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Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Desperate Behavior, Haunted Houses and Apologies

It's no secret that, ever since my breakup with Glamazon several months ago, I've been reeling with heavy emotions.  I've struggled to find myself again, to love myself again, to re-learn who I am after having my world so changed by a (seemingly) storybook romance, a deeply felt love and the hope of forever, only to have it so violently turned inside out, upside down and then left by the side of the Autoroute Romantique like road kill.  It's been shear and utter hell… and that was just on my good days. 
I've searched for answers:  Why?  How?  Was it real?  Did she love me?  What did I mean to her?  What do I mean to her now?  Why did she choose to have an affair?  Why did she choose to leave instead of fighting for our relationship?  Did I drive her away? 
I've searched for pain relief:  Therapy.  Distractions.  Watching movies.  Listening to music.  Crying jags that seem to last an eternity.  Sketching.  Reading self-help books on love and relationships.  Writing.  Dating again.  Social activities. 
I've searched for closure:  Disposing of or returning the relics of our life together.  Trying to engage in a dialogue with Glamazon which was met with the sound of crickets.

The absolute worst part of all of this searching (besides that's it's all been in vain)?  I fear the perception is that it's all been the behavior of a crazy person.  Let me explain.  When my former love decided to leave once and for all, she was clear that she needed space from me in order to move on and to heal from all the damage that we had done to each other.  There were no answers or explanations for what had happened between us.  She simply said "I'm sorry," "I love you," and "Please give me space.  I need to not communicate with you (for now)".  And I was left with What the fuck just happened?  But we were so happy.
I was left all alone in the home we shared together with all of my feelings of love, confusion, deeply-felt pain, anger, abandonment, betrayal, loneliness, fear, facing an unknown future and putting together the mysteries of her deception and untruths.  That's an awful lot to dump on someone you once shared such intense love with.  And for someone such as myself who resides in their head about eighty-five percent of the time, all of those emotions, coupled with absolutely no answers, no dialogue, no closure, no contact… well, it made me about eighty-five percent crazy.  I couldn't escape all of the memories, the what-if's, and the vast empty void that she left behind when she vacated our home.  The walls seemed to be haunted with her presence.  Everything she touched had a memory.  And even today, I still find little things she left behind: hair ties still tangled with strands of her hair, her puffy black jacket that I still wear when it's chilly, chocolate chips left behind in the cupboard which she used in my fruit salad, a pair of socks that she had given me on Easter.  Everything is her.  Everything seems to whisper (or scream) her name.  Everything is a memory, a trigger and a feeling.

All that is not to say that, despite all of my own feelings, I don't understand her position.  I can't relate to it (it's just simply not how I operate), but I can kind of understand it.  I imagine that she's dealing with her own demons, her own shame, her own feelings about what happened and her own feelings about me.  I imagine that she's also trying to forge ahead in a relationship with the woman she left me for.  I think I get it - rather than hashing out the why's and how's and the accompanying feelings, I imagine that she wants to refocus, look ahead towards a less painful future, not dwell on all the hurt she's caused and not look back at the wake of damage she left behind with her romantic hit-and-run.  But could I let her do that?  Nope.  And why not?  Because I am lost.  There, I said it.  I am lost.

I haven't revealed that to many, except for Glamazon and a handful of my closest.  Not only am I a prideful perfectionist (which makes admitting character flaws and weaknesses a challenge) but I also felt that my feelings for and about Glamazon should be reserved for her only.  The members of my inner-most circle have seen me, heard me, held me, protected me and loved me but mostly, I've tried to keep a stiff upper lip.  I've pretended to be fine.  I've pretended to move on.  I've pretended that I don't care.  And I've refused to talk with anyone outside of my inner circle about what really happened between us.  This has done me absolutely no good.  So here I am: telling the world (or the small number of you who graciously humor me with your reads): I am the walking wounded.  I am lost.  I am heartbroken.  And I miss my love ever so much. 
I'm trying to move on with my life; I have made hundreds of mistakes in doing so but I'm learning as I go.  I have e-mailed and texted her a handful of times even after she asked me not to.  And true to her word, she refused to reply, to engage or to communicate.  So I'm trying to move on with my life without answers, without resolution and without closure.  I am really fucking it up but I keep on trying.  And I'm telling the world, in the hopes that this, my "message in a bottle", will make its way back to Glamazon somehow: I'm sorry.  I'm sorry for the hundreds of mistakes I've made.  They are the mistakes of a lost soul, a heartbroken lover and a walking wounded soldier of love, and I'm sorry for not honoring your request for absolute silence.  But more than anything, I'm sorry if any of my actions, reactions and communications have led you to believe that I don't respect you, love you or want happiness for you.
I want to give special thanks to my inner-most circle who have truly been there these last several months.  I don't know where I'd be without you holding me up day in and day out.  Thanks especially to Gay Husband and Dirty Mistress for your love, decidedly non-judgmental support, your listening ears, your strong shoulders and your encouragement.  And an extra special, king-sized thank you to my incredible little sister who has more on her plate than any mere mortal can handle and yet manages all of her shit and mine with strength, grace, and dignity. 

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