Champions of the Lost Cause

Obsession, defiance, grit: The line between indomitable genius and hopeless holdout is blurred. We all have the capacity to chase unlikely dreams, but for some people, the pursuit becomes its own reward.

By Kathleen McGowan, published on March 01, 2007 - last reviewed on May 15, 2007

Stonebraker didn't come on too strong, although he did let her know he was interested. (She said she was flattered, but taken.) Over the months, the friendship deepened, and soon, he was carrying a mighty big torch. "I knew she wasn't available, but I couldn't help myself from becoming attached," he says. "I wound up falling in love." In his heart of hearts, he knew it wasn't going to work. It was just that it was intoxicating to talk to her.

Intoxicating indeed. Researchers who study the physiology of love distinguish between the first, passionate stages and the later, more settled and companionable forms of love, and they find that the first phases of love—the same ones that come on line during a crush—really do addle the brain. Early-stage love activates many of the same regions as do addictive drugs. Serotonin activity changes, fueling anxiety ("he didn't call me today!") and obsession ("I can't get her out of my mind!"). People in the first stages of love may have serotonin levels that are estimated to be as low as those with unmedicated obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Cortisol, the stress-related hormone that is activated to help the body prepare for challenges, also increases, finds Italian researcher Donatella Marazziti of the University of Pisa. Forming new bonds is stressful, and in a circular effect, these moderate levels of stress also drive attachment. Once formed, the attachment then eases the stress and anxiety. Intense, passionate new love mellows and ripens into comfortable partnership.

But that transition never happens for the obsessive suitor, who is denied the soothing effects of mature affection. Trapped in a neurochemical loop that reinforces the obsessive behavior, the lover is increasingly miserable and devoted to his or her goal.

This is the scenario of "frustration attraction," as described by the anthropologist Helen Fisher of Rutgers University. High levels of dopamine urge all lovers toward their expected reward: connection with the beloved. But for unrequited lovers, dopamine-producing neurons continue their elevated activity. Expectation rises, and the lover redoubles his efforts. For a few people—perhaps those who already have low serotonin—this neurochemical barrage turns ugly: Low serotonin is associated with impulsive violence. Many people have suffered from unrequited love, but only a few resort to stalking. The most persistent suitors may get stuck in a kind of chemical overdrive where others collapse into defeat and despair, suggests Fisher collaborator Lucy Brown, a neuroscientist at the Albert Einstein School of Medicine.

It took eight months for Stonebraker's situation to become unbearable. Finally, his love interest stood him up, and he confronted her. It was over before it had really begun.

In an effort to move on, he created a tongue-in-cheek guide for the unrequited lover, with tips on daydreaming (don't be afraid to be corny!) and "other self-torture." When Stonebraker put the guide on the Web a few years ago, he became an accidental guru for unhappy lovers. Hundreds of people have sent him their own stories, seeking advice and commiseration. But his personal days of yearning are over. In the long-run, he says of unrequited love, "it's pointless."

The Immortalist: When the Challenge is Eternity

For a strapping 22-year-old, Michael Anissimov spends an inordinate amount of time thinking about death. At an age when most young men are convinced that dying is something that happens only to other people, Anissimov is obsessed with halting aging and death altogether.

At the age of 18, he helped found the Immortality Institute, a nonprofit that promotes life-extension research in order to "conquer the blight of involuntary death." He's begun the paperwork necessary for having himself cryonically suspended—frozen for the future, should he die before the technologies that he believes will lead to greatly extended lifespans become available. "Death is just a technical problem," he says. "People react strongly to the idea of living hundreds of years, but the body doesn't care if we think it's radical to preserve it."

Life extentionists, cryogenics enthusiasts, and longevity buffs have an image problem, thanks in large part to guys like the inventor Ray Kurzweil, who sucks down hundreds of supplements and drinks 10 cups of green tea every day with the conviction that it will prolong his life. Also not helping: geneticist Aubrey de Grey, the wild-looking, raggedy-bearded Oxford professor who proclaims that at least one person alive today may live to be 1,000 years old.

It's easy to poke fun at them. What's less avoidable than death? But just as natural as death is the urge to rise above it. And that desperate need for existential permanence is ultimately what motivates us to sacrifice ourselves for everything from art to religion to politics.

When reminded of death by something as simple as a photo of a grave, people react by adhering more tightly to their social values and their self-image. Liberals become more tolerant, religious people more spiritual, racists more consumed with hate. "By being a good American, a caring parent, a committed sports fan, a creative musician, or a brilliant scientist, and by believing in the ultimate importance and value of such pursuits, one is able to feel part of something that extends into eternity," writes University of Maryland psychologist Mark Dechesne in a recent paper on the subject of terror management theory, the branch of psychology that tries to explain this behavior.