The Needs

The following text was discovered in the personal journals of Dr. Javier Sniffleur, most well known for his theoretical contributions to the field of functional neurology, after his untimely death in the year 2017. This brief entry, an aberration in a journal that mostly consists of notes on methodology and case studies, offers the reader a number of insights regarding the personal life and amorous deportment of one of the finest scientific minds of a generation. The editors have determined it suitable to include this entry in the compiled text of his essential philosophical and empirical works. As readers and admirers of the brilliant and infamously private Dr. Sniffleur, we have taken the utmost care to represent this text with minimal editorial interference. The reader will notice the tone of supplication effected by Dr. Sniffleur in this entry, despite the fact that his assumed purpose in writing was insular. This is, perhaps, the idiosyncrasy of a mind who worked indefatigably for the improvement of the lives of others; so much that even his personal jottings took on an aspect of prophecy and conscientiousness. We must always remain aware of the reality that Dr. Sniffleur's professional offerings cannot stand to summarize his deeply complicated inner life. Names and details have been amended, within reason, out of respect for surviving family members.

December 20th, 2009

    I have a tendency to hit a wall in every relationship I find myself in. I hold high standards and I'm not sure where they come from. I only know that I'm governed by these needs and I have been for as long as I have been romantically active. When I was a young man, I was confused by them. I tried to deny them in order to appease whoever I happened to be with or to mesh with the accepted ways of the world. But over the years, due to a series of blunders that for a time only served to confuse me further, I learned to accept these needs and stop lying to myself and everyone else. Ignoring my limits only resulted in more suffering. I managed to compile these inescapable standards into the following list, which I have carried with me in every interaction I've ever had. 

1. The person I'm involved with needs to be able to read my mind. I need them to know what I need without me having to tell them. I don't like to talk about myself.

2. I need to be treated as though I'm very important. I know that I'm not, but I can't tolerate spending time with someone who also knows this. It can't be faked either. I can tell very easily when somebody is trying to flatter me.

3. They need to be saintly and satanic at once. And they need to know when and where to adopt either attitude.

4. I need to be treated magnanimously, although normally I am not as magnanimous in my deeds as I would like. Furthermore, I cannot be expected to return this favor in any way, shape, or form. I am a critical person and I cannot hold my tongue for long.

    But there is always something in return, I've come to find. Even if I am not the person who is giving it. Even if what you get in return is nothing. To see into someone's soul is exhausting. Such an act requires the development and constant use of a sort of sixth sense. I've known for a long time that this sort of activity is not for me, but it must be for someone else. I've also found that this expectation is in no way sustainable or humane. I have no excuse for wishing this sort of suffering on someone else. But, as I said, these needs are absolute. And don't for a moment convince yourself that I haven't tried to change. I did, and it didn't work.

    I tried especially to change for my dear A––. By all accounts and standard metrics for emotional health, we got along famously for a number of years. She was my third wife in as many decades, and I hoped that she might be in for the long haul. I was wrong about this. But I was scrupulous enough to ensure that she fulfilled my needs across the board before any sort of engagement took place between us. We met through some friend of a friend that I can't remember now for the life of me. Naturally I found her beautiful, intoxicatingly so, but what I was drawn to immediately was her unbridled admiration for me. She was hopelessly and pathetically impressed with everything that I said. My life, which to me seemed rather dull, was to her as important as her own. Maybe even more important.

    We saw one another infrequently for a while. I was fraternizing with a few other women at that point, but they all gradually fell by the wayside as their interest in me waned or became inconsistent. Obviously, such inconsistency violates the first need. I cannot tolerate a lack of interest. Even if I am ravenously in love with a person, the moment they scale back their appreciation I am repulsed beyond hope for reconciliation. As a consequence, a pattern of relationships that began with short-lived interest and ended with abandonment continued through the years between ages 45 and 50, or so. Having already burned through two depressing and lifeless marriages, neither of which ultimately lived up to my standards, I was in no rush to have another.

    The problem with these first two marriages warrants a digression. The thing is, you might marry someone under the impression that they fit perfectly into your vision for life. This one person among all others, remarkably, is suited to your every need. They fit like properly sized shoes. But later on you realize that they're more like a sock, the one-size-fits-all kind. After wearing out the sock the elastic begins to lose its elasticity, and you realize after all that time that the sock doesn't actually fit your foot. It was, in fact, forced to fit the dimensions of your foot by some design that you were ignorant about because you're not a sock-monger. But inevitably, the fit wears out. Here's a hole in the sock, it doesn't cling at the ankle any longer, the little patch of grey where your heel is supposed to go is for some reason all twisted around the sole of your foot, etc. This is what people are like. It's all a manufactured pretense. We pretend or appear to be that perfect-fitting thing so we can get what we want out of someone else. Or so we can enhance our station in life. Marriage, in this sense, is just the same thing: a long game of pretending made to feel even longer by the fact that both people in the marriage know that they can't keep up the charade forever. So, inevitably, the mask drops. The things they used to love about you are all of a sudden disgusting, despicable. Little buds of hatred begin to sprout. Oh, but of course, it's all in good fun. Of course, yes, that's just how we speak to each other. It's just a game! This is the most egregious posturing of all. I thought we were supposed to be living life, not playing a game.

