What is it about heartbreak? That pit – that heavy weight in the chest – the labored breathing – the brink of tears. On the verge of losing it – of saying, "fuck the world" – "fuck sanity." A wound from the unrelenting double-edged sword of risk – commitment – love. This time I am finding it interesting to experience it on a smaller scale – still painful but perhaps more manageable. We had only been dating for a little over a month. A blink. No time at all, really – unless, of course, one were to place it in the context of my life. He was only my second longer-than-one-date relationship. We hadn't labeled it, we hadn't said any of the big scary words like "boyfriend" or "I love you" – we had played it safe. In all honesty we were in ambiguous territory. In fact, I always felt that I would be the one calling it off – I wasn't sure about him or my feelings for him. But then, a line was crossed. Friday night he meets my friends for the first time – he charms them – he charms me. They adore him – he seems to adore me. I see him in a new light and I fall a little bit deeper.
And then – with her characteristic indifferent bluntness – Life takes it from me.
"I can't see myself falling in love with you."
Said into the darkness as he lies beside me. Clouds of confusion, dread and inevitability descend. A vision flashes. I see where this is going. But how did it get here? Just moments ago I was kissing him – minutes ago we were sitting on the couch, cuddling, watching a bad movie. And now – here we are.
What did he say?
Funny how with my very limited experience, this place feels so familiar. The ground giving way – the free fall – or rather, the sense of being shoved further and further down – a strong hand on my chest, pushing me deeper and deeper into the murky, black, suffocating waters. I struggle for something to say, but my mind is too caught up in the descent. The confusion. The panic. The only phrase that comes to mind, "Don't leave me!!" seems almost comical and hardly appropriate.
Big pauses – vapid attempts at communication – mostly landing flaccid on the side of the bed. What is happening? How . . . ?
Finally he rips off the band aid. Speaks the words – . . . and it's over. His choice is made and the choice is Not Me. Stunned. Blur. Fumbling in the increasing haze I walk him to the door. How did we get here? The final moments. The panic rises – I'm going to vomit – I want to vomit. Such an onslaught of impulses. Grab. Hit. Kiss. Pin. Fight. Fuck. Melt. I manage to squeeze out, "Thanks for your honesty." The tears come. We hug. I sob. I tell him that I think he's a good man and I am sad to see him go. The truth – but perhaps mingled with the desire to woo him back. He asks if that's a sarcastic display of my passive aggression – I assure him it is not. We hug. He offers to stay a while longer -- asking me what I want – what I need. I tell him I want to hold him for a very long time, but realize my intention would be to never let go. He understands and after a few more moments makes his way out the door. One last touch of his arm. One last look in his eyes. I watch as he descends the stairs – a familiar sight – for the last time.
Once he's out of site, trying to hold it together, feeling the pending explosion could be earth-shattering, I hold the walls – propping myself up – Samson without his hair making one last heroic gesture before the world crumbles. I look for an action, a ritual, something I can do to mark the moment and bind my building anxiety. Nothing comes to mind. I look around the room and see him everywhere. Smell him everywhere. Feel him everywhere.
How is it possible that such a short partnership could have sprouted such deep roots? How did I allow this to happen? I feel the fool – the broken fool.
I attempt to contact friends, but it is midnight – no one is available. Finally I get in touch with my brother who beautifully manages to strike the right balance between empathy, rage and practicality. He gently talks me down. Lifts me up. Brings perspective. While talking to him I take three Benadryl and Nyquil for good measure – hoping to assist myself in sleeping, knowing it won't be easy.
Worn out, I thank my brother and tell him that I love him. I hang up, brush the taste of him out of my mouth and get into bed – the still-fresh scene of the crime. Trying to get comfortable I roll over onto Loneliness, ram my knee into Despair's back, accidently run my hands down the side of Panic. To fall asleep, I mentally surround myself with cotton balls. If I start thinking of him, I fill a large box with cotton balls and push them down, packing them in. Soft, calm, benign cotton balls. If I smell him on the pillow I fill a kiddie pool with cotton balls, walking on them, barefoot – crushing them like grapes. And If I feel him – the phantom hand on my chest or leg, his breath on my neck – I fill an entire room with cotton balls and I walk into it – force myself into it – slamming the door behind me. Surrounded. Eventually I sleep, standing in a roomful of cotton balls.
More tears come with the sunrise. The anger will follow soon after and eventually – hopefully before too long – I will find my heart ready to let someone – a new someone – in. My fear is that it won't heal, but my mind knows better.
Years ago – in another lifetime, another place of darkness – I was visited by a Love Angel on the NYC subway who prophesied, "You will know a lot of love in your life." I was skeptical at the time, but I had become a believer. Of course, at this point I would be more than willing to settle for "a lot of love" from and for one consistent person. But perhaps for now I will take what I can get.
Meh.
Enough of this wallowing. I’m too old for this shit. My heart will heal, my defenses will learn new tricks – my brokenness will remain – and Life will go on. For ultimately, what would Life be without our doses of pain? Without our moments of risk and vulnerability, without the actual events of living?
