For the anxious, love--the most redemptive of experiences and the pinnacle of human relations--is a hell of agonizing indecision, corrupted joys, unreliable desires, unbearable self-realizations, and the most intense, paradoxical loneliness. And guilt. Above all, guilt--implacable and vicious. Because in love an anxious person becomes a persecutor as well as a masochist. He doesn't intend to hurt anyone, least of all his beloved. He isn't a sadist. But he is toxic, and merely by yielding to his affection he draws an innocent into the zone of pollution. Psychological self-abuse becomes psychological assault. In love, anxiety takes victims.