The Do’s and Don’ts of Distance
Written by Ella Donoghue
In my life, I have made two vain attempts at nurturing a long distance relationship. These efforts never resulted in love against all odds—we never reunited, never moved into a small apartment in a new city together, never fell in love and rode tandem bikes and became pet parents like we always fantasized about doing. Retrospectively, I bit off more than I could chew. When states, countries or oceans separate you from someone, it takes a special couple of people to fall in love and stay in love. But what I have always been in love with is the concept of doing long distance.
It’s never really mattered to me whether or not a long distance connection proves capable of withstanding space and time. I’ve always just felt that long distance relationships—LDRs, if you will—are inherently fabulous.
Admittedly, my first swing (and miss) at an LDR definitely fell short of fabulous: I was about to turn eighteen, still living in my hometown in New York and bored half-to-death, when a man from West Hollywood fell into my lap. Nobody had warned me yet about LA men.
Six months before we would both move to Boston for college, it began with sporadic flirtation over text, evolving into prolonged, routine FaceTimes. As an underwhelmed second semester high school senior, who was surviving solely on the promise that my life was about to change, he kept me entertained. Talking to him felt like an investment in my future. A month into this endeavor, I got to see him on my first trip to the West Coast, where he allured me with his vintage red Cadillac, his cassette collection, and my introduction to In-N-Out—factors that helped me see it through in spite of his exponentially growing collection of red flags. He proceeded to spend the first months of our freshman year at college sleeping with other girls on the daily, as a sort of sick, unhygienic pregame for coming over to see me (I could never comprehend how he had the stamina to live like that for eight weeks), before leaving mid-semester, fleeing home to California, never to be seen again.
My second LDR didn’t strip me of my dignity like that. Instead, in typical LDR fashion, the next one ended devastatingly:
What started as a European fling during my semester abroad became a whirlwind love affair, of which neither of us seemed willing nor able to let go, even after returning to our respective continents. From the start we knew it’d never work—he was from Australia, which if you weren’t aware, is ten thousand miles away from here and many, many timezones ahead. But despite our better judgement—against the romantic, fluorescent backdrop of Europe—we fell for each other. Hard. Harder than either of us had fallen for anyone before; it was spontaneous and uninhibited, and it was the sort of deep, instant connection you don’t think is real until it happens to you. But more than anything, it was mutually assured destruction. We were both willing accomplices in this crime, diligently attempting to keep the spark alive for six months. Not even my mornings being his nights and his nights being my mornings kept us from talking every day. But ultimately, in order to be together, one of us would have to move—uprooting and leaving behind their entire life—and the other would have to let them. As these LDRs do, it fizzled out once I allowed myself to recognize that this arrangement would never be feasible, let alone fair.
Like any relationship, LDRs either work, or the rug gets pulled out from under you and you plummet several stories, hit the ground, and fracture all your bones. Injuries sustained in LDR breakups—usually from the absence of closure or emotional resolution—can be especially painful and prolonged. But still I love the concept of long distance because they promise a fleeting period of pure ecstasy before going up in flames:
I advocate for the LDR because, for a dazzling moment, they’re the best of both worlds. You get the freedom of your days being entirely your own, yet none of the romantic dissatisfaction that comes with being single. The peace of mind in knowing someone out there loves you allows you to face the world with a sense of security and empowerment you might otherwise lack, making you appear independently self-assured—meanwhile, your notification center holds intimate knowledge. All their affection exists, but is incapable of bleeding into your boots-on-the-ground reality.
You can hit the town with friends every weekend like you would as an untethered woman. You never have to compromise time with your partner to commit to spontaneous plans. And all the while, there is the promise of somebody you care for, always there to return to. You wake up thinking of them, feeling hopeful, like each day is just another step closer to your reunion. You can talk shit to them about anyone in your life, because they’ll always take your side (they aren’t very familiar with anyone you know). You get to think about them constantly as if they were a brand new crush—specifically, one that you know likes you back because they text you everyday and send explicit messages at excitingly inappropriate times. You get to fantasize about them, make up scenarios in your head, drive yourself mad with desire, and know that it’s all reciprocal.
They can provide ample opportunity for emotional intimacy, excitement, even full blown sexuality—all without any question of if they’ll fit into your schedule or get along with your friends. They can’t ruin your day because they were late to something, they can’t drive you away from a friend because they dislike and refuse to hang out with her boyfriend. They can’t come over at the drop of a hat when you’re crying and need a hug—and that can absolutely lead to the relationship’s demise—but they also can’t get passive aggressive if you say you’re too tired to have sex, because you aren’t actually having physical sex.
A good LDR is much better and far less complicated than any sub-par in-person relationship. But of course, that only speaks to these relationships conceptually. I am not naive to the sacrifices LDRs always come to require: plane ticket costs, losing sleep just to talk about their day, the jealousy and ferocious text-arguments that always occur when you’re supposed to be doing anything else—and worst of all, the overwhelming craving for someone who is agonizingly out of reach. You always hope the positives can continue to outweigh the negatives until you close the distance, but they seldom do.
My boyfriend and I were both in LDRs that succumbed to the distance of it all before we met each other. We emerged with matching wounds after space and time dismantled what could’ve otherwise been great loves of each of our lives. In the aftermath and through each other, we both settled on the belief that in order to clearly picture a future with someone, we need confidence that we’ll end up in the same place together—and in fact, it’s probably ideal to cultivate an entire relationship from within a 10 mile radius. I think it’s a valuable lesson and one you can only truly learn from experience: Sometimes, an LDR has to die a hero before you allow it to become a villain. And I’ve Always Said That.