*The Blog preceding this also pertains to this subject matter*
I’ve only been in love twice in my life.
The first time I fell in love, I was 18. It was the kind of all consuming love that I had read about in Nora Robert’s books. When it ended, I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to have a normal life. It’s the time I learned that Depression is a real thing. I swore to myself, after I pulled myself out of that hole, I would never open up that much again in my life.
And I didn’t. For more than 10 years, every relationship that I became invovled in was either someone I knew wasn’t good for me, or had no chance of working out. This worked for me, because I could always, in the back of mind, justify why it didn’t work out. Yes, I have gotten my cake on on numerous occasions, but I never baked it. It was store bought. I didn’t invest any Blood, Sweat, or Tears in it.
About a year ago, while walking out of my apartment on a rare night out, my downstairs neighbor said hi. He was so damn cute. How excited was I! We talked for quite some time, and then I went on about my business. Imagine my surprise when I saw him the next day, and then the next, and the next. We talked about any and everything. There was no awkwardness, we just kinda fell into each other. We spent weekends together, he slept over it was just . . . Nice.
One day, I asked him what we were doing:
We’re Just Friends right? (Yes)
You know I cherish our relationship, right? (Yes)
Are things going to be weird? (No)
The one time I had decided to define something, it had backfired. He then got married (a whole ‘nother blog) and evenually moved away. Part of me was sad, that he had been able to move on so quickly. He mattered. At the time, i didn’t know exactly how much. I moved on to a purely sexual relationship with a complete idiot, and all was well again.
Two months ago, he showed up again. The marriage was over, he was stationed out of town, but could we hang out when he got back? Sure, I said. Again, thinking nothing of it, I mentioned that if he needed a place to stay when he got back into town, I had a room. The offer was purely based on my monetary situation, and not anything else.
Call me when you get back into town? (Yes).
Can I call you tomorrow? (Yes)
Sure. That part of me that missed him fluttered a little bit. . . .
Late night phone calls, 5 and 6 hours at a time. Calls on each other’s lunch breaks. Thanking God that he had Verizon, because my minutes would have been shot. Text messages during the day, just wanted to talk to each other. We kinda fell into each other again……
As the days got closer to his return, every conversation took a slight turn. I wrote verbose emails about my feelings to my friends, hoping that finally, Finally, FINALLY, this was going to work. I opened my heart all the way, being the person that he had loved (yes loved) from the beginning. Never stepping to the side, never pushing my feelings to the background. Because. He. Asked. Me. Too.
I gave parts of me that I had forgotten I had.
If I get stationed somewhere else, would you wait for me? (Yes)
When I get back, can we start looking at houses? (Yes)
If I fall in love with you again, would that bother you? (No)
Anyone who knows me knows that I am so selfish I live in a two bedroom, two bathroom apartment. I opened up enough to let him LIVE in my home. I loved him enough to open my personal space. I don’t think he will ever understand how much of a sacrifice that was for me. To have fully let him in my house. To make changes to my life, to accomodate him.
For 6 days, I was the happiest that I had been since I was 18.
Late nights, and Early Mornings.
One night, while cuddling on the couch, he said, This will be the last night we do this. . . .
Are you leaving? (Yes)
Was it something I did? (No)
You’re just not comfortable? (Yes)
Does this mean I’m never going to hear from you again? (No)
We stayed on the couch . . . I woke up, with music in my head. And a heaviness in my heart. I made a CD, that I asked him to listen to, and walked out of my apartment, knowing that when I got back, he wouldn’t be there.
I cried so hard, I didn’t know if I was going to be able to look my students in the face. My heart hurt so bad, because I knew that was the end of us. I was right. In the end, he was probably lying. He was probably using me. He was probably a jerk. But I know he loved me. He Told Me He Loved Me.
But sometimes, Love Just Isn’t Enough . . . . (Please read this for the Musical Interpretation of our relationship)
I lived in a fog for about a month. Michelle came to get me. If it hadn’t been for her, I don’t know what I would have done. The half of my apartment that had been touched by him, stayed that way. I couldn’t look at my couch, or walk in the room that he left. I couldn’t walk in my second bathroom, and see the lint roller he left on the counter, or the cleaning supplies he left under the sink. I couldn’t walk in my kitchen, and see the skillet he left on the stove. Or the mugs he left in the sink.
They were all a reminder that he had been here. Had touched my life, and left me without an explanation. Every time I walk into my apartment, it doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It’s just the place that he ruined. Judge me if you want, but that’s how it feels to me.
My new roommate moved in today . . . It’s more her place than it is mine at this point. The part of me that cherished this place, that thought it was a safe place, where no one could hurt me, is gone anyway.
But I Love(d) Him . . . . .