Today was another tearfest. As I said in my last post, the road back from heartbreak is one step forward, and two steps back...or, apparently, in some instances, ten backward somersaults accompanied by fresh wailing and gnashing of teeth. There
are extenuating circumstances. I can't go into the details in this post, but it concerns a legal matter connected to my ex, and the fact that I feel I must pursue it is not making it any easier to get over the man. Today was a Friday as well, which was another of "our" days, and of course he didn't come, or write, and though I really didn't expect him to do either, I woke up at four o'clock this morning with the sense that he might. Could he have been considering it, but decided not to follow through? It's possible, I suppose. Two weeks ago...hell, even one week ago...I still believed that our connection was strong enough to allow for intermittent moments of telepathy of that sort. But more and more time wedges its way between where we are now, and what we were before the love apocalypse, I'm starting to relinquish my hold on that belief. Even as I fell prey to fresh tears this morning, and again in the afternoon, I wasn't sure just what I was crying over---that, once again, his absence on one of "our" days proved that he truly has made the emotional break from our relationship, or the frustration I felt with myself for allowing foolish sentiment to undermine the intellectual strides I've made in getting over him (i.e. all the things I know now to be true: he's gone, he's not coming back, the reasons why, and how, even if he did come back, it could never be the same). Maybe it was a little bit of both. It usually is in these situations. Our hearts beat in mysterious ways and don't always let our brains in on the chord changes.
I've been thinking that it might be helpful to get rid of some of the things that remind me of him. Because we communicated solely in person and through email, I don't have any love letters to burn, but there are a number of little things that I've held onto simply because he gave them to me. True, he gave me a lot of things, including the laptop on which I'm writing this post, my microwave, and my bed, but I'm not getting rid of those, not even as an exercise in letting go. But there's a certain little semi-antique oval box with the name "Georgette" on the lid that was the very first gift he ever gave me. He told me that he'd had it in his antique shop for a while, and wasn't sure why he had kept it, but when he met me, he realized that it was supposed to be mine. And there's an antique plumb bob that he gave me because, for some reason I have a thing about plumb bobs, and I wanted one, and he made a special effort to find this particular one and bring it to me. If I burned the "Georgette" box in the fire that my friend (the one with the caustic tongue) plans to have tonight, would my stubborn sense of connection to a man who no longer wants me disappear in the same smoke? The plumb bob wouldn't burn because it's metal, but it would at least be disfigured by the flames, and that would be
something. As I said in my last post, I wasn't one of those spoiled mistresses dripping expensive jewelry and clutching a lap dog, but there are a few pairs of earrings and some necklaces and bracelets he picked up at yard sales for me. Should I commit those to the flames as well? Would it change anything, make it easier to disconnect?
In my heart, I think that, as symbolic as the burning of his gifts might be, it wouldn't really make the job of getting over him any easier. What would make it easier would be not knowing his schedule, and that, since tomorrow is Saturday, he'll be driving around scouting out yard sales and looking for antiques and other interesting items to buy and re-sell. I wish I didn't know his bedtime, or what he likes to eat, or which news stories he's most likely following (and the links to which I still have to remind myself I no longer need to copy and send to him). I wish I didn't know that he suffers from a severe case of arthritis for which he takes medication, and which I still find myself worrying about, despite the fact that I was only four weeks past cancer surgery when he left me, and that didn't slow him down one bit. And I wish like hell that I didn't keep wondering how successful he's been in reingratiating himself to the wife with whom he claimed to be totally incompatible, in a sexual, emotional,
and intellectual sense until she discovered that he and I were seeing one another, and that simple and unexpected fact triggered his sudden epiphany that he actually did love her and our relationship was "wrong". Maybe things are working out for them after all. Maybe, after twenty years of marriage, during the last half of which they spent almost no time together (according to him), the outside threat that I presented was the catalyst they needed to tighten up those flabby bonds of matrimony. In which case, it makes sense that he hasn't even checked in to see if doing all right, since it would be "wrong" for a newly content and faithful husband to revisit the scene of his extramarital crime, not to mention the woman who was his accessory in committing it (never mind that she was duped into doing so by his professions of love). Then again, maybe his return to the fold has been a struggle, and his hold on the status quo is so tenuous that, despite the fact that some part of him still misses me and wishes he could make contact, he's afraid to taint his efforts with the rekindling of old feelings and desires. Who knows? I sure as hell don't. And to waste any more time thinking about it would be ridiculous and self-defeating and pointless. And yet...
I don't know how to make it all stop...the knowing, and the wondering, and the memories and feelings triggered by certain days of the week, and certain hours of the day, and all the other mundane things that wouldn't even matter except for their connection to a man who is no longer connected to me. If I could throw it all into my friend's backyard fire tonight, it probably
would set me free. But some things just can't be burned away. And until I find another method of expunging them from my heart and head and soul, I'm guess I'm just going to have to keep up the skewed dance...one step forward, two leaps back, half a step sideways, one tuck and roll into the ditch, and then two steps forward again....indefinitely. But at least I'm committed to the dance. I might still cry, but I don't cry all day anymore. I might still be sad, but I don't wear my sadness like an emblem when I'm in public. And I might still be angry, but I am working very hard to channel that anger into something constructive that I might not otherwise have the courage to do (more about that in a future post). So, I'm not dead in the water yet. I'm still a contender in the heartbreak vs me prize fight of this or any other decade. And maybe if I keep my eye on the prize and refuse to give in, all that other stuff...the knowing and the wondering and the residual feelings connected to an outmoded reality...will just disappate on their own. Like a semi-antique oval box with the name "Georgette" on the lid going up in red-orange flames in my friend's backyard on an otherwise quiet and uneventful Friday night in early spring.
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