Tag: Feeling Loved

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Feeling Loved, by Phillip Hoyle

As a college freshman I heard a lecture in which the
professor pointed out how Americans love many things, everything from cars to
mashed potatoes. We celebrate the love of clothes, looks, hairdos, decorations,
and cities. We love our ball teams. But we don’t expect most of the things we
say we love to love us. Mostly we limit the hope of being loved to our relationships
with other humans except, of course, our pets, especially our dogs who we are
sure love us in return. In this story I’ve made an incomplete list of my
experiences of being loved by that one someone who figures centrally into our
American mythos of being loved, but obviously I’ve expanded my list to more
than that one and only—woman or man.
I was deeply loved by Myrna my wife. I felt loved. And
I loved her in so many ways in this most complicated relationship of my
life—one with a professional career, children, parents and siblings and in-laws
and many, many friends over a period of many years. I was happy about it
basking in such warm and complete love.
About two years into that marriage I was loved by a
gay friend. I loved him, but I had no experience and didn’t understand the
order of things. He loved my wife and didn’t want to hurt my marriage. I loved
him but not in the way I finally realized he wanted me to love him. I was very
young. I think I hurt him deeply. Still our friendship flourished for many years.
In the meantime I fell in love with a man who probably
loved me but whose life was too encumbered, whose imagination couldn’t deal
with what that might mean about himself and his life. As a result his love for
me became stunted. I loved what feeling I received from him although I hoped
he’d never want me to give up my married life for him. I also knew I’d never
ask him to give up his married life for me.
Then I loved a man who may have loved me but had built
a barrier around his feelings. Oh he wanted sex with me but he didn’t want to
give or receive the feelings of it all. So when we started the sex, I agreed to
his demand there be no emotions since I realized the advantage of his program
to my marriage. Still I wondered at his request but like a good soldier turned
off my emotions—at least some of them—but not so much as to miss experiencing
the thrills our play created.
Then I loved a man who really loved me. I warned him
that my love, while real and deep, was quite different than his. Now I was the
one defending the two of us from one another for quite complicated reasons. I
loved being loved by him although I could not imagine living with him.
I was loved by a man who had nothing to offer me
except his adoration. We lived in two greatly different worlds, his with Okie
twang, mine with educated artifice. I was nice and kind but never in love with
him. Still I appreciated his devotion even with its great impediments. I was
relieved when he no longer pursued me.
I liked a man who seemed to like me. Eventually I fell
in love with him and he with me. The experience was new to me since I was
recently separated from my wife and could actually go live with him. He loved
me. We lived together. I watched him die. I grieved.
I loved a man who really loved me. Our love had all
the markings of classic falling in love: the ancient lover and beloved, the
medieval romance, and the extremely baroque and renaissance drama of an opera
plot. Sadly this love affair was also a tragedy although a gentle one. I
grieved unlike ever before in my life when he died.
Again I love a man with whom I live. He loves me. We
don’t match very well but do live together successfully. Neither of us is
especially romantic, but I seem to have a much greater proclivity for romance
than he. We have a nice social life with mutual friends. His mother lives with
us. I know I am loved, but again it is a new experience with dynamics unlike
any of my other loves.
Perhaps the nice thing about my loves is that my wife
and the man I first fell in love with and the man I first allowed my love to
grow with all continue to be my good friends. My current love is also a good
friend. I have come to realize that I love any number of men for any number of
reasons. I will refrain from counting the ways in this story. Perhaps another
day there will be a poem describing that matter! Of course, these listed affairs
of the heart are only one category of being loved. But I have always realized
that I am loved by many different people for many different reasons and in many
different ways. I really feel loved. I guess it proper to say the one-and-only
aspect of my being loved is to be found in the individuality of each loving relationship.
© Denver, 2013 

About the Author 
Phillip Hoyle
lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In
general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two
years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now
focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE
program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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Feeling Loved by Ricky

