You know how you’re going along and you think things are pretty good and you’re maybe even a little happy, and then BAM! some great cosmic joker delivers a punchline that knocks you flat?
I was doing the rounds on Facebook before heading off to bed last night and there was this photo. The person who posted this photo never posts. Hardly ever never, if you know what I mean, but he posted last night, a nice picture of his fiancee alongside a nice little stream with a nice little fishing pole, in a nice little place where Mr. F just happens to live and work. Ouch. I mean, really, OUCH.
I can’t seem to get much of a break here. If I’m not reliving a trip we took together or a bit of silliness or some sacred moment shared with him when some unbidden memory comes to me, then some phrase we used all the time pops into my head and won’t leave, or something else will trip and trigger another tiny bullet to my heart. Damn. Just damn.
A couple nights ago I don’t even know what it was but there I was, in tears again. I’m not a crier, but I’ve shed enough to fill that nice little stream and then some these past few months.
So is this ever going to ease?
A friend asked me if this–this inability to truly get on with it, without him, this damn neverending hurt, the way I just can’t stop loving that man even though it would be better for me if I did or could or would–is something I’m making up, some romantic fantasy, a romance novel echo of the woman who stays true no matter what. It’s a perfectly valid question and one that I’ve asked myself more than once.
The answer, inevitably, is no.
She used the word “unhealthy” to describe my state, not in that I’m depressed–I’m not, at least not in my experience (been there, in case you’re wondering, and this is nothing like that hell. It’s a completely different hell. Nicer digs, but still hell), or in that I’m deliberately creating falsehoods about the state of the relationship–it’s over, his choice, not mine, goddamnit, but it’s over. I get that and I hate it and I hate even more that I do that stupid girl thing of trying to contact him. To what end, I wonder? Which brings me back to the question my friend asked and still the answer is “no.” The relationship wasn’t perfect, but whose is? There were problems and faults and stupid dumbass things we both said and did , and didn’t say or do, that contributed to the end of what could have and should have been something that made other people look on us with envy. But yes, over by his choice. I get that.
See? Unhealthy. I can’t quite get past losing him, and us, and all the promise that was there. It’s always, always there. He’s always there, lodged in a place in my heart and mind and soul that I can’t get to–only he can.
I have been in love before. But this is unlike anything before, when after a time it just wasn’t there anymore, the love I’d once felt. Sometimes I wake up now and think “well, shit, I still love him.” And that’s what I do. I wake up and I love him. I move through my day and I love him. I go to sleep and I love him. I wake in the night and I love him. It is my occupation. It is my profession. It is what I do, and I don’t know how to stop it. I only know that this thing I feel and do and live every day of my life, that is as much a part of me as my blue eyes and my freckles and that little dimple at the side of my mouth–this is the real thing, and it won’t go away.
And that may be the biggest mean cosmic joke of all.
Later: Gah, what a whiner. If nothing else, I know what love is now, and that’s not really something to be complaining about. All of this is still true, but it’s only part of the picture. My life is pretty good, even if there is a hole in it.