The Impossible Burden of Love

“I was dressed in white, touched by something pure
Death obsessed like a teenager
Sold my tortured youth, piss and vinegar
I’m still angry with no reason to be

At the architect who imagined this
For the everyman, blessed Sisyphus
Slipping steadily into madness
Now that’s the only place to be free

But here it comes, that heavy love
You’re never going to move it alone
Here it comes, that heavy love
Tattooed on a criminal’s arm

Here it comes, that heavy love
Someone got to share in the load
Here it comes, that heavy love
You’re never going to move it alone”

-“Shell Games” by Bright Eyes

After an endearing weekend with family celebrating my nephews’ birthdays, I drove home feeling conflicted, overwhelmed and angry.

I spoke with a friend the next day, disturbed, when I realized how all of humanity was so ill-equipped in catering this edict to be ambassadors of love on this Earth. Why would an assumingely loving God hardwire this responsibility into our DNA, with the full knowledge that we would irrefutably mess it all up?

I considered some “use cases” I’ve become intimate with.

My mother, born out of wedlock, and by every definition the perfect daughter to her imperfect mother, now expecting that same dedication to be reciprocated in her last years. Her definition of love is loyalty, subservience, and obedience.

My ex-boyfriend, power hungry and chasing validation through status. His definition of love was shiny credentials and expensive things.

To Republicans, alleged egalitarianism.

To Democrats, also, alleged egalitarianism.

To me, it sometimes feels like an impossible burden.

The morning that I left home, my mother hovered over the kitchen sink, drinking her daily dose of cathartic by washing the dishes. I explained to her that my sister and I weren’t talking over a skirmish we had the night before.

“아이고- I raised two terrible women.”

She paused, sighed, and shook her head, “It’s all my fault.”

I cringed and swallowed as I suppressed the pain in my chest. I silently finished my breakfast and cleaned up the table.

I packed the rest of my belongings with two conflicting emotions tugging at my heart. Wanting to flee the pain and regain my independence, yet wanting to stay and heal my incomplete parents — to show them a full and strong understanding of love, beyond the broken shards that have stabbed them throughout their unfortunate lives.

I’ve tried to comprehend the wild injustice my mother has experienced her entire life, and how in some interpretations, I can play a part in perpetuating that.

Sisyphus, for those who recall their Greek mythology, is the man whose personal hell was to roll a heavy rock up a hill for all eternity, only for it to roll back down once he reached the top of the hill.

To participate in the bold endeavor of love is a Sisyphean feat — endless, hard, and fraught with mistakes and pain.

And yet, despite the series of experiences I’ve had that should perpetuate this broken outlook on love, I have to continue with a naive idealism. For better or for worse, I feel like Myshkin from The Idiot.

As I said my goodbye’s to my parents, I swallowed and gave my mother an earnest hug. Patting her back, I whispered, “I love you. It’s not your fault.”

For the everyman, blessed Sisyphus.

We can achieve it — that heavy love — but we’ve all gotta share in the load.