In
hindsight, I am sure my parents sort of loved me.  Early photographs clearly show me smiling, especially
on my birthdays, Halloweens, and Christmases. 
I did not feel loved during my frequent spankings for being
disobedient.  I am fairly sure that my
dad did not like spanking me but felt that he had to; the old “spare the rod
and spoil the child” philosophy.
It is
rather ironic how our brains tend to be very selective about which memories it
chooses to give us access.  For example,
I get glimpses or figments of some happy or pleasing moments, but not a lengthy
detailed viewing.  I know I was cared for
and nourished, except for those darned stewed tomatoes, and yet I have no
memories of being hugged or kissed.  I am
sure I got hugs and kisses or I would be a complete basket case by now; I just
don’t remember any.
My
maternal grandparents loved me but were not demonstrative in showing it with
hugs or kisses.  Instead my grandfather
pulled a trick on me by pre-filling my lunch drinking glass with yogurt-like
“liquid” accurately named “long milk”, as it was thick like honey or molasses
but lacked a decent flavor.  That he, my
“hero” surrogate father, would do such a thing really hurt my feelings and I
definitely did not feel loved at that point.
At the end
of my first summer with them on their farm in Minnesota (June thru August
1956), my mother called me on the phone and talked me into staying there for my
3rd grade school year.  I
didn’t know about the divorce proceedings yet, but I still did not feel loved
by her.  When she came out later that
year to attend her sister’s wedding, I thought I would be returning to
California with her.  It did not happen
and I felt unloved again.
When I did
not get to go home at the end of that school year and had to stay for the 4th
grade too, I began to wonder why can’t I go home but no one would tell me
anything truthful.  I was loved, but
didn’t feel loved.
When my
dad came to visit at Christmas in 1957, I finally was told the important part
of the truth and why I could not go home with him.  I know he wanted to take me home but was
constrained by the law.  Nonetheless,
when he left I began to feel that I was unlovable.  At the end of May 1958, my mother came to the
farm with my infant twin brother and sister and my new step-father to introduce
him and them to her parents and to take me back to California.  I still did not feel loved, but I was very
happy to go back to a new home.
While
living at Lake Tahoe, we had three different residences but all felt like some
kind of home.  The last place is the one
I refer to as “home” during conversations. 
It was while living in that particular house, I began to feel loved
again, but not by people.  Of course my
baby siblings grew to love me of a sort since I was practically their parent
until I left for college, but the love I am referring to came from our pet
female dog, Peewee.  She was a lap-dog,
with long shaggy fur; a mixed breed of ¾ Oriental Poodle and ¼ Pomeranian. 
Peewee’s
previous owner was a woman who was moving and could not take her pet to the new
location, so my mother brought the dog home. 
Being a small dog, she was shaking with fear when she arrived and ran
under the couch to keep away from me (13) and the little-ones (both 3) whom all
wanted to touch and hold her.  After the
twins went to bed, I was still lying on the floor with my hand under the front
of the couch, while watching the television. 
After a while, I felt the dog licking my fingers.  I slowly pulled my hand back and she followed
and then walked to my side and cuddled with me. 
At that moment, we bonded and from then on, I was her’s and she was
mine.  That dog loved me and I loved her
back.  We both felt loved for many years
until I left for college and then the military. 
I was stationed in Florida when I learned that she had passed away.  In spite of my traumatized emotions, I
grieved for the loss of my first love, the one who was always there and never
made demands.  Since then, I have always
had deep affection for my pets.
When I was
11, 12, 13, and 14, my paternal grandmother babysat a Downs Syndrome pre-teen
girl named, Jackie.  When my dad took me
over to visit my grandmother, I also got to meet Jackie who always remembered
me after our first meeting and who also greeted me with a huge smile and strong
hug.  That was the way she greeted every
one, with pure innocent happiness and radiant love.  I have often wondered if Jesus would welcome
me like that someday.
Eventually,
I met my soul-mate and we were married. 
I felt loved again.  With each
child we both felt an increase in love. 
Naturally, a child’s love for his parents fluctuates with the pangs of
growing-up, but eventually equilibrium is obtained and love makes its presence
known again, unless the parent or child has done something to destroy it along
the way.
After my
wife passed away, I thought love was gone from this life.  The love of my children is there but just is
not the same.  Since attending the SAGE
Telling Your Story group sessions, I am receiving the love of friends, both
close and casual when I am around them. 
I feel loved but not the kind that lasts.  This kind of love needs frequent refreshing
just as if we were all partners or married and living together.
To close
with a borrowed quote from two movies, The Boy with Green Hair and Moulin Rouge, I leave you with, “The greatest
thing you will ever learn is to love and be loved in return.”
© 21 October 2013
About the Author  
I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in
Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just
prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on
their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my
parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.
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Little Things that Mean A Lot by Will Stanton

