Control Is the Opposite of Love

The only way to protect yourself from heartache is to get to a place where, as noted by James Caan in Thief, “nothing means nothing anymore.” It's nearly impossible to be in love and in control at the same time, for love requires a degree of humility that pride won't allow.

"Aren't I just being self-protective?" Therapists get this question all the time. And while the answer is generally yes, we may ask in turn, "But is it worth it?"

Some of us struggle with being in love because we can't really know which parts of ourselves to part with and which to stubbornly clutch to—but for perfectionists, who wish to keep their independence and supreme self-esteem intact (as it's incredibly fragile), love can be at once shameful and glorious, a means of resolving the problem of pride and weakness, of creating a way to eat one's cake and have it, too.

We don't want to be like those suckers who move across the country, give up their careers, or pour their hearts out. Yet we wish to be loved. By its nature, love is as embarrassing as it is corny. Love doesn't make us feel weak; rather, it reveals an innate vulnerability. It shatters the pretense.

All of this can make our perfectionistic patients feel incredibly uncomfortable or, rather, inferior. The world, to them, is divided between the winners and losers, the strong and the weak. The individual who's witnessed the mistakes of his silly friends is convinced he's risen above them. To him, love can be managed with reason and, if not, he'll settle for whatever joy he may find in himself.

Admitting how much we need others, or the person we love, often opens the door to our inner critic, who shames us back "to reality." It reminds us of how stupid and childish we're being, of the messes we've been in. On the one hand, it sustains what we erroneously conceive of as being self-respect, which is actually false pride; on the other, creates a whole slew of symptoms.

The perfectionist likely spent her life protecting herself from the vulnerability of successive, toxic environments, learning to solely rely on herself. Yet, while preoccupied with protecting herself from uncertainty, failure, and rejection, she inadvertently created those same feelings in her, metaphorically speaking, isolated room. Life came for her anyway.

Our perfectionist may, at some point, come to accept humility, rather than aggression, self-confidence, or assertiveness as the bedrock of love if she can believe love is for her. The need to control, and the belief that she can, exist in a tumultuous union with the belief that she can't be loved. In some sense, she isn't forcing another to love her when she asserts herself; she's forcing herself to believe that she's worthy of it.

As the pretenses fall away, if they do, our perfectionist may learn that she doesn't have to learn from others' mistakes necessarily, or at least can repeat some of them while expecting a different outcome. And that she doesn't have to continue having her life's purpose wrapped up in overcoming her weaknesses with excessive shrewdness and pride. If she can acknowledge that love can be solely for her, appearing foolish will hardly matter.

As with everything else, we have to choose. Do we reveal ourselves as we are, with the consequence of being mocked by some onlookers or even the objects of our affection? Or, do we continue to suffocate our loneliness with the fumes of the engines of our staggering egos? The existential fork in the road here is one between love and power. An excess of one leaves a deficit in the other. And if the perfectionist is preoccupied with the latter, he contributes to his own misfortune. He's seemingly in control yet miserable, a closeted servant behind the veneer of decisiveness. He is, behind the facade of strength, possessed by his trauma.

So, standards, while there to protect us, can just as easily harm us if we aren't careful, replacing the past by becoming new enemies.