I walked into his office, mostly cleared out save for the furniture and clothes in the closet. I stared at the shirts hanging there, the jacket and sweaters, and I pulled the sleeve of one to my nose to see if it smelled like him. I was surprised that it did... something I never really noticed until that moment. Clean, safe, and warm. It was with a little irony that I was pulling an Annette Bening in American Beauty, subsequently breaking down into tears as I gathered the long sleeves and held them to my face. Memories, as if in a flood, came back to me. Watching movies on the couch, holding hands on walks through the neighborhood. Laughter. So much laughter.
It was the first and last time I'd do this in my own house. The last time I'd have to worry about where he was or why he wasn't texting me back. The last time I'd leave for work and take a glance around the kitchen, seeing his shoes on the floor or a pile of clothes in the corner of the office. Whenever I'd be getting home from work that night, it would all be gone. Finished, like us. Three years worth of lessons ultimately ending in one that I keep having to re-learn:
There are some walls you can push through and some you just can't.
I remember the first night I said I love you to Derek. We'd made a blanket "nest" in the living room to spend a quiet evening at my apartment, moving through the Marvel movie universe and getting ready to watch Thor. It was December 23rd, 2014. This spot on the floor wasn't comfortable; the carpeting in the apartment was cheap and not plush by any means, and we were leaning against the base of my leather armchair that kept sliding backward toward the wall so there was a lot of shuffling to stay in the right spot. After the movie we wrestled with each other and tickled for a bit, as you do when you're in that honeymoon phase, and then I was in a position on top of him and looking down into his green eyes.
Infinite and beautiful and squinting with his gentle smile.
They just came out from between my lips, the words I could no longer keep at bay: "I love you." Barely more than a month in and I was head over heels.
In the beginning you don't think about the end. At least, I don't hope you think about the end. I certainly didn't. You don't think about tearstained goodbyes and the general nature of being broken. Broken ideas, broken dreams, broken plans, broken hopes, and certainly not a broken heart. You forget about the times that came before and how you got through them. You forget what it's like to be hurt and how bad of a sting betrayal comes attached to.
For that small... infinitesimal moment... it was just the two of us, those green eyes, and the wonder of if he loved me too or not.
Maybe you already guessed that he did love me, but that's because you probably already know this story. I know I've told it a couple times now so beyond those moments it doesn't bear repeating.
I sometimes wonder if I'm not worth the truth. With Ken all I ever wanted (re: demanded) and screamed about was "why?" Why did you do this to me? Why did you do this to us? Why do I deserve this? Why did I have to kiss with my eyes shut so tight? That part of being cheated on, then and now, hasn't really changed. It is a part of my reality and one I still keep with me for better or worse. Six and a half years ago Ken couldn't answer those questions, he always said he "didn't know." Maybe because he was scared to just tell me the truth? Maybe because he knew I was too scared to hear it. It was two and a half years later I got the truth out of him and when I finally did it just didn't matter anymore.
What was done was done, there was no undoing it. And if you could... would you even want to? It was how we grew from who we were into who we would eventually be. Or at least who I would eventually be, as it were. It was the catalyst behind 26 Golden Things. It forced me to examine my life and who I was, right along with who I had been and who I wanted to be. Admittedly there was a lot of self-discovery through that golden year I could not have anticipated, but if the ends justify the means then go for it.
With Derek I have a lot more anger. A large chunk directed at myself because that's what I'm good at, the rest aimed straight at him where it belongs. I insisted to my friends and family he was so mature, whether they themselves told me so after meeting him or not. It just oozed off his persona right from the beginning. It was what drew me to him and I suppose in a way, I had to share that with everyone in an attempt to justify dating someone five years younger than me. I don't know. Not that five years is a big deal, it isn't.
Mature or not, and like the broken record of my life song, Derek couldn't give me a reason in the end either. "I don't know" was all I got. It wasn't enough... not back then, not now. "I don't know" is a cheap way to escape any sort of revelation for me and for him. The result of "I don't know" leaves me feeling like I am grasping at thin air even though he's right in front of me. And I'm still grasping, three months into whatever lackluster "healing" process I've attempted to provide myself. I don't deserve that. It's not what I earned.
