Do I regret loving? No. Despite how the last 8 years ended, I regret not one minute, nor one hope.
I know one does not die of a broken heart. I have experience in this. I have the inner scars where my heart still lives, still beats. Falters, at times. But like all scars, some small part of me died as each hope died. With each evidence of lack of love, of not understanding, of not stepping up to show, to be something stilled and quieted inside. Yet I regret not one hope, or moment.
I am okay, mostly. Usually. I know he does not even look back – even briefly. I know he slammed and bolted and secured and buried that doorway on leaving. I know he looks beside and congratulates himself. I know many of the things I asked him to do with me, nd he declined, were the first things he did when he was no longer with me. That amuses me in a dark way.
I know he looks ahead and with whom he is. Only. He does not wonder, he does not ponder, he does not look, consider and it is how he has survived and will survive. It is, and ever has been, his way.
But it is not mine. His birthday approaches. Last year he did not even open the card or the gift I made the time to organise and find for him. In a fit of pique he gave it back, unopened. Yes. He was at times emotionally, bitterly cruel. That too was his way.
Firsts bring moments to the forefront of my mind. My everyday flashes with shared moments. I know these will fade. I know they will never entirely go away. That’s okay. I can and do live with that already. So this is just some more of the same.
I do okay and when noone else is around my knees give way under me and I lose all motivation, all will to do anything, and my eyes flow liquid. Secretly, privately, alone – I grieve. There is a time for grieving. And this is one of mine. And it is myself I grieve for. When the world becomes almost too much to bear, to whom do I go? Who can I turn to to hold me who knows that while I am yet strong, I am also and still me. Who cares enough, who understands all of me, and accepts all of me enough to give me that.
So when there is noone else around, I let this all out so I might hold the pieces of what I once was back into a recognisable mask when anyone and all others are around.
I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity.
— Gilda Radner