The Itch You Can’t Scratch
I sit here writing, brows furrowed in a state of stormy contemplation. Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto rages in my headphones. It’s the right tone for my mood. I hit legs a few hours ago. Leg day always gets me; it waters the seeds of fiery passion hidden deep within the primate brains of all men. I am no exception to the laws of biology.
Maybe that’s a good thing. I’ve been meaning to write this piece for a few weeks. And it was the energy generated from Romanian deadlifts that sharpened my resolve to start tonight. I seek catharsis and can’t sleep until I have a working draft ready for my better-rested mind.
Don’t you hate it when writers don’t get to the point early enough? Shall we cut through the bullshit this time?
Below you will find a meditation on love. My aim for this essay is to offer a suggestion on how to live life. Take from it what you will.
My girlfriend and I broke up a few months ago. At least, that’s how I’ve described it to most. It’s a strategic move that minimizes further discussion. I tolerated the mixtures of “Aww, I’m so sorry!” or “Maybe it wasn’t meant to be” because I didn’t want to talk about it. I was too ensnared by the shackles of my ego to speak the truth.
“I’m not in love with you anymore.”
My girlfriend dumped me. Even writing it now feels like a stab to the gut. Men, we’re supposed to be the confident ones, the warriors who protect our tribes against invaders and manifest an aura of security for those less able. Any admission of weakness means you’re a fucking pussy.
Well that’s just some antiquated nonsense, right? It’s the 21st century, a time when men and women in the United States are closer to equality than ever. Surely we’ve progressed to a point when men can feel comfortable admitting their flaws, their vulnerabilities and their emotions.
Ideally? Yes.
In real life? I’m not so sure.
Maybe I am a fucking pussy. The jury’s still out. Or maybe it’s the willingness to tear myself open and bleed through these lines that makes me a man. Contemporary battle, if you will. I’ll let Father Time decide.
“I’m not in love with you anymore.”
Wait, what? Where is this coming from? Hold on. I’m leaving for India in a few days, and you tell me this now? We don’t even have time to work on this! Work! That’s how relationships last. It’s not all sunshines and rainbows after the honeymoon period, and we’re obviously going through a rough patch. We need to work on our relationship. And even though I’ll be on the other side of the planet for a month, I’m willing to…
I heard her words as the spellbinding echoes of finality. I knew what they meant. And yet, I tried to hold on. I rationalized away the blind side as any hopeful lover would. She’s depressed, and as a strong man, I have to be there when those I love are hurt. I’m not giving up on her. I have to be strong.
I have to be strong.
I left for India with the resolve to conquer our problem. We took “a break” for the first few days of my trip as she “figured out how she was feeling.” No communication whatsoever. While our Facebook Messenger conversation sat barren, my mind raced in a frenzy, searching for the things I would tell her to make it all better.
The message came, five days after we’d last talked. 5 is an elegant, prime number. I’ve always worshipped the indivisibility of primes, and 5 is no exception. But five days of not talking with a breakup looming overhead, five days hanging off the cliff of uncertainty without any footholds… fuck 5.
The message came. The message passed. Our conversations assumed a one-sided nature. My messages, of which there were many, received one or two-line responses max. It felt like I was talking to a robot. Although I wasn’t there with her, I could see how she was feeling. You know a girl isn’t into you when she uses exclamation marks.
I got back from India, and we talked in-person. Her thesis remained.
“I’m not in love with you anymore.”
And here I am now, one month later. Single as a Pringle. A Pringle cracked down the middle. The what-ifs continue to haunt me through day and night.
Never again will I see her true smile, not the dorky imitation she uses for photos. Never again will I feel the moist pressure of her lips, soft and warm. Never again will I feel her body nestling up to my body, her cheek resting on my shoulder and her arms locked around my waist for her “daily dose of oxytocin.”
The worst part?
Never again will I know if we could have worked it out.
Getting dumped has tested my masculinity. When threatened, most people become defensive.
She doesn’t love me anymore? Even after all I did to help her through her low points? I’ll show her. I’ll get in the best shape of my life, succeed as an entrepreneur and reach my full potential as a human being. One day, years later, she’ll see the man I’ve become and regret the decision she made.
Such trains of thought are tempting to indulge in during times of pain. They shelter the ego and stoke the fires of my emotional brain, which craves stimulation through heartbreak.
But thinking that way disgusts me. It runs antithetical to the standards for how I seek to live my life. I’m ashamed to admit I still feel that way sometimes.
Sure, spite can trigger action. When I’m at the gym lifting, I channel the anger from being dumped to help me power through the weights. I dive into the pools of emotional depth, embracing the dark side of my nature. I become the savage protecting his tribe against invaders.
The knowledge that I’m growing physically stronger offers some solace for this defensive attitude. And yet, I know it can’t continue. I am not an angry or sad person at my core. My default mode is happy and loving. I’m like today’s version of a hippie.
Perhaps that’s what challenges me most. My heart calluses over the wound of dead love. I know I must move on, trekking the path of truth. But what if, on my journey forward, my heart calcifies to the point of no return? What if I can never again drink the nectars of true love?
Intellectually, I know this as a sign of insecurity. “The one” is a myth perpetuated by the fairy-tale optimism of society. It’s bullshit.
Emotionally, I feel the agony. Getting rejected by someone you love — someone you really love — stings like a motherfucker. I’ve experienced depression in the past. It’s resembled a vast nothingness, devoid of emotions. Today, I see my depression for what it is. It does not lack emotions. Anger and sadness are its ammunition, and they scope toward my heart.
When I was in India, I came across this quote describing the bipolar nature of happiness and sadness:
“Sadness gives depth. Happiness gives height. Sadness gives roots. Happiness gives branches. Happiness is like a tree going into the sky, and sadness is like the roots going down into the womb of the earth. Both are needed, and the higher a tree goes, the deeper it goes, simultaneously. The bigger the tree, the bigger will be its roots. In fact, it is always in proportion. That’s its balance.” -Osho
The capacities to feel happy and sad mirror each other. The tumbles downward hurt more the higher we’ve climbed the peaks of joy. I ache because I’ve glimpsed heaven’s splendor.
There are certain itches you can’t scratch. No matter how far you stretch, they’ll persist in stubborn defiance.
My itch remains true as a law of physics. I will never know if, given the chance, we could have fixed our problems and salvaged the relationship.
And I’m learning to accept that. Ruminating on the what-ifs ejects us from the present moment. An itch is just a momentary discomfort, amplifying in magnitude the more attention we feed it. When we choose to focus on what lies in front of us now, we reject the regrets of our past. The itch fades away into the sands of lost time.
Yes, heartbreak hurts. But like tearing muscles when lifting weights, we need pain to help us grow. The will to move forward and extend our branches higher deepens our reservoir of strength. It bolsters our resolve, building up the confidence that we can handle the problems life throws our way.
I met an amazing girl. We shared a mutual love that blasted my expectations. It was the best time of my life.
And now, that time has ended. One chapter closes, and another opens. I don’t know what lies further down my path, but I must follow the compass of presence. It guides me toward self-actualization and truth.
I write this piece not just for myself, but for her too. I thank her for the beautiful moments we shared together. For the lessons I learned about myself and how to love. For the gift of letting go to help me become a stronger man.
And for that, I will always love her.
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