These days, Tina Turner isn't the only one who's asking this question.
Psychologists of all stripes continue to question the notion of "love". Is it "real"? Does it "exist"? Can we define it? If we can't define it—let alone see it—how can we possibly study it? Well, we can feel it, right? But then what is a "feeling"? And can we trust our feelings to help us define something? OK, say we can. How can we know when there is consensus on a "feeling"? And what about the idea that we have simply constructed the term "love" and are now merely fishing for definitions to help reify it? Good grief, Charlie Brown! Could Tina have written a song to address all these issues? Maybe. Or maybe she didn't have to because she was comfortable enough leaving them unanswered.
But psychologists want to study only things for which they think they can find answers. It's hard to find "answers" to the questions of love, especially when we repeatedly insist that the term is unfalsifiable, circular, or otherwise "too problematic" to pin down. Indeed, we've all heard young children or our friends ask us, "What is love?" And we've all—at some point in our lives—probably answered, "Dear, you'll know it when you feel it." In psychology—as in most other domains—we have taken this line of reasoning to troubling extremes: "You can't study love unless you yourself are in love; that's the only way you'll know if your subjects are experiencing it." Or take the person who is feeling tremendous affection for someone, butterflies in the stomach and all. She asks a learned psychologist, "Why am I feeling this way?" The psychologist replies, "Well, because you're in love!" The immediate response is, "Tell me something I didn't know!" The explanation for this person's experience becomes circular, at least by psychology's standards. Therefore, we come to claim that one of the most central aspects of human existence cannot be the object of proper study.
What I find peculiar, however, is that these same arguments aren't raised against some of the most popular constructs in psychology today: personality, ADHD, psychopathy—and in the glory of the new "positive psychology" movement—such constructs as self-efficacy, resilience, happiness, and well-being. There is, of course, nothing at all wrong with studying these concepts. Indeed, they represent critical issues. However, love is just as troubling and slippery a concept as these other ones. Let's look at ADHD for a second. A mother comes to a psychologist and asks why her child is having so much trouble paying attention in class. The psychologist replies, "Well, it's because your child has ADHD." When the mother asks what ADHD means, the psychologist replies, "Oh, that's when your son has trouble paying attention in class." This is the same conundrum we encounter when thinking about love. But if something like ADHD can be just as inherently troublesome as love, why is love excluded from psychological inquiry when ADHD remains in vogue? Why, in other words, is there this peculiar double standard?
There are many, not least of which is related to what granting agencies are willing to fund. However, I think there is a reason we often forget about—and one which may ultimately explain why nobody wants to fund research in this area. Perhaps it is fear—fear of what might be revealed about ourselves, about human nature itself—if we were to give this topic serious psychological scrutiny. If love is a major source of meaning in our lives and we're either unloved or not loving, the stark realisation for some of us is that our lives are lacking the deep kind of purpose or sense of meaning that we're craving. What better way to stave off this feeling than by keeping it outside the domain of psychological inquiry?
Of course, the common argument we hear in response is something like "Well, we don't mean to suggest love doesn't exist. We just mean it's a troublesome term to define." Fair enough. But, why isn't that argument raised against the other constructs that are currently in vogue? Because they don't have much to contribute in terms of sense of purpose or meaning. Concepts like personality, resilience, and even disorder are generally neutral in this regard. What do any of these things have to do with meaning or purpose?
Acceptance of love as a serious topic of study can be a stark reminder that the sources from which we currently seek meaning—the questionable constructs just mentioned—are perhaps too hollow. It might serve as a reminder that everything we've based our lives on might ultimately have no solid ground. The contrast between what we do have (an abundance of tricky, slippery constructs which might not even exist) with something like love (which most people around the world seem able to describe and would put their faith in were they to experience it on any consistent basis) can be jarring and terribly frightening. The easiest thing to do in response? Just problematise it and then refuse to study it.
Love seems to be one of the biggest things that gives people a reason to get up in the morning—a reason to live. If it provides this kind of sustenance, no wonder people may react defensively if they feel it's missing from their lives. Indeed, so powerful can love be that it can actually postone imminent death. I recall one story of an elderly woman who was in the advanced stages of cancer. She was so ill that it was obvious her days were numbered. At the time, her husband was also stuggling with a disease: an unusually long, drawn-out battle with Alzheimer's. Looking at their two conditions, it was obvious the wife was likelier to die sooner than her husband. But an interesting thing happened: she was somehow able to draw one more year out of her life so that she could take care of her husband (what limited care she could provide). When he finally died, she died a few short weeks immediately after. It looks like this couldn't have been any other way. It was the wife's love for her husband that was able to sustain her long enough to care for him—and long enough to help her outlive her own illness. Put another way, her reason for living—quite literally—was to continue loving her husband, which in this case she translated into caring for him right up until his death.
In Man's Search for Meaning: An Introduction to Logotherapy, Viktor Frankl writes about an elderly doctor who came to see him because of severe depression. The doctor had been unable to overcome the death of his wife. Frankl asked him, "What would have happened, Doctor, if you had died first, and your wife would have had to survive you?" The doctor replied, "Oh, for her this would have been terrible; how she would have suffered!" Frankl then said, "You see, Doctor, such a suffering has been spared her, and it is you who have spared her this suffering; but now, you have to pay for it by surviving and mourning her." In this sense, Frankl showed yet another way in which love sustains us in the face of the harshest realities. Its absence—or the lack of realisation of its presence—can be a harrowing experience. In this light, it becomes easier and easier to understand why so many people are scared to study the topic of love.
But surely psychologists realise that our profession has much social influence. What message do we send the general public when we say that we don't—or, worse, can't—study love? At a time when the profession is trying hard to repair its reputation with the public, the continual reluctance to approach this sensitive but critical topic doesn't help matters. It probably makes things worse. To invoke Tina Turner again, "What's love got to do with it?" I think quite a lot! If something about that topic didn't upset us so much on a personal level, it would probably be joining the ranks of all the other topics that are so popular with psychology today.
As I've been writing this article, it has crossed my mind more than once that my criticisms may be too harsh. Perhaps I am wrong and love really shouldn't be a topic of serious study. If it truly is another questionable construct, why bother studying it? But what I think is harsher is to ignore the fact that other problematic concepts are chosen in place of love. Perhaps the decision is arbitrary. But given the sometimes emotionally charged criticisms against the study of love, I think there are definite reasons why love continues to be excluded from psychological inquiry.
"What's love got to do with it?" Everything, baby. Everything.
Copyright © 2003, by Eddy M. Elmer
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