On Being Understood, or, Misunderstood

Scene from Vertigo, a film by Alfred Hitchcock

Scene from Vertigo, a film by Alfred Hitchcock

There’s a silly quote circulating about women yet again, making them appear superficial and needy.

Ah, here it is.

“Women are meant to be loved, not to be understood.” ― Oscar Wilde, Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime and Other Stories

This is wrong. In my case, anyway.

Oh, how I detest generalizations about people. And the above quote is aggressively stating something that is so shallow, it baffles me. I suppose it goes to show that many people, even good authors, do not understand life or the mind.

I hope that people will soon realize how diverse and complex others are.

Love can be blind and stupid and idealistic. I’m not saying that I don’t want to be loved, but in my mind, being understood is a large part of being loved. If someone cannot take the time to get to know another person properly, then they are not really interested. They simply like the idea of the person they claim to love, not the actual person.

I think this might strike a nerve in me, because so many people don’t give a damn about what I have to say. Or, worse, my frank opinions seem to aggravate them. Guys have claimed to love me in the past, and feign an interest in my writing, only to be utterly perplexed by the way that I think. Or, they are too concerned with their own thoughts to bother with mine.

Love. There is not even an agreed upon definition of the action. There are so many interpretations of love, that it loses its meaning.

If I had to choose between being understood and being “loved”, I would seriously need the former.

When someone cares enough about another enough to value their mind and thoughts, then, to me, that is essentially being loved anyway.

I would “love” nothing more than to be understood. For once.

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