My love is as a fever, longing still      

For that which longer nurseth the disease,  

Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, 

The uncertain sickly appetite to please.

            — William Shakespeare, Sonnet 147 

Romantic love is a disease, a temporary madness. Obsessive, passionate, it makes us lose sleep and our appetite, it makes us crave another human being, sending us on a rollercoaster of violent feelings that range anywhere from elation to depression. It makes us do crazy things. Indeed, given its psychological profile, one might wonder why it hasn’t been classified as a mental disorder in the DSM-5.
Of course, romantic love is so commonplace that few stop to think of its pathological aspects. But what sort of thing is romantic love? I am not talking about the love for one’s parents, country, pet turtle, or chocolate. I mean instead the kind of love one finds between Romeo and Juliet, Abelard and Heloise, Audre Lorde and Frances Clayton.