to sit here would then run off the minute something more appealing showed up or when they have their stuff figured out, never come back?” The young woman thought about it, she had been coming to the café for a while too. She scratched her head and shrugged; she hadn’t paid attention. Neither had I.
“I’ve watched people from the outside my whole life. They welcome people into their homes, and they visit theirs. There is an exchange of gifts not just the big expensive stuff like cars and holidays but the ‘hey I saw this and thought of you’ chocolate or lecture that the other would be keen on hearing, a late night call to make sure you got home safely. There’s a commitment to make the time, pick up the phone and make a call. There’s inclusion and knowledge about the most mundane things in life and the important stuff too. There’s intimacy, sacrifice and compromise. You see them making the time to help them through their dark days. The work that goes into making people feel important, special, and considered. The safe space even when they are so angry and hurt. I understand what it looks like, but I haven’t had it.”
It didn’t make sense to the young woman still, this was someone who had people around her, she laughed and joked with seriousness and leisure. She made people feel things. How is it that she didn’t have what she advised others on so well?
The confusion in her eyes was clear to the older woman. She pushed her specs up her nose as it slid down, stirring the coffee in front of her before she began speaking with contemplation.
“You want to know how there’s all these people you’ve seen me with and have some sort of relationship or bond with is in my position?”
She continued when she received the nod. “It’s easy,” she said.
“People engage from their point of view. And most people are willing to give everything to some but not to others and we just take things for granted. So, I talk to people, but most of the time, I never even get asked about myself, my life, or my family and when I do get asked if there’s depth or pain then people switch off. At some point I had to just accept that many people see me as someone to talk to about their stuff, to take away their loneliness and pain.
“I’m a distraction from their real life, sometimes the entertainment, sometimes the safe space to talk about the selves they aren’t ready to show the people closest to them.
“What little excitement to talk with me, to make and fulfil plans to see me. I may SEE them and even understand them, but they will never see me and if they do, my pain, my heart, my need for connection, attention or anything else won’t matter enough. I will always be the outsider. Safe to talk to in isolation about anything about things that break your heart but to show up and include me, well that’s asking for too much. Do you know how humiliating and heartbreaking it is when people pretend I am a nameless, face in the crowd when they see me out of these walls? I had someone give me a taste of consideration once, kind of like a tester. I didn’t know what it was when it was happening, I was never exposed to that. And then it just disappeared. I felt lonely even though I had been alone my whole life. That ache never really leaves once it has touched you.
“In every situation, I found I was the chosen sacrifice over and over again. Every word used to describe me by anyone who ever claimed to love and care for me was general. People suddenly get stingy with their time, their resources and everything else when it comes to me, but will move mountains for people they have known for a few weeks, months, days and even hours. I am not worthy of those privileges and so I found myself begging for something anything and accepting the barest of crumbs people threw my way and found affection in my heart for the strangers who did just a little more than those I knew even though it meant nothing to them and they did it for everyone else. I convinced myself I was more important than I was and I then did more for them because a hungry heart wants someone to care. It’s heartbreaking. I don’t do that anymore. No one treats me the same as they do other people they are close to, those that they love. Not even in my own home. I’m different they say, and so they treat me so and so much less. I read a quote once that said to be known is to be loved, people may know stuff about me in general, but they don’t KNOW me.”
She had tears in her eyes as she said this but she held them back. No one had held her in her pain. That was clear. She was strong, she had to be.
“What do you mean by general description, how is that different from knowing you?” the youngster asked unphased as I pretended to be engrossed in the laptop in front of me.
“We talked a few times. Describe me, tell me what you know about me,” the older woman asked of the younger one.
The young woman played with her blue golf shirt, twirled her dark brown her and scrunched her face up. “Intelligent, genuine, wise, funny, smart,” she had run out of words.
When the young woman had finished, the older one requested a pen and paper from the waitress. Handing them over to the young woman she asked her to write the words down. I followed suit and typed them on the screen in front of me. I added empathetic, generous, kind, attractive, and strong. I waited.
“Now just look at those words and how many other people do they remind you of?” The young woman started listing people, as did I to myself. She had 15 at least. I had ten. MMMM, I thought.
“Now if we walked out of here and this paper was left here, what story would it tell anyone picking it up?”
“Nothing I suppose.”
“And if you were to give a tribute of some kind about me, what would this say about me? What stories or memories, what emotions do you have attached to me?” “This conversation, you make me feel heard, no one does that, you make me feel seen and understood,” was the response. That was something.
A sad smile appeared on the older woman’s face. Yes, that says something about me I suppose. But that’s all anyone will say. Until that very moment, I didn’t notice she had different smiles. I guess that was the point she was making. “Notice that everything you speak has you at the centre of it. It’s about you and how I make you feel about yourself. Yet you have nothing to say about me. Not my dress sense, or fears, loves or even favourites. No one knows about my terrifying aversion to heights, even the low ones. The ones that do were in the room when I found myself on a fridge one day and I couldn’t get down without having a panic attack. No one knows what makes me angry or what hurts, no one even knows my favourite colour or the colour of my eyes. No one’s who has the right to has ever asked how it feels knowing with certainty I would never have kids of my own yet they will comment on my weight or marital status (a difficult person they assume, a selfish one). Barely anyone has a story or memory that goes beyond a single coffee or the way that they felt about themselves or their lives after a conversation.”
“It’s no one’s fault,” she said. Some things just aren’t meant to be. For some of us, everybody leaves. The young woman said she understood, I doubt she did. She got up and walked away.
Life went on after that. The woman showed up some days, but more people were coming into the café. People would ask to join her if there was nowhere else to sit and then ask her to leave when they were joined by their true companions. She was joined by no one. Some days she would look around and if there was a seat available, there was usually someone waiting for someone to fill it and finding no seats so she would take her coffee and leave. The last time she came in, I watched her briefly looking around like in a game of musical chairs and who would get the last seats. Then my companion arrived and only later realized that the woman didn’t get one. This had been the scene over the past month.
A few weeks have passed now and she hasn’t come in. I curiously went to some of the other regulars and asked if they had seen her.
“Oh the one with the green eyes?” someone asked. I don’t think she had green eyes but I couldn’t remember. “Didn’t she have dark black-ish eyes,” asked another and another said brown. It was a light brown with a hint of grey around the iris. But none of us knew that.
Fat-ish? Thin? brown hair? black hair? red hair? Marym? Fatima? Zahida? Coffee? Cappuccino? Hot Chocolate? No one could agree on what she looked like or what her name was or what she had. I hadn’t paid attention in all the time we talked and we all had talked with her. Some had even spent more time with her outside of the café. No one knew her, we knew a bit of her, how she made us all feel about ourselves, but no one knew her. An accessory, a convenience, a moment in time. The last one left standing when the music stopped and so she left.
And to know someone is to love them. No wonder she didn’t feel loved.
