Moving in the Right Direction

In order to show the Ex of my commitment to making the marriage work, I agreed to move.

We had been living a two minute walk away from my school and an hour's commute for him. Our new neighbourhood would be a five minute walk for the Ex and an hour's commute for me. I knew it would lessen the daily toll on him and it was a fair solution. He commuted for a year and a half for me and now I would commute for a year and a half for him. Our new apartment was in a fantastic neighbourhood, as opposed to being in the middle of nowhere.  We would be surrounded by cafes, restaurants and pubs; I imagined it would be difficult for us to stay sour with so much excitement about.

It felt like a fresh start for us both.  We would be leaving all the bad memories of the old apartment behind and I hope the change of scenery would spark a second honeymoon period. 

Instead, the move was the final catalyst for the divorce.  This time, it would be me who threw in the towel first.

A big relocation is stressful even under the best of circumstances.  We were moving in the hopes of saving a marriage but every minor problem was blown out of proportion. Everything was exacerbated. 

To this day, I don't know if fault can be attributed to either one of us for how poorly the move went but it did show me that the Ex and I had very fundamentally different ways of doing things.  I'm an organizer; I fret, I worry, I plan. I took care of all the details: hiring the movers, collecting boxes, calling the new building to book the elevators.  Anything that I had delegated to the Ex, I ended up doing because I didn't feel as though he was moving quickly enough for me.  The Ex packed up his own stuff and it was only after I mentioned that we had to pack up the kitchen that he remembered there were shared goods for which we were both responsible.  The day of the move, he went to work - leaving me to coordinate the truck and the movers.  He showed up for an hour during his lunch break in order to let the movers into the new apartment and help carry boxes until I arrived, but then fled the scene when his break was over.  Our initial arrangement involved him unpacking boxes and I would clean the old, vacated apartment.  In the end, my sister drove four hours from out of town to help me unpack.  We needed to rent a van to move the odds and ends that the movers did not get a chance to grab; to pack up the final remnants of our old life would have taken two trips but he put up such a fuss that we only did one trip that night, leaving me to drag the rest of the bags and boxes to our new home later, one trip at a time, while riding public transit.  The night we had a furniture assembly party with my friends, he put together what he was tasked with and then squatted on the floor (as we didn't have a table assembled yet) in order to play online games with his friends, while my friends and I struggled with hammers and screwdrivers.  I know to him, I probably was overbearing, anxious and fussed needlessly over minor points.  Nobody was right or wrong - we were just different in our approach.

I know, to the Ex, he had perfectly justified reasons for why he did what he did.  Moving was mostly my responsibility because it was mostly my stuff.  I know he didn't feel any urgency in unpacking the boxes or assembling the furniture.  For him, he knew it would all get done eventually - whether it took a day or six months, it didn't really matter. But for me, I wanted the boxes emptied.  I was tired of eating off the floor.  I didn't want to sleep every night with suitcases, boxes and bags towering around me.  I wanted to start my new life as soon as possible.

The move also highlighted another sore point in our relationship: the Ex thought I didn't have any faith in him.  I like to tell the story of our kitchen table because it summed up the ongoing battle so perfectly.  He volunteered to put the table together, after work, and in a show of good faith, I agreed.  If the Ex always felt as though I didn't believe he could follow through on his promises, then I would show him I could. 

The first night, he took the pieces of the table out of the box.  He nailed a few pieces together.  He poured over the instructions but then it was getting late, so the tabletop, the legs, the nuts, the bolts, the washers and the nails got pushed aside.  They languished on the floor, in their sad disassembled state for days.  Days became weeks.  I bit the inside of my cheek and held my tongue.  Have faith, I told myself. 

Time marched steadily forward.  The pieces started collecting dust.  We started losing the screws and we kept tripping over the wooden legs.  Finally, one day, I decided I would put the table together while the Ex was at work and I wouldn't make a big deal of it so he wouldn't feel as though I was rubbing it in his face.   The Ex came home to see me hammering a table leg to the table top and demanded to know what I was doing.  "Um...putting the table together?" I responded, as if the answer was obvious. 

