… that I’m feeling? Not bloody likely, research says. If you’re anything like me, that is. But as it turns out, I’m far from unique in this respect.

You might recognise the words above as lyrics from the 87′ Whitesnake hit ballad Is This Love – if not, you should click on this sentence to watch the original video on YouTube. My undying love (?) for David Coverdale is such that I have every intention of naming my dog after him, once I can get my hands on an Airedale Terrier. Regardless, it is a fantastic song, as all-encompassing as the feeling itself, and one I’ve wailed along to countless times. But was it really love that I felt all of those times, that led to my heartbreak? Or was it in fact limerence, which is more akin to symptoms of withdrawal than love. Whatever that is.

As you may probably already be acquainted with ‘love’, I won’t waste a lot of time going on about it. I’m quite fond of Strapping Young Lad‘s definition; “a way of feeling less alone“. Urban Dictionary has posted a few rather interesting definitions. One of the few I liked (you can read all of them by clicking here) goes as follows: “Love is beyond the ego. There is no ego when you love.”

The above is enough for me to assume that no one really knows how to define ‘love’. Perhaps it’s just one of those feelings that shouldn’t be analysed? Of course people had to go and shit on it by trying to pigeonhole it.

And then, of course, someone decided there is such a thing as a ‘one true love’ for everyone out there. Which resulted in a whole lot of entertaining film and literature, which a lot of people has taken to be something other than entertainment – perhaps even a sort of manual for how love works – and then went on to drill that into the heads of their unsuspecting offspring, leading to a lot of unnecessary heartache, resentment and social awkwardness.

See, the romantic relationships often presented in popular books and movies are so over the top you can’t help but be a little mesmerised. But surely you wouldn’t expect to find the Sam to your Annie on Tinder, swiping away and getting his leg over with every Tara, Doris and Helen, when he’s meant to be your one?

Art is meant to make you feel something, to give you a temporary escape from reality for an hour or two, or even be inspired to do something you’ve always wanted to – everyday life will very rarely give you that over the course of 300 pages or 90 minutes. So the main characters have to fall in love over a week’s time. Or at first sight. Or go from enemies to lovers seemingly by the drop of a hat – or pair of knickers. But that doesn’t mean it works that way in real life.

Things take time, for the most part. I am aware there are exceptions to the rule, but in most cases – and certainly with folks who tend to emotionally dysregulate – any instant fireworks are likely to be limerence and not much else. And that shit wears off faster than you can get rid of the STIs you contracted from hopping into bed (or onto the pub toilet) with mister/ms/they/them right within minutes after meeting them, because why would you need to use contraceptives if they are ‘the one’? That means they are practically a virgin, right? Or at least that you’re the only person they’ve ever managed to penetrate without any love gloves, right?

Wrong. In-cor-rectum.

I’m not saying I don’t believe in ‘the one’. In fact, I’d really like to think that there’s a person out there just for me. But if there is, I am a hundred percent sure that they won’t make me feel as if I am suffocating when I’m not breathing in the same air as him, that I’m missing a limb when we are apart, that I’ll die if he’ll ever leave me. Limerence makes you feel like that. And, despite my mother telling me it is “not possible to fall in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same way about you”. And so I walked the earth for a total of 41 and a bit years before realising that not everyone feels this way about things. Or, indeed, people.

So, I held on to the lies, until I rather recently naïvely exclaimed to a friend this summer: “You know, that feeling when you’re thirteen and have a crush on someone and you feel as if you’re gonna die – when you just know” – and they didn’t. Know, that is. In fact, they very gently but firmly informed me that this was a bit of a pink flag, if not all red. Which led me to purchase Kerry Cohen’s Crazy For You, through which I first came across the term (if you have a complicated relationship with love, I suggest you give this book a read).

Psychologist and love researcher Dorothy Tennov coined the term back in the 60s or 70s, to describe the intense infatuation or ‘love madness’ one can experience when it is not yet known if the romantic feelings are being reciprocated by the other person. This early phase of ‘love’ can be defined by symptoms such as “intense euphoria, a profound sense of emotional connection, mood swings, intrusive thoughts, over-arousal, obsessive infatuation and involuntary craving for the other person”.

More recent studies have shown this to be not uncommon, but for most people it wears off and develops into a real bond once a consenting relationship has been established. For others, like me, the unreciprocated obsession is often replaced by feelings of disgust or self-loathing. In any event the feelings are reciprocated, limerence wears off without turning into lasting love in about 18 months.

But this doesn’t just apply to romantic relationships. I get this feeling whenever I am faced with the prospect of something new and exciting, whether that’s a new job, a potential platonic friendship, a shiny new education, or something as banal as a packet of salt and vinegar flavoured Monster Munch.

Alas, when these feelings are not reciprocated (or my craving for the non-romantic prospects above remains unfulfilled), the poor limerent sod is left in a mental state that interferes with their day-to-day. An all-encompassing, undying desperation takes hold of the individual. Perhaps you miss work, because you are waiting up all night for them to call, or you spend all your savings on grand gestures to make them see that you mean business.

Hell, I once took off work, booked a flight and a hire car just because the person in question – whom I’d known for precisely one month by that point – doubted my ‘love’ for them. I’ve moved across the kingdom for someone I thought was ‘the one’, because they had mentioned, half-jokingly, that we’d probably be together if we didn’t live so far apart. (And, like me, they didn’t care much for the adventures of Harry Potter). I had 500 grams of Candy Corn shipped from the US, the special delivery alone costing me nearly 60£, just because I felt as if I couldn’t go another day without the flavour in my mouth. That’s not love. That’s obsession. Not like Stephen King’s Misery levels of obsession, but still. Close enough.

I’m not entirely sure where I was going with this – one can only assume that I felt inclined to explain my chosen singlehood in more scientific terms; I’m not getting myself into any more shit until I learn to differentiate between real attraction and, well, fatal attraction.

The jury might still be out on this one, but I am quite certain that I have yet to experience the privilege of being in love. Like never before, I find kinship and solace in the unforgettable words of Joni Mitchell:

It’s love’s illusions I recall, I really don’t know love at all

That’s it for now. I shall see you next Tuesday – if you’ve any topic suggestions for my next post, leave it in a comment below, or drop me a message on Instagram.

Oh – and check out my book, please xx