So I guess I have good Spidey senses. I’ll take that as my sole comfort.
Today, as my boyfriend emeritus (as I’d taken to calling him, since he still held an esteemed position even though he was no longer living with me) and I were talking through our cancelled weekend plans, we stumbled into our breakup. Or rather, I said what was clearly being unsaid. That it was important that we get together so we can officially let go.
“Yeah, something like that.”
Pause. More pause. Fumbled words. Statements. Defensive statements (that was me). Rapid definition of what’s left to do: Sell his piano. Go through storage and sort out what he wants to keep and give away what he doesn’t. Go through the apartment, shelf by painstaking shelf, to carefully select the belongings (the endless belongings ) of his that are still here. The belongings that kept me in the place of Maybe, while he had moved somewhere new, and somewhere old, and started the process of starting over. While I stayed in stasis. Hoping. Waiting for a miracle I really did know wasn’t coming. But his company at a distance was comforting, and lulling, and I found myself in a fantasy daily that maybe….
Oh, god, the tears. Heartbreak at 43 is no less brutal than in one’s 20s. In some ways more brutal. I have less hope of ever feeling shiny and new in love, less time to find that “life partner” since so much of my life has been lived. I have to break my son’s heart with the final news, and hope I can make it all right. My boyfriend is the only man my son remembers ever having lived with. My son has known him longer than he hasn’t. My son still corrects me, calling the three of us a “family,” whenever I refer to the two of us that way. I die from the ache, the failure.
I wrote a book about heartbreak. I’m supposed to know how to do this. But right now I’m in the place where I feel exposed, and ugly, and discarded, and hopeless. It sounds so dramatic to write it all down that way, but that’s the only words I have for the unsettling nausea that has taken root in my stomach, the lump in my throat I can hardly breathe around, the terrible vise-grip that is clutching my heart, in a literal way, squeezing anxious fibrillation in the center of my being.
I wonder how much more I will have to give up before I can see the world plain around me, and begin again, again.
I’m so tired of losing my way. And so worried about losing my faith.