    But A–– wasn't like that. She didn't play such games. So, as my life became a lonely spiral of strange faces coming in and out, paying for laughless dinners and never calling, slowly depleting my sphere of romantic possibilities... there she was. Always waiting with a smile and treating me the way she always treated me: like someone who mattered. I know I didn't matter to everyone, and I certainly didn't matter in the grand scheme of things, whatever that is, but I mattered to her. And she wasn't dishonest about the specific way that I mattered. That is, only to her. We started to see each other every few weeks, then every week with a phone call every other day, then we saw one another every day, comfortably.

    I was cautious but optimistic during this initial time of knowing each other. She basically seemed to fit my program of needs, but it is nearly impossible to discern fact from fiction in a burgeoning relationship. Most of the judgments made during this phase are intuitive and, as such, I could hardly know the full extent of her character and ability to meet my needs. It was as much a matter of intuition as it was a matter of blind trust, I suppose. My skepticism here mostly accorded to my third need.

    For the first few weeks of our courtship, A–– was damn near pious in terms of her sainthood. She was kind toward me, spoke with enthusiasm during all of our conversations (which were intriguing and highly lubricious to my whittled spirit), and was forward about her feelings. When I took her to bed, she came pleasantly for me and never demanded a thing in terms of positioning or intensity. She seemed to accept me, body and soul, making no claims to ownership or dissatisfaction. Of course, this was all very nice, but I began to worry that she was only fit to fulfill one part of a need that demands two parts. I needed something more devious, more vivacious to erupt from her obedient body. I needed a moment of confrontation, a challenge that could force me into a proverbial fetal position, begging afterward for my pitiful life and an affirmation of my values. Of all my needs, this one is apparently the most idiosyncratic (not to say hypocritical, for that title is reserved for the fourth need), but I had no way of denying it. It would have been insufficient for her to continue this way because I knew that she was hiding some bitter half of her morality. During those weeks, I longed for something to lash out and strike me down–force me to relinquish my power and bow my head.

    So, I started to push the envelope that I had only recently sealed. Shamefully enough, I acted like a child in A––'s presence whenever possible. I did almost everything that one could possibly do to irritate another person within the bounds of civility and reason. At first her responses were kind, almost severely patient, like she was following a rule. Then her voice became firm. She cleaned up my messes with a disgruntled air. She despised my garbage and my irresponsibility. I became more optimistic, but I knew still that she needed further prodding. For better or worse, I needed to see the reality, not merely the possibility, of her hatred; the depths of malice that could betimes let forth great rage. I needed to be told what was wrong with me, and she needed to be correct about it.

    After a line of insignificant pestering, I devised the greatest of my mundane offenses. It was simple, effective, and it summarized all of my previous gestures in what I hoped would stimulate the utmost ignominy. (When you seek to bother someone, and I mean really bother them, it is productive to plant the seeds of dissatisfaction before expecting any great results. These seeds must be fertilized by time and further impositions. At the moment of their devilish blooming, the object of your botherings will have no choice but to recognize the complete narrative of misdeeds you've already established. Keep in mind that I took no pleasure in the sowing, but given that I was driven by unwanted needs, I found little choice in this and awaited a great harvest.) This is what I did: I stayed at A––'s apartment for a whole weekend acting slobbish and incapable. I lounged to the best of my ability, and in my lounging, I made such unnecessary and unforgivable messes. The final mess was the most important.

    A–– went out for an hour or two to purchase some groceries from a grocer within walking distance, for I had left open the fridge, removed clips from bags, and done other things to ensure that most of the food in her apartment went bad or stale by the end of the weekend. She seemed frustrated with me as she walked out the door of her apartment with her reusable shopping bags tucked under her arm. Her footsteps disappeared down the hall. I went into the kitchen, forced ajar all of the cabinetry and drawers, and removed every single piece of dishware, Tupperware, cutlery, and silverware I could find. I laid all of it out at various places in the apartment, even hiding items behind furniture and appliances. Then I lay on the couch in the living room, adjacent to the kitchen, and stared at the ceiling until A–– returned. I was terrified. I knew that if this gesture did not have its intended effect, one way or another, all would be over between us. Yes, thinking now, this was a last-ditch effort to appease my needs and succor my impatient mind.

