When Our Pasts Become Lessons
No matter how much memories hurt, there are things to learn from every painful moment. It just takes time to find them.
Does the triteness of a saying make it any less true? Sometimes, perhaps, but often the phrases we use to assuage the fears and pain of loved ones (and ourselves) have become trite because there’s some truth to them.
“You’ll see, these things happen for the best.” Everyone says that, but is it always the case? Is there some cosmic force behind the actions and circumstances surrounding and guiding the rail we ride called Life? And is it always moving so everything is good?
I don’t believe in a cosmic benefactor, but I do believe we sometimes can learn good things from bad situations. It’s all in how we choose to see them.
She was the most significant relationship of my life. I moved with her to another state and city, embarking on an adventure I never thought would present itself to me. Call me a late bloomer, but I’d never lived far from home, and was never in a relationship with such potential. We discussed marriage, kids, plans to travel, all of it. But I was naïve. I thought our cohabitation was a sign of our love. I was happy, after all, or so I thought. Someone beautiful wanted to spend their life with me, someone who I laughed with and thought I was energizing. Someone who I could make smile.
When things degraded for us as a couple, I felt her slipping away. But we’re happy, I thought. How could I be losing her like this? I made all kinds of concessions to keep her around, but didn’t meet the obligations I’d committed to. And when she finally left, I cried. I sought the comfort of friends, friends who kept asking me something that didn’t make any sense to me at the time.
“Were you truly happy anyway?”
What a stupid question, I silently kept saying to myself. Don’t my constant pain and tears tell you that I’m miserable without her? Weeks and months went by, while I wondered how I would get through this. I was now living with another friend from my childhood, unsure of my next move. Unsure if I would ever be happy again.
It took more than a year for me to understand that I wasn’t miserable without her, I was miserable without the familiarity of her. Was I truly happy?
When Tom loses Summer in the film (500) Days of Summer, he is approached by his little sister, who is wise (and vulgar) beyond her years. She asks him, “was she really the one?” He is confused, but she continues, “I don’t think so. Next time you look back, I think you should look again.”
I wish someone had said that to me.
I kept looking back at memories. Looking back at how, every morning, even if she was sleeping, I would kiss her cheek before leaving work. One morning, I even forgot, and ran back halfway from work to complete the morning ritual. Surprising her with a homemade candlelit dinner, even though I wasn’t a very good cook, on our shoddy table in our tiny bedroom. How I’d work 40 hours a week in three days in the beginning of our relationship, so I could spend the other four days going back and forth to Rhode Island to spend them with her. How she drove halfway home for Thanksgiving, then turned around and came back to get me even though I wasn’t invited to her home.
I’m a romantic. A hopeless one. I believe in movie scenes and fighting for the girl and roses and grandiose displays of love. She did not. Love is not a movie, and it’s not a love song. That’s true. But the symbols of significant emotion are important…
…except when they’re just expected and not from the heart.
And looking back, even though I’d kissed her cheek every morning, I couldn’t wait to leave the house. I was happy I wasn’t invited home for Thanksgiving, to have a few days to myself. The candlelit dinner was because I wanted to gloss over the fact that I hadn’t done the laundry like I was supposed to. And she ended up going out with friends right after that, anyway.
I wasn’t in love. I was with a friend, someone I lived with and shared a bed with, and went through the motions with. But I was not in love. Was I truly happy? The answer, it turned out, was a resounding “no.” I was with her because being with her was better than being alone.
Don’t get me wrong. She was and is a terrific person. But we didn’t have the connection I’d learn years later two people can have. I’d learned that being with someone is not better than being alone.
I’ve learned that symbols of romance are purposeful only when they’re filled with meaning, with true sentiment and beauty. Surprises like cooking dinner for your partner is romantic when it’s because you wanted to make them happy, to show them you care, to let them know you’re thinking of their well being and comfort. Kissing them on the cheek every morning as they lie sleeping is meaningful only when it’s because you can’t help but notice the beauty in their peaceful slumber, and want to connect physically with just how goddamned lucky you are. Working hard is even a symbol, when it’s because you want to provide a future for you both, and a family, if one is involved.
I learned these things not on my own, but because of what happened. I’m still a hopeless romantic. But what happened, well, it happened for the best. And this time, it’s even true.
