Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Garbage Day
Today I took out my garbage and it consisted of one light bulb in a clear plastic bag. Light bulbs and Batteries Day. It felt silly to drop a single bulb in the garbage cage.
My ex-boyfriend came back into my life again. We didn’t speak for seven months and then he calls me. I’m amazed that all it takes is his “hello” and I know immediately who it is, and how this little word—when it comes from him—can instantly evoke a feeling of being home again. It’s been a rollercoaster few years with him. On again, off again, fights and make-ups, furious to the point of tears and hurtful words, then back to needing and loving each other—inseparable in each others arms. But even when I was so angry at him I thought my insides would burst, I loved him deeply. I loved him entirely.
I once explained to him what my love for him was like. I said, “I loved you more that I ever thought was possible, but as much as I wished you could be, you weren’t ready for the kind of love I had to give you.” He did love me, too—we both know that—but he didn’t know how unconditionally I loved him back. I could barely believe my ears, but then he said I was right; he had never completely opened up his heart to me, even though mine was obviously wide-open for him. Unfortunately, this conversation was after our third and final break-up. The one were I just couldn’t take it anymore. I wasn’t being acknowledged and I feared that would never change. It took a serious break-up, and me moving on to a new relationship, before he finally realized what he missed out on, and then his heart broke. It’s the cruelty of life, but I'll always wonder why we had to break up in order for him to realize how much he loved and needed me, too. We both reached the right place, but the timing was all wrong.
Once we were firmly in “just friends” territory, our relationship went through all kinds of twists and turns—emotional drama that I had never imagined we would go through. We had been best friends for years and we couldn’t easily forget that, especially when we lived next door. I find it funny how it was after we broke-up that our problems grew to larger-than-life. Everything between us was suddenly absolutely irresolvable. Or maybe that’s not usual at all. Maybe it makes complete sense that that was when we stopped trying to compromise.
And yet for years we hung on to each other. Even when separated by continents, we continued to call, to visit, to write, to share every tid-bit of our lives with each other. Some months we did that. Other months we just fought about the past. We fought in emails, over the phone, on little audio tapes—a going away gift I had given him when he graduated and moved out of the United States. Together and apart, we mourned the loss of our parents, then our relationship. We mulled over all the hundreds of conversations we’d had over the years. We quoted each others’ most painful words until we were both sick of the stories, sick of arguing over what happened, who did what first and who was hurt worse by it. And yet still neither of us could let go. We couldn’t let each other go. It all kept getting worse, destroying all the good memories we had made together. Looking through old pictures of us was like looking at a past life. It seemed so far away.
After he told me he never wanted to talk to me again, I was furious. He’s the type of guy who doesn’t make absolute decisions like these. He once told me “He never closes the door on friends.” It was both symbolic and literal. In the four years at college, I never turned the knob to his door to find it locked. Even when the college installed automatic locking doors, he taped over the lock so it wouldn’t click shut. And now he was closing the door on me—on us. It was a bold move and I couldn’t stand to be the exception to his little rule. The rule that allowed him to keep ex-girlfriends in his life when we were together.
But quickly my anger turned to acceptance. When pressed with the word “never” he couldn’t help but include the small print. He still loved my family and wanted to know about births, deaths, and marriages. And I realized something about him then—when he tried to make this bold move, but couldn’t quite commit to the word “never”—this choice was his desperate attempt to move on. Although I dated a lot after our break-up, he never moved on after me.
Although I hated his decision, I decided to respect it because that’s what he needed. Perhaps distance from me was what he needed to be happy again—to be able to fall in love again—and ultimately I did want him to be happy. I don't know if it’s some kind of sign, but even in our last conversation, we couldn’t help but discuss the children we wanted. The children we wanted to have together.
I feel like this is the part of the story where things should get better again. Where he mends his broken heart and we both move on. Or if this were a movie, he would show up on my doorstep… in the rain—always in the rain!—and all our problems would disappear and we’d grow old together. But it’s not a movie, it’s not even a good story. It’s just my first love, loose ends and incomplete. For all it’s imperfections, I’m not sure I would change it if I could. Life’s about lessons, and I’m still learning mine.
