I got a small cypher of folks I trust and confide in. They know, or have an idea, of what I’m going through. With other folks, I’m not really sure how to address it.
When I say “my girlfriend and I split up,” it feels light and hollow, like thin plywood painted to look like a brick. You think it’s going to be heavy, but then it’s like nothing.
It’s just not good enough, but I can’t bare to give more. I don’t even really want to write this, or make it public. Everything on the net is so cheap and transitory. But I have to do something. Because the truth is, I am crushed. I am broken.
So I write, and share.
I didn’t just break up with my girlfriend. I lost my other half. A woman I laughed with and prayed with and lounged with, the woman I wanted to grow old with, the woman whose love made every other accomplishment in my life shine with added meaning and importance.
I have never felt about anyone the way I felt, and feel, about her. Never before been so open, so vulnerable. And I am not a person who holds back. Quite the opposite; the last several years have been somewhat of a marathon of heartbreak, as I’ve gotten deeply intimate with several women who turned out, for whatever reason, to just not be the right one. So when I say that it got deep with this one, deeper than any other… it was major. It was what they write songs about. It was what other people see and long for. It was what that jolly elderly couple has. It was like when you were in love as a teenager, but grown and sexy.
And now it’s over. And I feel empty.
Not the kind of empty like, this person took something from me that I’ll never get back: time. I’ve had that a few times.
Not the kind of empty like, this person used me and peaced out. I’ve had that a few times.
This is the kind of empty where you stand by helpless and watch as the most wonderful thing in your life slips out of your hands. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do. The cruelty of the fates has come for you, and the dose is already measured.
The kind of empty that, should you be fortunate/unfortunate enough to make it to old age, will linger in your twilight years, haunting your stories and late nights.
The kind you may never be able to fill. Better to cover it and stitch it up.
Chances are, they won’t even notice the scars.