"I told you, I was going to do it!"

Have faith.  "Ok." I put the tools down. "I just thought I was being helpful.  You've been so busy at work..."  The table remained in pieces.

Then one night, quite out of the blue, I couldn't take it anymore.  I was done.  I was exhausted.  We were lying in bed, still surrounded by boxes.  I said his name to get his attention and when he looked at me, I simply said, "I'm not happy."

I didn't need to say anything else.  He deflated; I actually heard his exhale and saw his whole body sink into the mattress.  We talked for a long time after that and I was finally able to tell him everything.  With the removal of the pressures to keep the marriage together, I was suddenly freed to be as honest as he had always wanted me to be.  The things I told him that night, while not unkind, were not exactly nice either.  They were not the sort of things you say and then assume things will go back to the way they were.  They were not the sort of things a person forgets or forgives.

My honesty was a dagger and I was finally wielding it now that I had nothing to fight for.

The Ex moved out six weeks later. 

I assembled the kitchen table the next night.

We Have to Talk

The Ex and I started marriage counseling in January.  In a way, it was very much like how you see it on television.  We came in and sat down next to each other, facing her.  She asked us about our hopes, our expectations and what we thought our problems were.

The hope was to keep the marriage intact.  The expectation was that counseling would provide us with a neutral arbitrator and medium through which we could express things we were incapable of saying directly to each other.  The Ex thought our biggest problem was this massive communication block we were having; I wasn't so sure but hoped that if we could finally learn to talk to each other again we could talk about what was actually bothering me.

It's no secret that I am more emotional and expressive than the Ex.  I cried for the first three weeks of therapy, apologizing between sniffles while the Ex watched, not unsympathetically.  It was so much easier talking to the counselor about everything.  I felt like I could finally lay all the cards on the table without feeling cowed.  She was a safe zone; my hackles weren't automatically raised when she asked me a question.  There was no sense of needing to immediately defend myself.

I tend to avoid conflicts where I can.  I would much rather agree on some minor point than to have a long drawn out battle.  I don't care where we sit in the movie theatre.  I don't care which appetizer you want to split with me.  It honestly doesn't matter whether you want to open the bottle of Cabernet sauvignon or merlot. Whenever the Ex wanted to talk about our problems, it was like he was assailing me.

Part of the reason why I'm reluctant to argue with people is because people disregard my arguments because they seem emotional.  People try to beat me down with LOGIC.  People have made me feel like a child sometimes, telling me they won't talk to me until I'm no longer heated.  Meanwhile, I think my points are clear and thought out, if a little passionate.  I've always been ashamed of my feelings and my general sense of intuition.  It's difficult to tell coldly rational people why something "just feels right."  I've definitely gotten the impression that some people think I'm flakey.  Is it because I'm a girl? A pretty girl?  Do you not take me seriously because I wear make up and heels?

Sometimes I just feel a certain way and I don't know why.  Sometimes it will upset me when the Ex doesn't do the dishes when he says he will.  He would always have a good reason why: tired from a long day at work, big project coming up - and rationally, I know having dirty dishes in the sink for one more day won't kill either of us.  So why does it make me so unhappy?  I have felt so guilty for being angry that I either tried to completely disassociate myself from my feelings (thus becoming withdrawn) or berated myself until I was even more upset.  I needed to be punished for being upset when somebody else did something that angered me.

Take that, logic.

So it was a very big step forward that I could admit I was not happy with some of the things in the relationship.  It was extraordinarily helpful that the counselor simply acknowledged how I felt without passing judgment.  See - emotions are just this thing, right? They are there and it's okay that they exist.  Ultimately what matters is what we do with them.

I think we were probably this counselor's most insightful couple.  There was no screaming or name-calling.  We walked into her office knowing exactly why we were there.  We knew why we had the communication habits that we did.  What we didn't know was how to become unstuck from these destructive patterns.  The counselor gave us homework.  She made us roleplay.  She had us guess at how the other person felt.  Through all this, it dawned on me that any improvements in our communication style was largely up to me.  After all, I was the one not speaking.

