There he goes, out the door, yet again. Down the street, into his car, and to the airport, where he is going to board a plane fly far away from me. I can’t help but sigh, because I’m supposed to miss him, but in moments like these, which are still tense with our mutual discomfort – it’s not coming to me.
I’m struggling with trying to remember how I got here in the first place. I’m afraid that if I replay those first few memories of us that those memories will become warped and faded. Yet I cling to them because without them I’ll utterly crumble, and then he’ll be gone forever. I try to paste those first kisses and bright smiles over today’s argument, which is still tossing around in the front of my mind and gripping at my heart with a grimace on my face.
I can’t believe he’s left me here. It’s easy for my mind to wander, to think about all the other men, both real and imagined, who never would have done this. Although, I wonder – is this inevitable? I haven’t dated any of them exclusively for a year. Are arguments just natural? Well, of course arguments are natural, but this feeling is so strange, so unwanted. My fairy tale impression of what love is supposed to look like does not accommodate sour feelings, abandonment, discord. Although, the logical part of me that hasn’t been entirely fooled by Disneyland charades of romance knows: yes, we argue. We’re just supposed to get through it.
It’s hard to think about how we’re going to get through when he’s far away and I’m sitting here, stewing. It’s hard to see the other side, to predict whether or not the other side will take us back to lilting moments of sex and romance or if this is just the beginning of the end. What if he resents me forever? What if this is how it will always be, until it ends? What if he disappoints me until I can’t take it anymore? It’s easy to fixate on that. It’s not even that I’m a pessimist – quite the opposite, actually. But deep in my heart, buried beneath my insecurities, is the sneaking suspicion that he is not the one and this was a waste of my time.
It’s a fluke. I tell myself it’s a fluke. I try to rewind to better times, to when my head and heart were filled with dreams of us against the world, together forever, a family, a happy home, a future of fantasies come true. Or was I naive. Or am I being too hard on myself. I’m trying to be realistic, but what is reality anyways? Oh, I could dive down that rabbit hole for hours, days, if only it would distract me from the fact that things have gotten hard, and I don’t want them to be hard. Being in love is supposed to be easy.
But fuck that – I know better than that. Believing that this is supposed to be easy is just another trap. It’s an excuse to exit as soon as possible. I know that all my friends want me to be with the perfect man, but that’s cruel of them because the perfect man doesn’t exist. There will always be moments of pain in relationships – those moments should just be balanced out by the joy of loving someone else. Of course he’s imperfect. He’s allowed to be imperfect. To be moody, unstable, hypocritical. I don’t know who put this idea in my head that he has to be ideal all the time. To hold him to that standard is ruthless.
However, as I am constantly reminded: where is the line? At what point is my dignity diminishing because I let him treat me like this. Because I let him say these things to me. Because I let him leave me here like this. How much am I supposed to fight before it’s too much for him?
I just want something to believe in. To cling to. To hold onto. Something that will make me feel safe in the night, even when he’s gone and I’m all alone. He doesn’t have to be perfect, he just has to be good. I don’t know how to tell this to him yet again without it sounding like a chore or a nag because that’s what all this fighting has done to us – the force of my love can’t break through the din of our discontent.
When do I walk away. When do I say enough. Where is the mathematical formula that I can plug my emotions into so I can make the best decisions for myself without abandoning something that has the potential to nurture me for the rest of my life time. How do I know. How can I avoid regrets. I already regret being mired in this indecision. I want to be strong, but I am feeble. Where is he when I need him the most.
Why won’t he tell me he loves me. I know he loves me, but knowing isn’t good enough. I need to hear it. All day, every day. I can never hear it enough. I can never feel it enough. Why doesn’t he feel buoyant when I tell him I love him? Why isn’t it good enough?
Time is my enemy as I wait for him to come back while my emotions slowly rot inside the cave of my stomach. I am a woman in decay against the forces of nature, yearning for something better but pitted against the twin demons of fear and the absolute unknowingness of being here, by myself, unsure of what to do next.