Day One: of, the breaking
Break up; as in to separate or be separated into pieces. Break down; as in, to cause to collapse; destroy. Break out; as in, to emerge or escape; to isolate. Break through; as in, to make a sudden, quick advance.
My brain got me into this. It’s entirely responsible. (My brain begs to differ. It says my heart got me into this, and now it’s left cleaning up the mess.) It made a decision—one that was most definitely not in agreement with my heart—and now my brain has left me in the lurch. (Consequences, baby, it says, not sounding the least bit remorseful.) But I say, if it’s going to make choices like these, shouldn’t it also turn off the pain receptors? You know, those ones making it feel as if someone is stabbing me, repeatedly, in the chest?
No. Evidently, there is no reprieve. I’m never more reminded of how difficult it is, engaging in this human being, when I’m forced to face the very human tendency to grasp. Ask me to stop grasping; just see what happens. Letting go has never been my strong suit. That’s putting it lightly. Let me rephrase: Letting go is something I JUST DON’T DO. I can’t. My hands are completely incapable of opening themselves to let something go. Give me a handful of thorns and you’d better believe I’m going to hold onto it. I mean, I have it, don’t I? And if I let it go, what will I have then? Bloody palms with nothing to show for it, that’s what.
Mostly I don’t let go because I’ve convinced myself there’s a damn good reason why I’m holding on. In this case, it wasn’t a thing I was holding onto. It was a person. And my damn good reason was noble: love. THE Love. You know? The one you tell yourself is THE ONE. (And then you tell yourself that THE ONE means the one you will marry and be with for eternity instead of simply THE ONE who tells it to you like it is, tears your heart out so you can examine it a little more closely, and then walks away clean knowing they’ve done their job.) It turns out though, that since by now I know I’m a total failure at letting go, I owed it to the Universe to do something about it. I got it into my head that the Universe would be mightily displeased with me if after all this time, I was still dicking around with this business about grasping. So, I am capable of letting go, but it takes ages (it already feels like an eternity) for me to reach equanimity. Peace. I would like to say I was courageous. But—
Courage only carries you so far. Shakespeare knew. “Courage man, the hurt cannot be much,” says Romeo to Mercutio, after he’s been stabbed. To which Mercutio responds, “ . . . ask for me tomorrow, and you will find me a grave man.” Mercutio knew. Courage does not stop you from dying.
I’m not dying. I’m thirty-four years old, and I’ve finally learned this little ditty: Open hand. Release.
Fuck. It feels like dying.
Love doesn’t know about all the fairy tale structures we try to build around it. It is completely unaware, for instance, that when I love someone, it is also supposed to mean that it works out, for Christ’s sake. As in, I love them, they love me, and we both live so hap-pi-ly.
Love is something more like this . . .
I can’t get the words out without sobbing. It’s unattractive. Understatement. I am a gross caricature of myself. My eyes are red. I’ve cried off every single ounce of makeup. If it weren’t for the tissue I am holding up to my nose, I would be leaking. Leaking everywhere. Eyes, nose, mouth. This hurricane force of grief is shaking my foundations. Added to that, my attempts to STOP myself from crying have caused a jagged log or some sort of boulder to lodge itself into my esophagus. Also, I can no longer breathe. My nasal passages have shrunk to the size of a Barbie doll’s left nostril, and then filled with fluid. My head is being squeezed by a vice. I can barely move it without splinters of pain jabbing at my eyeballs.
My stomach is twisting. I have tried to eat food, but it appears to be impossible to actually swallow past the mountain jammed in my throat. Instead, I take an Advil, then sit in the bathroom with the shower on full hot and poke my head around the shower curtain to breathe it in. I need to breathe. I need to breathe. I need to b r e a t h e.
Eventually, the griefquake subsides. Or the tide goes out. Take your pick. It’s a temporary reprieve. I know this well. From past experience. It will last five minutes. It will last until I think about something. Anything. Until I look around and see the evidence of him everywhere. Trying to sleep is the next most difficult thing. What happens is that you fall asleep fine. Then, you wake up, suddenly, and everything comes flooding back. You have just lost the love of your life (So far, you tell yourself. Please God let me have enough life left that it only be SO FAR), and you are alone. The house is empty. It will remain empty. And you squeeze your eyes shut and pray to God, any God will do—or even a saint. In this case, Saint Raphael. There is no patron saint of the broken, so the patron saint of travelers will do. They call him “Medicine of God,” and so, “Lead me back to sleep,” I beg. “I will go with you where you want me to, only, please . . . let me breathe . . . sleep.”
I wake, and the feeling is still there. Love. It’s easier then, in the end, to remember the beginning. In the beginning, well, it’s all running through a field of daisies, right? Even when you tell yourself it’s not. If you’re an adult (meaning over thirty), with any kind of relationship experience under your belt, you sit yourself down and have a stern talk. You say, “Self.” And self says, “Yes.” You say, “There are no fairy tales. You know that, right? That gooey deliciousness you’re feeling is normal. But reality will eventually set in. And no one is perfect. We all have our flaws and baggage and weathered bits.” And self nods its head, in enthusiastic agreement. “I know, I know,” that head nod says. “So no walking into this all shiny-eyed and ridiculous,” you warn. And self shakes its head. All shiny-eyed and ridiculous. “Roger that,” the head shake says. It’ll be different this time, is what it means.
But, Love, later? Love presiding over the Death of Relationship? Love when you know that Love and Relationship don’t necessarily have to co-exist? That is a different picture. It is a messy picture. One that involves a lot of leaking, and swelling, and sleeplessness. It might also involve gallons of Dublin Mudslide Ben and Jerry’s, with copious amounts of Shiraz poured on like hot fudge and little sprinkles of valium bits.
And since I neither eat ice cream nor drink alcohol (and there isn’t anything stronger than Advil and homeopathic cold remedies in my medicine cabinet), I am alarmingly lucid. Apparently, ginger tea does not have a numbing effect. I get the pleasure of fully experiencing this experience.
I weep at the slightest provocation. I sound fine one moment, and the next, I am weeping! I cannot go to my Facebook page. Facebook! What new form of relationship-ending torture is this social networking tenth circle of hell? Who is going to change the relationship status first? Should it be quick, like yanking an arrow that’s been jammed into your solar plexus, or slowly, later, after everyone (and by everyone, I mean just me) has calmed down and can look at a stupid Facebook relationship status without, you guessed it, bursting into tears. It’s uncertain what is worse. Seeing it there, or being afraid that you suddenly won’t. And what about co-mingled friends and family? What is the protocol? How can I politely de-friend everyone and explain that while I really like you quite a bit, thank you, and it was wonderful to know you, seeing any of your posts now sends me into paroxysms (yes, I said paroxysms) of tears. Probably not coincidentally, I found a white hair just a moment ago.
This love shit is for the birds. I assume it’s like having a baby. While you’re giving birth, you swear that you will never, EVER, ever have another. In fact, you swear off sex entirely. But you don’t. And so, the same goes with this. This love shit is for the birds. Why go through it when this is what happens on the other end?
What would St. Raphi have to say about that, I wonder?
Thankfully, I have friends. They are the keepers of my heart. That broken thing, I hand to them. Somehow, they are able to look at this tattered remnant and catalogue a list of things that make it beautiful. They swear it will mend. They swear it will be all one piece again. And I nod. But what I don’t say is, “You keep it. I’d just as soon not have that bullshit thing back in my possession, thank you very much.”
And so ends Day One.