It took a lot of courage for me to start telling the Ex how I felt, particularly when it was negative.  It seemed so counterintuitive to me.  We were having problems; I felt like I should be smothering the marriage in nothing but love and praise.  Instead, I told the Ex everything that made me unhappy despite the sensation I was sabotaging the relationship.   I had so much invested in this, so much to gain and one wrong word felt like I could be dooming it all.  My greatest fear was that I would ask for something and the Ex would be incapable or unwilling to give it to me.  Better not to ask at all, was my thinking; better not to want something that could be ruinous.

But he listened.  I was heartened. 

I wrote a note to the Ex one night and vowed to do what it took to save the marriage.  I left it on his keyboard, where I knew he would see it.  For the first time in months, I was feeling completely optimistic about things.

In Law, Out Law

Before the Ex and I could start marriage counseling, Christmas arrived.  There was no point in starting therapy with the Christmas holidays interrupting the sessions and I secretly hoped that the joyous season would bring us closer together.  We would be visiting family and we would be away from the doldrums of everyday humdrum life.  We would also be staying at our own respective family homes, staying apart from each other.

May absence make the heart grow fonder.

What I was forgetting about was the fact that these festive times tend to do nothing but increase stress.  It was a juggling act spending a fair amount of time between both families and picking and choosing which dinners to attend.  There was the driving from one house to another restaurant to a third pub and then finally to the fourth house.  There was the cold and the snow. We were also harbouring our unspoken burden of the separation from our families.  How normal did I act during those two weeks? 

I think I bore the secret better than the Ex.  My mother stopped me one day after Christmas, and asked me if the Ex was all right.  He was quiet and distant; there was an air about him that he was incredibly unhappy to be at my mother's house. What could I tell her? Absolutely nothing.  I smiled and shrugged and made some lame excuse about him being stressed about work and fighting off a cold; then I drove him home.  I had gotten very used to making excuses on his behalf.  After all, he was hardly by my side at social functions and I was far too independent to stay at home simply because I wasn't being accompanied by a man.

Everybody must have thought his boss was a slave driver.

Did anyone suspect how strange it felt to be smiling in my in-laws' family Christmas photos, knowing this could be the last one with them? There was the realization that if the Ex and I split up, I would miss these people, my in-laws.  They had always welcomed me with open arms; I had never not felt like family with them.  I wasn't just losing a husband - I was losing an entire branch of my family.  I wasn't just fighting to save a marriage, but a family.  I loved these people.  We had been to weddings and funerals. I had driven or flown hundreds of miles to visit them.  We had a history there.  I was in their photo albums!

There's a photograph of the Ex and me at his family's Christmas lunch that sums up neatly the whole Christmas holidays.  I'm sitting on his lap, I'm wearing my wedding ring and I'm grinning.  The Ex has his lopsided smirk but his hands are positioned away from my body and close to his chest, instead of being draped on me in an easy going manner.  We have brave smiles and nobody knows the truth.  We had just had a fight about 15 minutes prior.

There was one day where I did throw my hands up in frustration and thought maybe a divorce wasn't such a bad idea.  It was a big Christmas dinner with my extended family.  Big dinner with lots of food, games, gift exchange and so many options for dessert that I almost wished I hadn't had second helping of the turkey.  The Ex was feeling out of sorts; he pulled me aside at one point and asked if we could leave after dessert.

I glanced at the clock.  Barely past 9 p.m.  The Ex and I have always fought over when is the appropriate time to leave a social event. He wants to leave when it's in full swing and on a high note.  I want to close out the night and drag my arse home after last call.  But I agreed because he had always said I never compromised with him, fighting down the sudden flare of anger that spiked through me.  I saw my extended family perhaps two or three times a year; I cherished every possible second I had with them.  The Ex wanted to cut the night early so he could go home and ...what, play video games with his brothers?

