Explorations in what comes after.
“Dear Cx…it’s been an hour since you left and I’m glad you felt the need to twist, stab — eviscerate — on your way out. The skeletons you exposed will be the bones I use to rebuild a sanctuary you do not understand and will never enter. These bruises will fade; my resolve will not.”
I’ve been sitting on the stairs for sixty minutes without moving. I can’t believe you’re gone. I can’t believe it’s over. I can’t believe this is the fallout of six years, thousands of “I love you’s”, three cross country moves, one proposal, and two chronically unhappy people who could not get it right.
You don’t believe me, but I tried. I fought for you. I fought for us — but it never looked like you wanted. When I’d forget to take some small action that was habitual for you, you interpreted it as a lack of respect, as shots fired, as an opportunity to pick a fight and press me back into a corner, shrinking me to a size you could control. Pack into a box. Keep for comfort at a time and place of your choosing. I wasn’t your wife. I was your pacifier.
Why is it that giving up on someone — letting go of them — feels like giving up on yourself? Maybe that’s why it is so difficult to end relationships. We’re giving up on and letting go of the forever we thought we were coauthoring.
