On Finding the capacity to love, again.
Last year, my world shattered. I fell out of love. I thought the walls of my Charlottesville apartment were quickly closing in on me. Becoming that small, that damaged, is not a pain I wish upon anyone. However, the love that precedes being broken feigns a sense of forever. Words fall short in my attempts to convey the act of loving and being loved in return. I had a boyfriend in college and had dated people in the interim, but emotions for those individuals pale in comparison to the love that erupted from meeting Eva. Almost three years ago, I attempted to name the ephemeral moment when love struck. I stopped driving at 9:25 in the morning on July 9th, 2014 and wrote in my mini moleskin:
Driving with Josie to pick up Nick and Gaby from swim practice and I am suddenly consumed with my love for Eva. The emotion temporarily spurs a significant strain in my ability to breathe. It is in this moment, I learn how falling envelops a person. There is no greater feeling than inexplicable happiness and pure joy. She has my heart.
Sweet six year old Josie asked why I had to pull the car over. I lied and said I needed to check a tire or something of that nature. How do you communicate the precise moment you fall to a six a year old? The emotions hit me like a ton of fucking bricks. That was three weeks into my relationship with Eva. Yes, I am aware three weeks is a brief period and no I did not scream that I was in love from the rooftops immediately after this realization. We waited until wine induced murmurings on August 9th and a more genuine outpouring on the morning of the 10th. My heart had never been so full. A newfound ability to love fundamentally changed me. While I had never been intimate with a woman before and the physical connection was intense, I fell in love with every part of Eva. She challenged me intellectually, physically and emotionally in profound ways.
I wrote notes, definitions of words, picked flowers, cooked dinners, and fell deeper in love that summer than I ever conceived or hoped was possible. I learned about my capacity to care for another person. Unfortunately, our love and inability to cultivate a balanced life eventually became unsustainable and toxic.
Nevertheless, I remain thankful for our relationship and time together. She helped me unearth the wreckage, sort through the polluted parts of myself that being a survivor (not a victim) of sexual assault causes. I no longer defined my ability to be a loving partner based on a shoddy past. My fears and insecurities around sex and intimacy slowly subsided. She taught me to find the reflection of sunsets in derelict edifices, to read more poetry and to appreciate a fine craft beverage.
Last April, I ended things with Eva. I was optimistic that some space would allow us to grow. At that time, I had no doubt we would re-establish our partnership after the summer. However, we continued communication for a few months in a combative, derisive way. I failed to recognize the unhealthy nature of our attempts to remain a part of each others’ lives. I was wrong and have come to terms with the finality of that relationship. In a post from November I articulated how integral spending time alone has been to putting the broken bits of myself back together again.
Why am I pouring my heart, yet again, specifically on the topic of love? Because writing down precisely how I am feeling provides a cathartic release, a means to not only acknowledge, but process the pain.
In January of this year I decided to rekindle a romantic relationship with someone who I dated briefly in the fall. I assumed it would be a fun winter fling. Winter is long, cold and dark. Cuddling makes it survivable. I had taken December off from intentionally pursuing romantic entanglements (excluding, a somewhat crazy evening in San Francisco and a sloppy NYE wedding encounter, apologies to Daisy and Diego).
After returning to Charlottesville, I thought hey, lets revisit this thing with Carl (not his real name), it could be fun. I had no plans to establish a serious connection with anyone. Over the past year I have more than embraced a newfangled sense of independence, meeting people in Mexico City, Richmond, coffee shops, breweries and everywhere in between
That being said, I should have known when Carl drove out to my farmhouse after a snow storm in a fucking Mustang, that remaining unattached would be unlikely. He showed up on my doorstep in a blazer, nice jeans and a scarf to follow through on date plans. I was sporting rainbow striped yoga pants, my bright yellow peanuts sweatshirt, slippers and had not showered in two days. I piled the dogs, wine, and clothing for the week into his car (I ended up dogsitting in town). After showering and drinking a beer at the dog’s abode, we made our way back Kardinal Hall where we had watched our country’s future crumble during the election returns. It was slightly awkward to be back at the same bar where we had last seen one another months before.
We barely arrived in time to an off kilter, dark production of a Christmas Carol. The show was fantastic and the boxed wine was free. We didn’t say goodbye until the next evening at 6pm when I had to babysit. Twenty four hours is a long time to spend with someone you haven’t seen in three months, but time with Carl time seemed to disappear effortlessly.
We spent a few evenings together each week in January and February. We went for an epic windy hike, ventured to Richmond for concerts and stayed up entirely too late. Over dinner at one of my most cherished restaurants we were both pretty clear about expectations. He expressed not wanting anything serious, and I explained I wanted a connection, but with trips to Colombia, New Orleans and Cuba in the next six months, I knew that exclusivity did not peak my interest or make any logical sense.
During these exchanges and time together, my feelings expanded and I grew attached. I inappropriately texted him something about being exclusive and we subsequently had a ridiculous conversation on my porch. He confirmed that nothing serious would stem from whatever was going on between us. At this point, I was slightly disappointed, but not surprised. I vacillated between being totally okay with keeping things casual, attempting to hone in my feminist, independent underpinnings. Unfortunately, I could not keep the feelings at bay. I was lying to him and worse to myself about the direction my heart was heading.
The next week we shared a particularly incredible Saturday that consisted of cuddling, wine tasting, cooking, hiking and craft beer. Then Sunday came; we woke up around 10 and I fucking ran. I literally jumped out of bed, threw on workout clothes, shouted I am going for a run and did not stop for seven, sleep deprived miles. My exodus was not received well. Needless to say he was confused and not entirely thrilled with my erratic behavior. Clearly, I am lacking some fundamental adulting skills.