Dessert took longer than expected.  It took time to get everybody assembled at the table.  It took time to individually cut the pieces of cakes and pies, to dole out the ice cream, to pass around the platter of homemade cookies.  By the time dessert had finished, it was nearly an hour later and the Ex was sitting at the table, head in hand and completely disengaged. 

It was mortifying and humiliating.

I made some excuse as to why we had to go, thanked my hosts for a lovely evening and bundled us off in the car.  There was a stony silence as we drove down the dark and snowy highway.  What I did say to him came out in short, clipped tones.  The 20 minute drive seemed to take forever and it was only exacerbated by the storm outside; when we finally reached his house I was so relieved.  Relieved that we had made it safely and relieved that he was exiting my car.

Because I turned around and drove right back to the party, snarling and hands clutching the steering wheel for dear life.  "Well!" I thought to myself. "If I die in a car crash on the way back to the party, I'm blaming him."

The Ex was right. I was incapable of compromising.  But these people meant too much to me and I saw the situation as win/win.  He got to go home and I could return to the party and be with my family.

This was my sticking point.  This was probably what caused me the most grief in the marriage.  But I felt so incredibly shallow.  I knew, in my heart of hearts, that the Ex was a kind, loving, generous man with so much love and support to offer me.  He had always been there for me, when I really needed him.  He had held me in countless nights while I cried, or fretting, or worried, or just complained.  He was just a bit of a loner.  Was I willing to give up a man with all his good qualities because I wanted a friend to go drinking with?  After all, I wasn't going to be a wild party-girl forever...right?

Or was I allowed to want something too, no matter how frivolous and shallow and petty and silly?

I was never happier to see a holiday season end.  Merry freakin' Christmas.

You Never See the Bullet That Kills You

November 15th 2009.

That's the date that everything changed.

The Ex and I had been having problems - on and off for a few months.  We had had our biggest fight back in August.  Maybe I should have been more alarmed by how things were, but a lot of the shifts I attributed to the natural fading of the honeymoon glow combined with the fact that the Ex and I were living together, in a different city and away from home for the first time. 

If that's not a period of adjustment, I don't know what is.

There was more to it than that and the Ex saw it all - or perhaps he wasn't content to settle for what was.  Part of the problem seemed to be that we just couldn't communicate as effectively as we once did.  This was highly frustrating for two people who used to be able to talk endlessly for hours upon hours.  I would often come home from school, stressed and the fact that some minor chore hadn't been done would turn my mood for the worse.  The Ex can read me like a book; he can tell by how emotionless my face becomes, the slight downturn of my mouth, the hardening of my eyes and the deceptively cool, passive expression that I'm livid.

Being a talker, he'd always would want to talk about it.  His first girlfriend had always said never to go to bed angry.

Being a secretly tempermental person, I would want a cooling off period.  I was always afraid of saying something I would regret in a heated moment when I lost my temper.  I can be so very mean so I'm constantly reining myself in, checking myself.  I'm also very careful about the fights and issues I do choose to bring up.  Not everything is a big deal; not everything is worth fighting over.  Being ruled by emotional whims all my life, I've learned that some days, when my mood is black - one dirty sock left on the floor will trigger nothing short of an avalanche of anger.  Other days, I wouldn't notice an entire hamper of dirty laundry in the middle of the bedroom floor.  I've learned to wait, to see if the stormy feelings would pass - or not.

The Ex took my silence to mean I was avoiding the problem so he would press the issue.  I would further retreat.  He would question me, with the good intention of resolving things amicably.  I'd glower at him, feeling attacked and feeling like my wishes not to talk were not being respected.  We fed into each other's biggest annoyances.

I was sitting on the couch, laptop on the coffee table in front of me.  It was about 2 a.m.  The Ex had gone upstairs to try to get some sleep about an hour earlier but I heard his footfalls as they thumped down the steps, back into the living room. 

He was carrying himself in an odd manner.  "What's wrong?" I asked.  While he could read me like a book, I wasn't entirely clueless about him either.