My ex-boyfriend came back into my life again. We didn’t speak for seven months and then he calls me. I’m amazed that all it takes is his “hello” and I know immediately who it is, and how this little word—when it comes from him—can instantly evoke a feeling of being home again. It’s been a rollercoaster few years with him. On again, off again, fights and make-ups, furious to the point of tears and hurtful words, then back to needing and loving each other—inseparable in each others arms. But even when I was so angry at him I thought my insides would burst, I loved him deeply. I loved him entirely.
I once explained to him what my love for him was like. I said, “I loved you more that I ever thought was possible, but as much as I wished you could be, you weren’t ready for the kind of love I had to give you.” He did love me, too—we both know that—but he didn’t know how unconditionally I loved him back. I could barely believe my ears, but then he said I was right; he had never completely opened up his heart to me, even though mine was obviously wide-open for him. Unfortunately, this conversation was after our third and final break-up. The one were I just couldn’t take it anymore. I wasn’t being acknowledged and I feared that would never change. It took a serious break-up, and me moving on to a new relationship, before he finally realized what he missed out on, and then his heart broke. It’s the cruelty of life, but I'll always wonder why we had to break up in order for him to realize how much he loved and needed me, too. We both reached the right place, but the timing was all wrong.
Once we were firmly in “just friends” territory, our relationship went through all kinds of twists and turns—emotional drama that I had never imagined we would go through. We had been best friends for years and we couldn’t easily forget that, especially when we lived next door. I find it funny how it was after we broke-up that our problems grew to larger-than-life. Everything between us was suddenly absolutely irresolvable. Or maybe that’s not usual at all. Maybe it makes complete sense that that was when we stopped trying to compromise.
And yet for years we hung on to each other. Even when separated by continents, we continued to call, to visit, to write, to share every tid-bit of our lives with each other. Some months we did that. Other months we just fought about the past. We fought in emails, over the phone, on little audio tapes—a going away gift I had given him when he graduated and moved out of the United States. Together and apart, we mourned the loss of our parents, then our relationship. We mulled over all the hundreds of conversations we’d had over the years. We quoted each others’ most painful words until we were both sick of the stories, sick of arguing over what happened, who did what first and who was hurt worse by it. And yet still neither of us could let go. We couldn’t let each other go. It all kept getting worse, destroying all the good memories we had made together. Looking through old pictures of us was like looking at a past life. It seemed so far away.
After he told me he never wanted to talk to me again, I was furious. He’s the type of guy who doesn’t make absolute decisions like these. He once told me “He never closes the door on friends.” It was both symbolic and literal. In the four years at college, I never turned the knob to his door to find it locked. Even when the college installed automatic locking doors, he taped over the lock so it wouldn’t click shut. And now he was closing the door on me—on us. It was a bold move and I couldn’t stand to be the exception to his little rule. The rule that allowed him to keep ex-girlfriends in his life when we were together.
But quickly my anger turned to acceptance. When pressed with the word “never” he couldn’t help but include the small print. He still loved my family and wanted to know about births, deaths, and marriages. And I realized something about him then—when he tried to make this bold move, but couldn’t quite commit to the word “never”—this choice was his desperate attempt to move on. Although I dated a lot after our break-up, he never moved on after me.
Although I hated his decision, I decided to respect it because that’s what he needed. Perhaps distance from me was what he needed to be happy again—to be able to fall in love again—and ultimately I did want him to be happy. I don't know if it’s some kind of sign, but even in our last conversation, we couldn’t help but discuss the children we wanted. The children we wanted to have together.
I feel like this is the part of the story where things should get better again. Where he mends his broken heart and we both move on. Or if this were a movie, he would show up on my doorstep… in the rain—always in the rain!—and all our problems would disappear and we’d grow old together. But it’s not a movie, it’s not even a good story. It’s just my first love, loose ends and incomplete. For all it’s imperfections, I’m not sure I would change it if I could. Life’s about lessons, and I’m still learning mine.