Big things, very important things, I already have addressed regarding my friend James: good character, warm personality, maturity, self-reliance, true friendship, respect, and loyalty. Little things, too, are important, especially cumulatively over the years of our friendship. Each little thing in itself, when spoken of, may not sound like very much; however, if one could hear the loving tone of voice or witness the kindness of the gesture, then one would understand how important little things can be.

On a very basic level, we each made sure that we did our share of housework and chores, although we each tended to gravitate toward our own preferences. He had become a good cook and took pleasure in my appreciation of his varied and delicious meals. I did most of the house renovation and yard work, and he always expressed his appreciation for all my labor, wiring, plumbing, building, digging holes for trees and bushes. At times, he would note my fatigue and remark, “You worked awfully hard today. I think I need to take you out for a steak.” We would go to a favorite restaurant, and within forty-five minutes, my energy seemed to come back. Somehow, he always knew.

Imagine our sitting together reading the Sunday morning paper. He stands up and says, “I’m going to the kitchen. Would you like more coffee?” Now, I am perfectly capable of getting up and going for my own coffee, but that little gesture of James’ reveals a lot about his kindness in thinking about others, even with little things.

James dressed immaculately and also cared about my appearance, too. He enjoyed seeing me dressed neatly and looking attractive. From time to time, he would buy for me some article of clothing, always in very good taste, knowing that I would make a good impression in public. Of course, I was half the age and half the weight at that time, so he had an easier task than he would now. I admit that, since he has been gone so long and my not having a G.Q. figure, I pay far less attention to fashion. I don’t have James to dress for.

Any gifts that we bought for each other over the years never were meant to “buy friendship” but, instead, were genuine tokens of his love and thoughtfulness. He cared about how I felt, being concerned if he sensed that I was frustrated or unhappy, and reached out rather than avoiding me if this was the case. He was genuinely happy to see me happy.

James was a voracious reader and knew a lot. We inspired each other with interesting conversations about a myriad of subjects. We truly were interested in each person’s opinion and always made clear our respect for the other’s knowledge and skills. He was an accomplished, published poet, and I took an interest in his latest project even though poetry was not my forté. He understood my passion for good music and, even though he played little himself, made a point of hearing me play and occasionally acquired sheet music for me. We also enjoyed a good joke. I could tell that he delighted in hearing my laughter because he knew then that I was happy.

We always remembered Christmas, birthdays, Valentine’s Day, and took advantage of those holidays to celebrate our friendship. He liked to plan little weekend trips and occasionally longer vacations for our enjoyment, and we took plenty of photos of the scenery and of ourselves together. He arranged a couple of photo sessions so that we could have portraits made of us together. He always was thinking of us, not just himself.

Even when he was dying of lung cancer, he still did those little things that he still could do to reassure me and to show that he was thinking of me. All those many little things, and big things, that he said and did over the years proved his undying love, a love that he expressed in a poem he wrote for me and presented to me so many years ago:

You,
Whose smile enchants
And laugh delights,
Whose northern eyes
Astonish blue,
Wait here awhile
With me beside
This summer world.
So songbirds hush
And watch the stars:
We’ll taste black grapes
And yellow pears
And speak of youths
Lovely long ago,
Whose love they sang
In ancient phrases
And melodies forgot.
Around your hair
Of morning gold
I’ll weave these bits
Of myrtle leaves
And lavender
And fragrant thyme,
While the faint moon
With empty arms
Goes down the west.
Sleep, sleep, love, sleep,
And when the dew
Falls on your lids
I’ll gather you
Beneath me
And encompass you
Against the chill;
I’ll warm you
with my trembling breath
And hold your lips
Upon my mouth
And drink your love
Until they wake,
Until the songbirds wake.
© 14 December 2011

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Feeling Loved by Lewis

[Let me preface my remarks by saying that I am not a psychological expert. What follows are the opinions of a lay person with 67 years of living experience.]