The Ex hesitated for the briefest of a second.  I remember he looked at me and his whole body language changed.  He almost seemed defeated, like he had been caught red-handed and cornered.  He told me, as he walked towards me on the couch:

I'm not happy; I don't think this is working out...

I actually don't remember hearing his exact words but I remember feeling them.  I remember how this coldness hit me in the middle of my chest, right above the breastbone and radiated outwards.  My arms were heavy and numb; the outside world was buzzing a little in my ears.  The cheap Ikea lamp was suddenly too bright as to make the room hazy.  The Ex was sitting next to me on the couch now and I managed to croak out, "Are you asking for a separation...?"

He looked taken aback at my question, as if he had only planned on telling me he wasn't happy without further thought into the next step, but he replied in the affirmative.

I burst into tears. 

That's truly the only way to describe it.  Any ounce of pride or strength withered as I broke beneath the weight of the news.  The shock of it all struck me like a blow to the face; it left me reeling.  I was gasping, between sobs, "I can't believe this is happening. Oh my God. I can't believe this is happening."

I really couldn't.

This was all wrong.  All wrong.  It wasn't supposed to turn out this way.  When I married him, there wasn't a whisper of doubt.  I was sure.

Divorce is something that happens to other people.  Not me.  Not to us.  It never occurred to me that divorce was even a possibility.  Sure, we had our problems but I never thought it was that bad.  We had never had the screaming rows, we never threw things at the other - we were never blazingly angry at the other. 

But that's why it was deceptive.  You don't need a relationship to shatter under the hammer-like force of one fight. It can be ruined by a slow, steady erosion as well - a wind which slowly wipes away the details of why you were together in the first place.  Somehow, when I wasn't looking and paying attention, the Ex and I had drifted apart so badly that he wanted out.  They say you have to work hard to keep a marriage together.  I always thought that's what I had been doing: I cooked him his favourite meals, I did the laundry, I went grocery shopping.  I thought I was being a stellar example of a prototypical 1950s housewife, apron, iron and all.

But it's not what he wanted.  He didn't care about the carefully planned dinner or the immaculately folded shirted.  The Ex wanted an emotional companion; he would have been perfectly happy eating bagels for the rest of his life if it meant we could have stimulating and challenging discussions when he came home from work.  He would have been happy wearing rumpled T-shirts if it led to fewer chores and more free time.  I thought I could do both and have an efficient household and be a loving wife, but the former often left me totally exhausted and incapable of doing the latter.

What did I want? I wanted the life that was consciously stitched together.  Good clothes. Good food.  Good times.  I wanted us to feel assembled, pulled together; a young, ambitious power couple.  The lawyer and the doctor.  For whatever reason, I had assumed that once we moved to The Big City, the Ex would become an urban explorer with me.  We would go to museums, and cafes and see shows.  Fine dining would be involved, possibly shopping at quirky boutiques.  We would grow and blossom in this city together.  Instead, I found myself heading to cafes alone and going to off-Broadway shows with Robby.  Reflecting back on it now, I understand it was unfair of me to expect such a drastic change from the Ex - why would I have married one man and expect him to turn into somebody completely different?  He had never once, in the years we had been together, shown a disposition for constantly going out.  He was a homebody.  But he was my homebody and now I was losing him.

I cried for well over an hour, leaving The Ex to try to console me with the suddenly new limitations on our relationship.  How much could he hold me without it crossing the boundaries?  I didn't think I would ever stop bawling; I was shaking so hard, hunched over and hugging my knees.  A mountain of crumpled tissues built up around me.  I kept thinking back to the wedding, the 200 guests, the vows, the pomp and circumstance - what did all that mean in the end? Nothing?  How would I be able to face anybody, ever again?  The deep mortification that I had failed in such a spectacular and public manner loomed.  The label of ex-girlfriend doesn't carry the permanency of Divorcee. First Wife. Starter Marriage.

Failure.  That's what I was.  I couldn't even get my marriage right.

