Why do people watch The Bachelor?
There has to be some reason, because nearly 10 million people tune in every week. When asked, most folks will tell you it’s like a train wreck – they don’t really want to watch it, but they can’t seem to look away.
There’s probably some truth to that. I’ve seen an episode or two (no judgment, please) and would have to agree with the ‘train wreck’ analogy.
But I don’t think that’s the whole story.
And when it comes to grief support, it’s definitely not that simple.
What does The Bachelor have to do with grief support, you ask? That’s a great question. And believe it or not, it actually has a fairly profound answer.
In my new book, I explain one of my flagship theories about life after loss: it’s called The Dichotomy of Love Story. The details are beyond the scope of this post, but the idea is this – ever since Shakespeare penned Romeo and Juliet, we have been conditioned to believe that love stories end in only one of two ways:
Permanent togetherness or permanent separation. With no room in between.
A Shakespearian dichotomy.
Mainstream movies and books adhere to this dichotomy almost without fail. Author Nicholas Sparks is a great example; his most famous work, The Notebook, has a very similar theme to that of Romeo and Juliet: true love dies together.
But what if it doesn’t? What if you’re 26 and the love of your life suffers and dies from cancer? Or what if you’re 64 and a heart attack sweeps away a lifetime in a matter of minutes? What then?
What if the survivor refuses to drink the Bard’s poison or plunge the proverbial dagger into their chest? Does this mean they didn’t truly love the one they lost?
You’re probably shaking your head and saying “no way, I would never believe that.” But if we’re honest with ourselves, we all believe it to some extent. I’ve witnessed it firsthand, as have millions of other widows, widowers, and divorcees.
The Shakespearian dichotomy is a powerful force, and over time, with immense repetition, it has indelibly shaped each of our subconscious expectations.
Myself included.
We’re addicted to this archetype, to the plot structure first laid out by Shakespeare and incessantly reinforced by popular novelists and filmmakers. We want the story to follow the formula. We need it to follow the formula. And when it doesn’t, we find ourselves discontented, our hearts unsatisfied.
Now, let’s return to our original query: Why do people watch The Bachelor?
My answer is that it provides people with a weekly opportunity to write the story as they believe it should be written. Plot and counterplot. Formula.
Dichotomy.
(The fact that it’s beautiful people doing predominately stupid things (i.e. train wreck) also doesn’t exactly hurt ratings.)
Behold, The Matchmaker Delusion.
The idea that we know what should happen. The notion that we’re romance experts, well-schooled in the Sparksian template, and we know how the story should end. Who should end up together and when. How the narrative should play out.
In Hollywood, love concludes in only one of two ways.
In life, things are far messier.
After my wife’s death, I had an extremely difficult time when I decided to date again. It was never the right person, or the right time, or the right place. I was violating the dichotomy, operating in the uncharted gray space between togetherness and separation.
I’ll be truthful with you – it was ugly.
Sadly, this experience isn’t unique to me. Almost every individual I interviewed for The Lazarus Within has endured similar torment. Disapproval. Disenfranchisement. Loss of friendships. And for most of them, that’s just the beginning.
My purpose for this blog, and for my books, is to not only help people grieve well, but to help people help people grieve well. The first step is simple: abandon Shakespeare and Sparks.
Your grieving loved one doesn’t need you to be a matchmaker. They also don’t need your opinion or your judgment. All they need is you, walking alongside them, an ever-present source of support, comfort, and love.
Your loved one may make choices you don’t agree with, or operate on a timeline that conflicts with yours. Frankly, that’s not your concern.
Your concern is the person. The human being. The friend. The brother. The sister. The son.
If you know someone who has loved and lost, please don’t be a matchmaker.
Because real life train wrecks aren’t nearly as entertaining.
A fellow journeyer,
Bryan
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