“Nobody loves me”


“It is a love from the cosmos that has transcended through the dimensions!” That’s my kind of love.  (Strangely, this screenshot is not made by Happy Science, quite the  contrary.  It sure sounds like something they could have said, though, particularly since their 9th dimension is also called the “cosmic dimension”.)

I said yesterday that I wanted to give you an example of the vast gap between me and most people. (Because of this gap, I gradually have had less and less contact with people except for business.) By reading excerpts of some books by Ryuho Okawa (“El Cantare” among friends), I have realized that I have much to learn about communicating. Perhaps if I improve my communications skill, others will be able to understand a little.  As it stands today, unfortunately, I cannot expect you to understand. You must necessarily misunderstand completely. Today I give you an example of this.

“Nobody loves me.”

When someone says this, you know they are deeply depressed (or otherwise whiny, angsty teenagers, I guess). If the feeling is genuine, it may cause people to even end their lives.  If they are more lucky, they may start doing foolish things to try to attract love.  (Of course, suicide is the most foolish thing of all.) Generally, not being loved is one of the most luckless situations people can think of, worse than poverty and most non-fatal illnesses.  In fact, the fear of losing love is often what scares people the most about disfigurement, crippling disease, mental illness or economic failure.

I sincerely hope nobody loves me.

To me, it has a very precise meaning. And the meaning hinges on the “body”.  If I were to experience that noONE loves me, I would indeed be terrified, as if being swallowed by Hell itself.  (Even if you don’t believe in Hell, you can probably imagine the concept.) A state of utter despair, a loss of meaning, the very core of my being ripped out.  I know this because I briefly experienced it several times in the past, although never for as much as half a day. How anyone would bear it for years is beyond my imagination, and I hope actually that it will always be.

I would be insane to compare myself to Jesus Christ generally, but there were a couple things he said that deeply make sense to me.  One, “I am not alone, He who sent me is with me.”  The other, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”  In retrospect I believe that it were those short episodes in my life that made me realize to a deep degree that I am usually NOT forsaken, at least yet.  Not alone, even when no body is around.  Not unloved even if no one loves me in the flesh.

Is it really God – the Father, or the Son, or the Holy Spirit – who maintains this presence in me? Or is it merely some lower instance channeling the love and wisdom from on high?  I have no way to prove one or another, but I would be hard pressed to deny that there is something. Otherwise I could not possibly be so happy for so long under circumstances that would drive many to despair.

Lack of being loved is NOT a problem.  Lack of loving others is.  I have sought to love in a diffuse way, like a saint or bodhisattva, who love mankind in general or even all creatures. But self-observation tells me that I am not a saint or bodhisattva.  I am not doing a very good job of it.  I have my small outlets, but they are small indeed.  Especially compared with the huge influx. This is my worry, when I worry at all.  But not being loved? It is the LEAST of my problems.  And usually I have very small problems, and few at that.

To me, being loved by a human would carry no benefit. My love-getting meter needle is already on full. It would be a pure responsibility.  If a human was attached to me, how would I possibly avoid disappointing it? Even if I somehow managed to live a perfect life (which is unimaginably far from reality), I would not be able to die a perfect death. My passing would cause deep and lasting pain.  So if I can avoid causing pain with my death, and avoid causing pain with my life, that seems to be the best I can hope for.

I try to give people something with my words.  Something to think about, with some stuff around, like the apple seeds are surrounded by apple and the orange seeds surrounded by orange.   So what I hope is that at some future time, something I said will be of help to someone.  They may not remember the exact words (and perhaps the exact words are not quite as good as the words that come up inside them later).  They may not remember where they heard it.  Perhaps they “just thought of something”. Or vaguely remember. That is what I hope for.  When I am gone and forgotten, or even just forgotten.  I don’t want them to think “Wow, that Itland guy really knew how it was!” or “Thank you, Lord, for they great and wise servant Itland who brought Your light to us.”  First, that is not very likely. I am a worse than useless servant, not even doing what is required of me. Second, it would not make a difference, since God – or whatever it is that keeps me company – already knows how things are, and reprimand me or encourage me accordingly, without the need to be told by anyone.

Let us sum it up. If someone were to love me, it would not make me any happier. It would simply be a weight on me, having to constantly think about how not to disappoint. And they would not understand why their love made no difference to me.  It would surely cause them pain.

No, I must somehow find the way of the bodhisattva, even if I suck royally at it. It is the only option I can think of.  As Krishna said in the Bhagavad Gita: “It is better to do your own duty, even if you fail, than to perfectly fulfill the duty of another.”