The Mismatchmaker

I am the Mismatchmaker. I manage mismatches.

There are many who object to my occupation – perhaps you do too. They claim that we only need a Matchmaker. They are wrong. Fact is that there is hardly such a thing as a match, simply because my colleague, the Matchmaker, is a lazy bum. Me, on the other hand, I work day and night to organize those mismatches. Most relationships are, after all, skewed. One wants more than the other, one is more dependent than the other, histories differ, dreams differ, world views differ, backgrounds differ, behavioral traits differ, emotional depth differs, intelligence differs, look differs, growth levels differ, a relationship is a series of differences coming together. It takes hard work and luck to get through together. My colleague, the Matchmaker, is responsible for the good luck. I am responsible for the bad luck.

The thing about mismatches is that they flourish, and they require a lot of processing. That’s why I work so hard day and night. First, I monitor that those mismatches happen. Then I see through their deterioration and collapse. Then I allow for a debrief around the campfire where we sit, drink whatever beverage you prefer, and contemplate acceptance.

Once you sit with me at the campfire, you will see that you are not the first one to have your heart broken, neither are you the first to break hearts. We do it all the time. Funny thing, we contemplate the times our own hearts have been broken more than the hearts we broke. Around the campfire, we give room to both aspects. It’s sore, it’s tough, there is awkwardness, there are wounded feelings. There is little talk. You see, love is a vulnerable thing. We just want to be seen and cherished for who we are, don’t we? We give ourselves to someone, hoping they will caress our fringed soul, we open up to scary topics – and then we flee or get abandoned. Nobody likes being hurt, and nobody likes hurting. It is a gloom gang around the campfire, sipping their beverages in silence, shadows playing upon their faces.

            “Let’s raise a glass to loss,” I say, and solemnly, we toast.

It does feel like a loss. It’s a loss of potential. Sitting around the campfire, we exercise the gentle art of letting go. Letting go of hopes, letting go of dreams, letting go of silly beliefs. Letting go is like giving up, and some have a harder time of doing it than others. Some have gone from deep depression to euphoria from love, and when it is not reciprocated, they fear they might delve back into depression if they give up and let go. What I remind them is that whatever happened during that euphoria, it happened within them. They carry the full potential within themselves. Some have had mismatches who gave them clarity and compassion during the deterioration, others have had mismatches who vanished, yelled or became otherwise hopelessly self-absorbed and childish. Those experiencing the latter often have a harder time of letting go.

But a match is a narrative you tell yourself. If the narrative differs significantly from your significant other, you are a mismatch.

We seldom remember to practice the art of loving ourselves. With low levels of self-love, we become starved, and when somebody comes along, offering us a handful of love, we react in panic, in greed, in selfishness, and we do strange things which lead to devastation. I do not blame those poor souls with low levels of self-love. They never learned to love themselves from their parents, possibly because their parents don’t love themselves either, and neither did their parents. It’s a generational thing. And here we are, around the campfire, wondering why things never seem to work out.

At the end, we practice forgiveness. Forgive yourself first, then forgive whoever else might require forgiving for you to move on. And there goes a new beginning. A new opportunity for mismatch.

            “Love will lead us all to smithereens,” I whisper as we end our session around the campfire. The weather is damp and it’s always sunset in my realm. Always.