I think I earned an answer as to why I have to start over again? Why I've failed in love again? And if it can't come from someone I once thought was so mature but was really just a child all along, who does it come from? Not my friends, not my family... not even me; it has to come from him. Reason has to come in some form eventually. In the past I've found it when I searched hard enough, but for this situation it can't really come from anything or anyone else. This time it is absolute.
There is also a certain degree of cowardice that comes with this. He hurt me... broke me... but can't face me? That's the mark of a coward. I write books and the occasional blog and I have a talent of expressing my emotions to an unusually lengthy and open extent. Maybe I've never been unfortunate enough to have my words fail me... but because he doesn't write books, he feels he has nothing to say. Coward. Come at me. Fight me.
Use whatever little words you think you have and let me know why you had to do it. Why you had to go online, then to that apartment, across the country, on that day, and meet a stranger to do exactly what you did. Tell me why it was worth it as long as you didn't get caught. You can't tell me? You're a coward. I don't want to hear that this wasn't what you wanted. That you never intended for this to happen. No shit, me neither. Rather than give me what I need, rather than set my mind at ease by lighting it up with a revelation or putting it to bed with a sad truth, you choose to veer away into the land of "I don't know." Well fuck I don't know.
Tell me I wasn't enough. Tell me I was too much. Don't tell me you don't know.
"I don't know" is a disservice to the work and dedication and energy I put into this. It discredits my passion and my love and my joy. It makes three years of laughter invalid, it tears apart the foundations and truths that I clearly took for granted. "I don't know" is acid in the well of emotions I have for him, and like any effective poison it quickly takes over. Soon the only memories of him will be the bitter ones, and that's not what I wanted. I know it's not what he wanted. But here we are and there he goes.
I was commended from the beginning on how I handled all of this: calm, cool and collected. That was on the outside. Inside? I was roaring. I was full of panic and rage and fear over everything that happened. That I was having to deal with this again, and that in and of itself is a pain I don't know how to describe. Some people understood this. They were great about letting me know they were available, without pushing too much to talk when I wasn't in the mood. That's the thing about hurts like this, it hovers like a storm cloud that really doesn't want to blow away. They knew I'd come to them when I was ready.
Others that should have, just... didn't. That kinda hurt too. I can't blame people for not knowing how to handle a friend or family member in a situation such as this, it wouldn't be fair for me to do so. I've never had a friend really go through this so I can't say I'd be the sage of wisdom either. We act how we think we should act, and it's on me (or whoever) to be honest about that and let people know what they need.
I've started seeing a therapist. Not something I'm overjoyed to admit but as my rule has been from day one of this blog... I wrote it, I won't delete it. You, dear reader, get the joy of an unfiltered stream of thought. Talking on the phone does not do anything for me. I'm a personable guy, I gain clarity through talking to people and looking into their eyes, feeling a connection on a deeper level than just words. I need in-person interactions to feel like I am making some sort of progress.
It's early with therapy. Though I was anticipating the question, when she asked me "so what is it that brings you to seek counseling, Sean? What are you hoping to gain from this?" it took the breath out of me. I could feel the tears build in my eyes in an instant, warranted or not, and I shook my head. "I went through a difficult break up this summer, in a similar scenario that I dealt with once before... and this time I don't feel like I can find solid ground." That's the truth. I don't want to resort to medication, and that's not to knock it for anyone that does take medication for mental illness. I just don't want it. I want to talk, but I fear talking isn't enough this time.
You might be asking why?
Well, because I forgot how to exist in the proximity of a person that once moved when I moved. I'd sigh and he'd know what I was sighing for, usually laughing at my sighs with a heartfelt guffaw that set me soaring. I'd mumble something in the grocery store and he'd go running to grab it, five aisles down. There was this ebb and flow that came with Derek and I and we just worked. We worked. I knew it, he knew it, you all knew it. After it ended, that spark deteriorated. Eventually I got to a point where I was uncomfortable in any state of manner... clothed or naked, happy or sad, feeling sexy or feeling fat, it was all the same. I felt how every word that left my lips sounded dumb, that I sounded dumb, and that I was simply reliving the deeds of the past over and over again on repeat like some insane carnival ride I just couldn't get off of. Because that is my mind right now, spinning freely and too fast and so furious that I feel like the wheels could break off at any moment and go careening into the darkness.
