This is also creative writing post #46.
I’ve always been a believer in the five love languages hypothesis—the idea, popularized by a series of self-help books, that there are five distinct ways of feeling loved, and that most people tend to gravitate toward one or two more than the others.
There’s an online test, if you're into that sort of thing, and a small industry of books and spin-offs. The five languages are Physical Touch, Acts of Service, Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, and Receiving Gifts.
It has a lot of explanatory power. We’ve all known couples—or roommates, friends, siblings—where a mismatch of love languages explains half the tension in the room.
He thinks he’s a wonderful husband because he handles all the bills, fixes the car before she even knows there’s a problem, and keeps the lawn perfect, when what she really wants is for him to hold her hand in public and kiss her goodbye in the mornings. (Acts of Service vs Physical Touch.)
She thinks she’s being loving by leaving little notes and texting encouragement during the day, when what he actually wants is to watch a show together without phones or distractions. (Words of Affirmation vs Quality Time.)
Mine are definitely Physical Touch and Quality Time—I’d rather have an hour of undivided attention and a long hug than a new iPad any day. I used to think Words of Affirmation were what I needed, and maybe they were.
But these days, time means more.
The language of gifts, though—it hits differently. Not because I crave stuff. I don’t, but even if I did, my tiny apartment is already pretty full.
I have capital-i Issues around gifts because of something that happened when I was a kid. I gave my father a gift, and he responded with vitriol and violence. Nothing explicable, just enough contempt to burn itself into my wiring.
Somewhere deep in my trauma brain, I decided I was going to learn how to give gifts so good, so right, no one could ever react like that again.
And I did. I became the Best Gift Chooser Ever. (I wrote about that once, if you’re curious.) But this year, I was on the receiving end.
The last couple of months, I’ve been crawling out of the worst depression of my adult life. Winter was brutal. My friend Adam—fit, brilliant, and deeply loved—died suddenly. My job became unspeakably stressful (for reasons since not just fixed, but made glorious; I love it so much now that when my last post resulted in someone trying to poach me with a “we could use someone like you” email, I replied without hesitation: thanks, not interested).
Even my therapist—who is usually of the suck-it-up-and-get-on-with-it school—felt the need for a performatively-soft-voice conversation about whether it was time for me to have my friend Josh take my weapon home with him for a little while.
I probably should’ve hospitalized myself—and I don’t say that lightly—around the time I realized I had forgotten to shower for a week.
It’s better now. Slowly, unevenly, but better.
And part of what helped was doing a few small, grounded things. I wrote about those things here — if depression is an issue for you, you may find them helpful.
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