What does my romantic foray have to do with Eva and the aforementioned broken heart saga? Well, that Sunday morning, I was having a panic attack because it was a moment, another poignant one where love hits you in the most jarring, unexpected and inconvenient way. I could not breathe, so exhausting myself physically obviously made the most sense. I thought the act of running would transform the intensity of emotion into sweat, tears and a return to stasis. The pounding of the concrete would absolve me of the panic that only falling in love ignites.
Not surprisingly, running did not help. It was not the solution for quelling these all too familiar feelings. Sunday morning was the beginning of everything going to shit and famously blowing up in flames. Naturally, I waited a day, chatted with my best guy friend and wrote a letter, one that was eventually sent as a Facebook message. The words below encompass an honesty that I rarely choose to express.
Dear Carl,
After texting back and forth yesterday, the exchanges left me wanting and somewhat confused. Over the past day or so, I’ve had ample opportunity to analyze (excessively so) my behavior and seemingly inexplicable actions or rather reactions. I am sorry I ran-literally and figuratively- from you on Sunday. When I am unable to process certain emotions in tandem with the sharp sensation of “not being enough,” I run. Rationally, I understand this a convoluted concept, and I work pretty hard to keep it at bay. However, I did not think it would have been fair of me to breakdown or have an intense conversation about heavy stuff when you have been explicit regarding your intentions (I greatly appreciate your openness).
That being said, I do not think I am what you need or want right now. I respect entirely where you are coming from, and I am not proclaiming that I want to be in a relationship right this instant (it’s been a month, I’m not delusional). Nonetheless, I can see myself wanting more with you. I already do. Coming to this poignant realization over the weekend threw me. Activities I derive a great sense of joy from doing alone, ones that fill me are experiences I find myself wanting to share with you. This cognizance is not only terrifying, but indicative of the indisputable feeling that I like you and care for you. When I have free time, I want to spend significant chunks with you. I want you in my space and around my friends.
I am quite capable of meeting people, doing the impulsive and seeking adventure on my own. However, you have become a person I look forward to seeing, who I find floating around my brain chamber. I also want something consistent and reliable- I believe those are important components of maintaining a happier, balanced life. For me, they also represent wanting something more serious, a type of relationship you have expressed you do not want. I cannot commit to spending my free time with someone who clearly neither sees nor strives to cultivate a commitment.
I thought the solution would be a compromise to leave things open, nonexclusive. Realizing that I have no desire to go on dates with other people eradicates my ability to consider our time together as something casual (I also fucking disdain this term). Given that my feelings will only grow stronger, the more time we spend together, I think it is best if we let things lie. Neither of us should sacrifice what we need or want. Anyway, apologies for this lengthy stream of consciousness.
Pretty fucking heavy right? I texted him that I missed him or something stupid and desperate, so we ended up seeing each other later that week. We walked to the grocery store, enjoyed a delicious homemade meal, watched Arrival, and pretended like everything was totally fine and dandy. I intentionally made morning plans with friends as means to avoid getting sucked into spending the day with Carl and deepening feelings that did not need deepening.
Then last weekend happened. As much as I attempted to avoid the harsh reality that I had fallen in love, it became nearly impossible. I wished I could empty how I was feeling. He joined for a dinner party last Friday, a random group of ten people for tacos and an abundance of terrible (but free) wine. As soon as he walked in the door with one of his closest friends, my heart started racing, my stomach started doing somersaults. The physical symptoms reinforced the emotional. The evening was lovely and we found time for hidden kisses and soft, subtle embraces. His friend left at 3:30 AM Saturday night/Sunday morning, depending on your sleeping patterns. I was babysitting until 2:30 and told him he was welcome to come over if the forty-five minutes of driving wouldn’t be too fatiguing.
Like a small child on Halloween, I stayed up and waited for him. Anyone who knows me, knows this is a big damn deal. I love my sleep. I was giddy with excitement, planning a spring break trip to Colombia. I hoped focusing on an impending adventure would be an effective mechanism to quiet the bird, chanting I love you I love you over and over in my head. WRONG. Luckily, I kept these emotions to myself, knowing he neither wanted nor had the capability for something more serious. I am not an idiot. Spending more time with someone you already have strong feelings only perpetuates them.
Waking up with Carl last Sunday and spending another day together only fueled the fire. We went to bed late, 6AM late, woke up 5 hours past my weekend alarm at noon, brunched on breakfast tacos. We wandered in the woods for two hours then fell asleep curled up together on my couch. Another twenty four hours spent without the cognizance that daylight hours were slowly dissipating into dusk. Sadly, those were our last moments together.
Over the course of this week, I struggled to accept the truth that he is not going to change, that he has been open and honest about his intentions or lack thereof with me. Also, maybe he’s just not that into me? Right that’s still a thing?
Anyway, while sobbing in a ball on my kitchen floor Saturday night I came to the stark realization that I’m done. I deserve more. I am enough. Although he is an incredible human being, I cannot pretend to be in something casual. I refuse to be nonchalant about my feelings for him and I shouldn’t have to be. While the initial aim was to enjoy each other and find relief in something light and fun, I fell. I fell hard. My heart hurts as I’m typing all of this out right now. Despite the pain of knowing we will never be something more, I am eternally grateful for the reminder that I am not broken; the feelings are real and that I have the capacity to fall in love, again.