When I calmed enough to speak without hiccoughing, we discussed logistics.  We agreed nobody would move out; we even agreed to continue sharing a bed.  But most importantly - we agreed to seek counseling before anything drastic and final took place.  This calmed me the most; I was sure I could wrestle this relationship back from the brink.  You just don't toss away something special and we had something special.

If I hadn't been working hard and fighting for my marriage before - dammit, I was going to do it now.  I just hope it wasn't too late.

Wreck of the Day

Wreck of the Day

I was a wreck by the end of the summer.  I forced myself to constantly go out to movies, and pubs; restaurants and parties.  I made myself to do things, even though the only thing I wanted to do was lie there and die there.  Less thinking, more moving. People always say that time heals all wounds so I thought if I threw myself mindlessly into activities, enough time would pass and I would wake up one morning feeling like my old self.

If you go through my photo album from last summer, you'd be amazed at how much I did. I didn't turn anything down.  I drove myself to the point of exhaustion because that was the only way I could sleep at night.  I have flipped back through my calendar from those four months and there's nothing but scrawled dates and times, people and places.

But with the close of summer, and the approaching school year, I realized I wasn't feeling much better at all.  I worried that I was wearing out my welcome with my friends - after all, I had been so emo with them for months.  No - it was time to seek professional help before everybody decided they were fed up with my lack of discernible progress.  Apparently, you have to do more than just bide your time.  Apparently healing is an active process.

Like most people who are thinking about going into counseling, there's a moment where you have to check your pride.  Bess had never believed in therapy and head-shrinking; she thought depression was a load of baloney that you could overcome by sheer willpower alone.  Of course, this was a girl who was so mentally tough that she had actually watched a friend get shot and die in front of her and never even once considered talking to the grief counselors they had on staff.    A part of me felt incredibly soft for finally caving and admitting I needed help.

But so many others told me that I was actually pretty strong for admitting it and getting the help I needed to get over it and get on with my life.  In a way, it would be a lot easier to wallow eternally than to face all my issues directly.  Going to therapy means dredging up all the things from the murky bottom of your brain.  And if you want your therapy sessions to actually be productive, it means being scarily honest about what you want, what you feel and what you think. 

I think over the years, I'd gotten very good at lying to myself. 

So I entered therapy the way I do everything else in life: feet first, 100%, determined to be the best patient ever.  The first month of therapy I didn't do much beyond tell the therapist my sob story and cry.  I told her everything - about the Ex, John, Bess, Heather, Robby - and beyond.  Because what had shaken me wasn't just the loss of those relationships but how I was completely shook up at all.  Three years ago, I stepped into this new phase of my life confident and fearless.  And now I was quailing on a therapist's couch; I grieved as much for the loss of my imperviousness as the loss of people.  I went through boxes and boxes of tissue; it got to the point that I began bringing make up remover to my sessions so afterward I could wipe the raccoon-eyes off my face before heading to class.  I surprised myself at how much I could still feel about everything.  It had been months of repression and pushing everything aside; you would think something would have faded by now.

Every fear, concern, paranoia, wish, desire, thought, feeling was dragged kicking and screaming from the dark recesses of my mind and held up against the scrutinizing light of day.  There was something about saying these things aloud, with somebody else in the room whom I could trust entirely - it made everything more real.  But in making it more real, it made it flesh and blood and mortal instead of undefeatable skeletons and shadows lurking in my closet. 

There was the more sinister side of bringing everything to the forefront all at once, of course.  You list and then detail every disappointment and hurt of the past three years in a few hours and it suddenly seems unbearably overwhelming.  Having all my anxieties displayed on a table at once, like some poisonous feast, was one of the reasons why I had decided to kill myself in October.  It just all seemed to pointless; even if I could put all this energy into getting better, was it even worth it?

Even when you're at your own personal low, you can always go lower.  Life doesn't get better; you just solve one problem after another so it only seems like it's improving by comparison.  Instead, you're really just running on a treadmill that is slowly speeding up.

