Watch the above video. It always makes me cry. Read below and you’ll see why.
Two years ago, today, I was presented with a difficult choice. I learned that my boyfriend at the time had cheated on me. It wasn’t the first time, and I hadn’t always been faithful either. We had a tumultuous relationship, we’d done a lot of distance, we’d tried being “open,” we’d questioned ourselves, we built layers of scar tissue upon layers. But, this time it was in my face. The girl contacted me. Told me she was sorry. She wanted to be friends. She was, sweet, almost as if she didn’t realize she’d blown a hole in my life.
I loved him. With my whole being. I hated him for what he did. I felt the kind of loveanger that makes you crazy and blind at the same time— completely unreasonable, completely set on ending it, completely unaware of how to live without it. I cried mascara stains into my pillow case. They never came out. I knew that I had to make a change. So, I called him to my house in Denver, sat him down, and told him I couldn’t live life wondering when my next Silda Spitzer moment was going to happen. We had to be over. It wasn’t a choice so much as an inevitability.
Since that time, a lot has changed. He has moved on. I have moved on. We had our stumbles. We had our tearful, rambling phone calls. Loss, over the phone line, is almost more poignant than loss and sadness in your living room, on your couch. The distance magnifies it – the tinny sound of human on wire, over waves, through space.
Our souls fell out of solution. Grains, one by one, falling to a cold, still bottomplace, where they rested. Today, we live on different continents. Lives separated by oceans, time zones, easterlies and westerlies, accents, seasons. We share nothing. Nothing, that is, but the history of loss.
These days, I don’t mourn the loss of that love. I miss the boy I knew who was fragile and sweet. I miss his insightful way of seeing the world. I feel sad that there was the callousness within each of us to hurt each other so badly.
I can’t imagine acting the way we acted anymore. I can’t imagine inflicting that kind of pain on my new love. I bristle at the childish notion that our hearts were so resilient. They aren’t. They continue beating, but the scars are still there, torquing the muscles, creating heart murmurs that whisper through stethoscopes to us, telling us not to make the same mistakes again.
And I won’t.