For a person to feel loved, I think there are three prerequisites, three questions that they or I have to answer in all candor:

The first question is: Do I love myself?

The second question is: Am I capable of recognizing and accepting without question the love of others?

The third question is: Am I capable of loving others?

I will deal with the three questions in order—

1. Do I love myself?

If I feel unworthy of love personally, then I have a very real problem in believing that others could love me. In fact, I might even feel anger toward them for having such poor taste. It is quite common to hear of men who abuse or even murder their lovers or spouses. I suspect that such men feel so badly about themselves that they blame those closest to them for not understanding that they are unworthy of love. Because they feel victimized and worthless, they feel justified in taking out their frustration on those closest to them, after which they can penalize themselves further.

To feel loved, I must feel that I am worthy of love and that I am able to give love in return. I must be able to see what love is, what it looks like in all its forms, which brings me to the second question.


2. Am I capable of recognizing and accepting without question the love of others?

A person may be able to love themselves but not perceive love from others directed toward them. They need not have disordered personalities but may have been so without compassion and love as children that they tend to distrust the motives of those who do demonstrate love toward them. They may feel that they are being set up for disappointment later or they may not even recognize love in some of its multitudinous forms.

If I am sitting on a stool in a gay bar and a man puts his hand on my knee, is that a sign of love? If he looks into my eyes with passion, is that love? What does it mean if he buys me expensive gifts? What if he offers to water my plants while I am on vacation? Or to give me a free back rub? Or to buy me a drink? My 35-year-old son tells me that I should call him every time because I am the father. Is paternal love a one-way street? These are hard questions for anyone to answer.


3. Am I capable of loving others?

Sociopaths and narcissists are incapable of empathy. They are so disassociated from the feelings of others that they are unable to perceive the need for love in others and have no love left to give away. They are not capable of perceiving love when it is shown to them because they think it is their “due”. They cannot give love to others because they think it will diminish themselves. They can “feel love” only so much as it reinforces their already ingrained opinion of themselves.

In conclusion, in order to feel loved, I must feel that I have room for improvement and am flawed enough to warrant criticism. Only this quality makes it possible to appreciate those whose love is showered upon me despite my imperfections.

Unconsciously, I ask myself every day, “How much love do I need?” and “How am I going to get it?”. One way I get it is by coming here. I can feel it and it is good.

© 21 October 2013

About
the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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Feeling Loved – A Love Chronology by Betsy

I feel loved when I am being cuddled in my mommy or daddy’s arms.

I feel loved when my mommy comforts me when I am sick or unhappy.

I feel loved when my daddy reads me a story.

And when my mommy and daddy keep me safe.

I feel loved when my big brother takes my hand to help me get safely to school.

I feel loved when friends stand up for me and believe in me when others do not.

I feel loved when my husband and best friend of 25 years ever-so-gently but with profound sadness releases me to follow a different life path separate from the one we have been traveling together.

I feel loved when my son calls me on Mother’s Day to tell me he loves me.

I feel loved when my granddaughter and I go on the ski train to WP and play together in the snow.

I feel loved when my grandchildren call me to say, “I love you G’ma Betsy.”

I feel loved when my sister travels half way across the country to help me recover from surgery.

I feel loved when a daughter travels even further to be there when I am having surgery or to share a holiday.

I feel loved when a daughter travels across the country to be with me in time of need or in time of celebration.

I feel loved every night when I go to sleep next to the one I love and every morning when I wake up next to her.

I feel loved when the woman I love marries me

I feel loved when friends want to share our joy.

I feel loved when my life partner wants to grow old with me
and spend the rest of her days with me.

I feel loved when I know that love is who we are.

© 21 October 2013

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.