    She came home and set her bags on the floor. The look on her face, my God. If I could describe it accurately, I would spend my entire life in contemplation of the lone wrinkle crevassing her forehead. I saw every fiber of her good nature erode in an instant, and she marched over to where I lay on the couch like a military general. The obscenities that poured from her mouth, the aggressive waving of her arms, and the screaming that followed... and knowing that it was all directed toward me, I knew that my needs were beyond satisfied. She absolutely hated me and she told me passionately because it was true. She didn't only love me but despised me as well. And she didn't lie about it. She told me the truth.

    We were married three months later. I was fifty years old, and she was thirty-three. The ceremony was quaint and exclusive; I refused to have an exorbitant or otherwise showy nuptial ceremony, and A–– agreed with me for her own reasons. That is, she did not merely adopt my reasons in order to reach an agreement with me. She independently happened to think in a way that agreed with my thinking. We danced for many hours, we got drunk, we kissed, we made love–we did all of the things that a married couple is supposed to do after they are married. That day I felt unexpectedly normal. I felt that sense of normalcy, and for a time I forgot the totalitarian rule of my needs. I thought about family, food, and vacation time. I thought about so many things that I had never thought about before. I thought that maybe I could have a child, and perhaps that child would be free in a way that I am not.

    I hoped that this third marriage to A–– would be the one that brought me unto death, as I said. I was getting too old to be running around and doing the things my needs would force me to do in an uncontrolled environment. But it was more than that. For a time, I simply wanted to be there. I didn't need anything else. I didn't compare one thing to another, and I didn't apply tests to determine how things fit into my algorithmic desires. I think that A–– and I were perfect for each other then, when my needs deceptively passed away. I know it sounds banal, or stupid, or whatever. But I swear that was how it felt. I wanted to die with my A––, and how many times did I tell her that I would never let us be separated, not even if God himself willed it!

    As I also said, I was wrong. A–– and I were married for about ten years, and for all of those ten years, never once did she break the mold I had imposed on her. My needs were perfectly fulfilled, and I think we loved one another as much as two people could. Or as much as someone like me is capable of loving anyone, anyway. We were sitting on the couch one day, apart and unspeaking, embracing a domestic silence devoid of lust or content. And I reflected, for the first time in a long while, about the needs that had years prior set me in opposition to the world of love. I looked to A–– and she looked to me, and she smiled quietly. That smile made me miserable and full of regret for what I had done. Or what I felt I had done. Perhaps things could not have gone differently between us. Our temperaments were set, and we were simply two people influencing each other in the ways that two people do. She compromised in order to get along with me, and I expected her to compromise each time. But I realized then that each compromise was the destruction of her soul. I thought that she had met my terms naturally, or out of admiration, but I saw in that moment and in that sad smile that I had destroyed her life. I had made her life into something that disturbingly resembled my own: a life of imprisonment. Yes, I realized what an unworthy devil I had been. I had convinced myself that my own inadequacies, my own impotencies, were no fault of my own. In a way, they were not. But this is all the more reason to note the criminality of my actions. I roped A–– into a twisted scheme in order to selfishly deter my misery. In meeting my needs, however, no such thing happened. No such thing could have happened. That day I noticed that the repressed longing inside me had not gone away; it had only been ignored, cleverly inverted to fit some feasible kind of interaction with reality, with A––. But all of this had failed. I merely repeated the same grave mistake, and in doing so I had invented a unique hell. There's no way to apologize for that.

    I tried to contain this final realization for a few weeks, the realization that my needs were merely an extension of some deeper hunger, but to no avail. I really did try to keep it in. But my misery soon threatened to consume my entire being, and the life that A–– and I had lived so pleasantly became slavish and cruel. After roughly ten years of flawless partnership, A–– and I parted ways. I was wrong to think that she and I would die side by side, but I was correct to believe she was my final one. I wasn't wrong about A––, then, but about myself. I was wrong to believe that I could ever love.

    Sometimes I think I see her walking the streets, intently browsing the windows of the strip, but I wonder if these are only apparitions. I would not even have the right to approach an apparition of A––, invented by my mind. But sometimes I still offend to think of her when I'm sitting alone, for I will be alone for a long time. The painted image of her smile reminds me of how sure I was of the mistake I made. Such a painted image makes me cry.

In memory of Dr. Javier Sniffleur. We are all your children.