It’s two months since I ended my relationship with Gary but I haven’t been able to write about him much because I don’t want to feel the grief and sadness that washes over me when I least expect it to. I never expected it to. Barely a day passes when I’m not struck down with overwhelming sadness. When I don’t spend hours thinking about him obsessively and when I don’t long for him to get in touch and want to try again. To really try again and to make it work. To make it our future together, the rest of our lives. Not his without me and mine without him because that was never part of the plan. Not being together.
It’s been two months but it hasn’t been that long since we last saw each other, ending up in bed once more, unable to resist yet unwilling to commit. That’s only been a month or so and it’s the backwards and forwards that’s preventing me from being able to move on or to grieve fully. But what am I really grieving for? The loss of him or for my own lonely, empty heart?
At first, I would look for him on the dating website all the time, several times a day. That’s gradually dwindled down to maybe once a week, if that. I’m getting better, I know, but still he holds me in his grasp, not letting me go, or I do, him. Tonight there was a new photo of him. He looked good. Exactly how I like him to look ~ unshaven, twinkling eyes, happy.
Happy without me.
That’s not how I want him to look but I don’t want him to be unhappy either. But that’s not the saddest part. That part comes with the realisation of his intention. Updating, adding to, embracing his new world, moving on, hoping, intending. His intention to love someone else.
I find myself asking the unanswerable question… how long will this grief last? This grieving that I couldn’t have anticipated, that I just didn’t know would exist. It doesn’t make sense, it hasn’t made sense all along and yet still it resides, every single day.
My heart, so big and ready to give all of the love it holds, aches with an emptiness, yet swells with an hurt befitting this internal war that rages on day after day, night after night.
I dream of him. I look for him everywhere. I see him on my sofa watching a film, in my bed sleeping next to me, he’s on every corner. I can almost reach out and touch him. He’s in the air that I breathe. I long for him. I yearn for his presence, my head on his chest, my fingers circling the hairs on his stomach. His soft belly, his strong hands, his penetrating eyes, his desire for me, his tenderness afterwards. I hunger for it all.
I crave words he will never say and actions he’s incapable of showing because his heart was so damaged by others it created an inability to love me and to love himself. Love is a lost cause, I know that but it doesn’t stop me hoping, dreaming, wanting and fooling myself that he could be more. If only the world could be right, if only he could abandon the constraints he imposes upon himself and upon our love. A love that was always one sided anyway for this man; my broken, wounded man ~ I fucking loved him.
But, life goes on. At least his does. Mine, it tumbles down the precipice, grasping for something to hold on to, an anchor to save me. Still, I fall. Endlessly. To my long-awaited, self-inflicted, empty death, without him.