Let the dead bury the dead

It hit me today:

I've been grieving over something that died years ago.

I was even crawling around in muddy pools of guilt, as though I was responsible for killing that thing... It was more like an assisted suicide.

Perhaps I didn't know it was dead because the shell of it was still walking around. We were still in each other's lives, physically, so it looked like there was something there. It was hollow. It was decaying.

I am dealing with the absence of the thing because now I know for certain that it is gone. Two lives were one for a moment, and now there is a ripping apart. It hurts. I am dealing with the disillusionment of the insulated world we built together. It's been infiltrated; I see new walls have already been built with someone else, while I free fall into space, unattached and unanchored. I feel betrayed...But he probably did, too.

When we met, he said three very prolific things. I aint hear 'em, doe.

1. I've had a lot of girlfriends. A lot.
2. All my relationships seem to last two years, for some reason.
3. By the time a relationship ends, it's already been over for a while.

But I grabbed his hand and skipped my happy ass down the yellow brick road anyway, happy to have tumbled head-first into some shit I'd never felt before...some shit I never even knew I wanted.

I am recovering. Of this I am certain. But it has been the hardest thing I've ever dealt with. Primarily because I had no idea I could feel this way. I have loved deeply. I have been profoundly changed. I'm 27. Many people learn this lesson sooner, I feel. But this also goes to show how unfamiliar I am with this subject.

A friend asked me a while ago if it was nostalgia making me feel so bad and miss him so much. I told her no, this was different. I genuinely made a mistake letting him go! I mean, I recently even sent an email apologizing sincerely and profusely because after all, this was all my fault.

Then I thought about it again. If he wanted to be here, he would. Whatever we had, we didn't deem it worthy of fighting for. We said fuck it. We maintained. I know I wanted to leave. There were times I didn't even want to kiss him. Slept in the bed and didn't want to be touched. (SO THE FACT THAT I'VE BEEN ACTING LIKE I LOST THE BEST THING EVER ACTUALLY MAKES NO SENSE...) He acted as though he tried so much harder than I did. That's not entirely accurate. He was there, yeah...but he didn't have much choice. He'd left his hometown to move to a new state with me. I paid the bills...I had the transportation...He was in school. What else could he do but tough it out? But truth be told, he checked out, too. He had to have. Because I realize now that while we were yet in the thing, I knew something was wrong. My selfishness, my complete unhappiness with everything in my world, my horror at being released into the real world confident that I was someone I wasn't. These were the things that clouded my judgment and consumed me. I had an identity crisis, y'all. A faith crisis. And instead of helping me through it, he stood on the shore and watched me drift away and drown.

After the fact he said to me, "At the time you should have been drawing closer, you withdrew." And he was right. But you know what? He let me. He let me crawl into my shell and fade into an apparition of myself. Why didn't he have the guts to say that when it would have made a difference? ...Because he let go much sooner than he said he did. Maybe he legitimately was trying as hard as he could. Maybe he was being as much of a man as he knew how to be. I've concluded that he was a really nice guy. But not quite a man. Not then. Not yet.

This new girl? My sister saw them months ago...I saw her name and picture much longer ago than that...My sister said he called her "an old friend." You know what she calls him? "Bae," "The Mister," etc. Do I have a lot to be sorry for? Absolutely. But being naiive has been my greatest sin for a while.

"You didn't want this, remember, you said it yourself." That's what he said to me recently when I asked him what the hell was going on. But, um, God reminded me of the times I asked him what he needed from me. I asked him how he wanted to be loved. I asked him what I could do better. He always said he had no complaints...you don't build a relationship that way, lying and saying things are fine to avoid hurting the other person's feelings. I genuinely wanted to be a good partner and keep him happy. The lack of feedback and honesty robbed me of the opportunity.

I think he was used to having girlfriends. Chicks who pout and want their way, and you keep them happy by acquiescing. I never asked for a yes man. I asked him to help me make decisions. I asked him to speak up. I needed him to contribute...Instead, I was left in charge. I don't care if I have $50 and you have $5. You can still be a partner. I needed a man...I got...a kid who had to learn. We all gotta learn somehow. I can't fault him for that. But perhaps we both thought we were getting someone more whole than was true.

He stopped doing even the little things that made me fall in love. Something as simple as sitting on the couch next to me, holding me while we watched TV. Something as small as telling me I looked nice when we went out. Validation, romance, affection...they  left. But I been acting like it was all my fault. I can compliment myself, sure. If Ima do that then why am I even going out with you? I could tell you about the elaborate Valentine celebrations I planned and financed, with no reciprocation and little fanfare. But it don't even matter. After a while I stopped going so hard because he didn't seem to care. The day he sent flowers to my job was fucking monumental, becuz I never thought it would happen.

My mom told me today to watch my mouth and to not give him and his new girl a hard time. "If you do want it to eventually come back, don't say something that will make sure it never happens." Move on with your life, she said. Little does she know, I've  been trying to move on for months. Nine months. I could have birthed a child in this time. Instead I have to let something years in the making die.

I can't tell sometimes if I'm crying over the thing itself, or the death of that thing. The latter would be easier to recover from. The latter is what I "concluded" today in a fleeting moment of clarity.

I'm not used to being loved. Or wanted. The now ever-present absence of this makes me feel "less than." (Perhaps that is the real root of the thing). To me, it's better to not love at all than to have something be lit inside of you that you didn't know existed, and therefore could not long for or miss.
           
A guy asked me out. Initially, I wasn't interested. Then I talked to him on the phone for like an hour and thought he could be cool. He rescinded his offer, but the temporary sense of expectation I felt was much needed. I haven't found one man attractive in nine months. Nine months. The fact that I felt something -- however brief it was -- gave me a shot of hope. But it slipped through my fingers. Despair, however, sticks to my ribs. Slicks down my wings, which know they have to fly. It flows right out of my open, gushing heart. Cycles into my bloodstream to be pumped into my sick heart again; a depression dialysis.

When I was younger, I didn't want kids. I never dreamed of being someone's wife. I couldn't care less about Barbie dolls or diamonds. I wanted to be rich and significant and travel the world. I ask myself if I truly want to return to that state or if I again want an opportunity to be entrusted with someone's heart. 

Or maybe I wish to amass such a collection of these experiences that not each one carries so much weight. Even as I write that, though, I know it will never be my life. So I'm back at the beginning, figuring out how to grieve functionally as I talk myself out of mourning something that died. A long time ago.