I could ask 'why' until infinity ends. I could wonder about the 'what if's' until the sun burns out. In so many ways, this is breaking up all over again. Confronting the issues one more time for good measure and reliving every moment. Reliving it as if it didn't stab me deep enough in the heart when I was awoken from a dead sleep at 1am to be told I'd been cheated on.
It's enough to make me never want to go to sleep again.
It hurts like I thought it would. In the end I wanted a clean break but it took me a while to realize it. I don't think he wanted that, as evidenced by backing out of an agreed meeting last night where I could see him one last time and give him a goodbye letter I spent a month writing. I didn't ask for much in all of this, I wasn't as awful as maybe I should have been, so to not have my final request honored feels cheap. I assume it's a scary thing for him to face me knowing that afterward I'm going to cut him from my life, and I get that. He knows I'm good at doing that and how I tend to not go back on things when I've made up my mind.
I imagined seeing him last night, saying a few nice things and handing him the letter. Touching his cheek, taking one last kiss, and watching him drive away while I tried to keep a stiff upper lip. I wouldn't watch him drive away with hate in my heart because while yes, I am angry, I'm angry at the situation. Not him. How stupid is that? It was his fault. This happened because of what he did and still, I'm only angry because someone I loved so much would be backing out of my driveway and joining the ranks of those that came before him. Entering the gallery of people that did me wrong, which was a place I never thought I'd have to send him to. But I didn't get the ending I wanted, in more ways than one, and I should just get used to it by now. I wonder if I should still give him the letter or just slide it into the trash and let it be what it is? Tired words after a failed relationship; hopeless words that still struggle to find reason.
You can't spend three years with a person, almost tied at the hip the entire duration, and then feel nothing when you banish them to exile. It's impossible to not feel like a part of me goes with him, and not just a small part, but something substantial. I can't say I thought we'd be together forever. I can't say our love would have been undying and absolute if this deed never transpired. But I can say I didn't want it to end like this. Pain and suffering are universal feelings, one person's grief is no more and no less than anyone else's, and no grief trumps another. So if you've been hurt before, you can at least imagine how I feel.
It's easy for people to say "it's about time he moved out!" or "finally he's gone!" but it's not like that for me. Because if he's gone, that means I'm alone. That means I have to start trudging forward without my best friend and companion. Without the person I could say anything to at any given time and know there would be no judgement for my words. You can say "you deserve so much better!" or "it's his loss!" but it's my loss as well. A loss in love, in partnership, in friendship. And again, it goes back to being alone. And I've never felt so alone in my life.
Once again I'm the one left waxing sentiment over a rose-tinted past. Glorifying it, immortalizing it, and ultimately being left by myself in it. And I get it, I was the one that asked him to move out. That's doesn't change things. I've always been the "champion for change" but what a bummer that I'm not sure how to change anymore. Do we just get too set in our ways as we get older? I have to believe we do. People say "he'll see, the grass isn't greener on the other side!" Well so what if it isn't? Should I feel better about that? If the grass isn't greener on the other side, I'm still left standing in what... kinda dead grass? Couple patches of bare dirt with some old, weird toy from the neighbor kids that got bleached in the sunlight? Hard pass.
Today is Monday, the start of a new week, and really the start of a new life. Another beginning. You'd think I'm great at starting over by this point but I'm not. I'll say I'm adequate at it. I know what I need to do: keep breathing and put one foot in front of the other, but it's all of the other moments that get to me.
It's fall now and my favorite season. Fall for me is watching the leaves turn on the trees, the warm air steadily growing colder, the cool breezes swiftly bringing a bite, and the feeling of cozying up indoors under a blanket with a good book. Right now it's painful to look at the trees and see the beauty, to feel the romance and know that for now I do so on my own. The cool breeze and cold air bring a bite much more harsh than I'm willing to endure right now. And those cozy feelings indoors under a blanket? They're spent staring out the window and wondering what I could have done different.
Maybe if I'd tried harder in some areas... maybe if I backed off in others. Maybe none of that would have made an ounce of difference. I've been here before and I made it out the other side. That's the good thing about old beginnings, it's a path that might have new scenery but the trail is still the same. What I do know is that this is another new start, and while I may only be adequate, I know how to do it. So here I go. Steady breathing, one foot in front of the other, and moving forward.
Today is day one.
