2003-05-06 - 10:40 a.m.
What's really happening:
I left J last night. He called and I just couldn't lie. I couldn't pretend we were cool. That it would be fine for him to come over, watch Everwood, and crash in my bed. Nope. Even with no sexual contact, nope. I already slept on the couch Saturday when he was over. Couldn't do it again.
So we're done. And I'm split in two; one piece is grieving for what we had, the other is grateful for my freedom, reveling in my options, feeling like the world just opened up.
We'd already broken up several times, so I've done some of this before. I've taken his toothbrush and shaving gel out of the bathroom. I've pulled down some of the pictures of the two of us, all of them except the tiny shot from our first week. With his arm tight on my shoulders, my face framed by the chef's coat collar, it's a happy shot. It's when we were best.
This kind of grief is familiar; it's what you experience when an older person dies, someone with a terminal illness. You've watched them change, watched their body slip away in small fragments. You've seen their minds disjoint for a minute or an hour. And part of you is full of joy when they pass on because of the absence of pain. Now they're fully themselves again.
It's final. It's necessary. And lord, is it right.
Comments: Speak your piece!
former / latter