You could say I tripped and fell.

You can't reason with me when I'm feeling suicidal, which has to be extremely frustrating to those people in my life who are coldly and robotically logical.  Rational thoughts and well-timed arguments don't work because I'm driven by something purely emotional and primal.  It's this maelstrom of energy I need to get out of me.  I get annoyed when people attempt those tried and true phrases; I know they mean well and I know they don't know anything else to say.  I know those phrases are tried and true for a reason.  I know words are sometimes a poor substitute for a hug or a physical presence but in this day of texting and instant messaging and emails - it's sometimes all we have.  But it feels like I'm screaming at the top of my lungs and all people can do is paste fake plastic smiles on their faces.

Brock was the man who gave me the words that gave me pause.  He was the only one who knew of my plans and he said very simply, "I don't agree with it, but I understand."  He didn't try to force feed me unicorns and happiness, hope wrapped up in ribbons.  He didn't try to spin me 'round til I found the light at the end of the tunnel. He wasn't condescending; he didn't try to guilt trip me into staying.  It can feel like those who are not suicidal are flaunting their 'happy to be alive' status when they perkily tell me that there is so much worth living for.  You can tell me until you're blue in the face but I will never see it, I will never process it and I will never take it to heart. Sunshine can be unbearable for those hung over; I felt hung over by my existence and the last thing I wanted or needed was somebody yanking the curtains back. Brock just let me rant and rail until it was exhaustion that took me to sleep instead of my own hand taking me to a deeper peace.

Like a dutiful patient, I told my therapist about my decision.  Alarmed, she referred me to a physician, who prescribed Wellbutrin.  Suicide became less of a pressing need and was relegated to the background, like a dull buzzing in the recesses of my mind.  Any extremes in affect was blunted; the drug just didn't let me get helplessly sad.  I don't think I'll ever completely banish these thoughts and feelings.  I suspect they stem from a deeper need of mine to be in control of my ultimate destiny, but it's no longer driving me at 100 miles an hour over the edge of the cliff.  My foot might be on the gas pedal some days but I know how to brake - even if it's at the last minute.

Inhale

My pillow misses your scent
Aftershave pulling memories through the woven thread
Mingling with soap on skin on a Sunday morning
It's the only part of your touch that lingers
When the ghost of you slips from my grasp
Into the hurrying dawn

Once Bitten, Forever Shy: Part 5

Part 5: You Deserved Better, Maggie

Of all the relationships and friendships I've had end in the past few years, this one is probably the one that I deserved the most.  The details aren't important and probably would be far too disjointed to explain fully.  The key thing to understand is that I lied and betrayed one of my closest friends.  The intentions were good, or at least I was telling myself this; I told myself I was protecting her.  In the end, Maggie was rightfully hurt that I underestimated her own strength and resilience.  I should have told her the truth and then let her decide what to do with the information and dealt with the fall out, one way or the other.


Maggie forgave me but it was clear we could never go back to our tightly knit bond.  Some things, while forgiveable, may never be forgettable.  Some things strike the very core of a relationship and an infinite number of apologies won't help.  I'm Canadian and I say "I'm sorry" as part of my national greeting; even those proffuse offerings will never fix my friendship with Maggie.

As children, we're often told by our parents to go apologize for something hurtful we've done and just as often, the parents of the corresponding child will tell their own child, "Ok, say it's all right and now you guys go back and play." 

"I'm sorry for pulling on your ponytail."
"I'm sorry for wrecking your sand castle."
"I'm sorry for taking your toy."

But as adults, "I'm sorry" isn't a magical incantation that will erase the wrongdoings of the past.  We're taught to say I'm sorry and too often we assume that we'll be forgiven and things will go back to the way they were.  But this time,  I can't run back to the playground with her.  No take-backs.  No resets. No restarts.  No reloads.

But since I deserved it, I'm not asking for your pity.  It's a hard lesson to learn. It's a hard friendship to lose.

I think all this comes with the territory of being an adult.