Broken Up, but Not Broken
FYI: Moving forward, posts like this one (love life/dating) will only be available in THE GURU, my 21+ blog.
Just shy of a year in my attempt to be a doting girlfriend and future wife, I find myself single again. Does it suck? Yes. Well, kinda. It was necessary… beyond that, even. It was a long time coming, and the impending breakup became less and less about the ‘why’ and more about the ‘when’. As I write this, I’m approximately 10-hours into my new, official single life and making amends with that. Numbers have been blocked, social media has been unfollowed, pictures have been deleted, and my heart now possesses a big ol’ open wound that is already seeming to form a protective layer of scar tissue, starting the preparation process to love again. Because as always, I prevail. I introspect. I prepare for what’s next in grace and patience.
Last night, when we ended the phone call (yes, we broke up via phone instead of face-to-face as I ‘planned’), I cried my fucking eyes out. The tears did not form because of the loss of the relationship. The tears flowed from a place of grief and worry that I’d never find exactly what I was looking for. At this point in time, I feel my dating pool is rather shallow, and it’s created a fierce streak of scarcity mindset—so, I cried over the lost opportunity for partnership. Doing this life shit alone feels like a curse sometimes, and I have a fear of walking this path solo for the rest of my time here on Earth.
For (most of) the duration of the relationship, I grappled with the question of whether or not I was settling. Because while there were things I loved about this man, there were 5 more things I did not like. For every pro, there were more than a few cons, and nothing too crazy, either—just the way we both lived, wanted to live, how we took care of ourselves, and operated in day-to-day life. Those tiny differences, and the unwillingness or inability to change them, adds up. Hell, enough ants can incapacitate a mammal. The general compatibility was not there, and I knew it for a long time. The reason why I held onto those pros and things I loved was because I thought the Universe was teaching me a lesson.
I thought Universe was showing me what it feels like to love someone deeper than surface level; to love someone beyond my superficial expectations; beyond my fickle demands of love. If what I was looking for in the past led to the same outcome, I flirted with the idea that a completely new approach and situation would create different outcomes. This love was nothing like what I was used to. This man was nothing like what I wanted. This relationship was nothing like what I expected. And I chose to embrace the newness as opposed to shying away from it. I thought the Universe was showing me that love comes in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors—colors that look like madness when apart, but blend into beautiful hues together.
I thought the hues would create a piece of art meant to be hung on the walls of my home in complete adoration of something that was built and turned into beauty.
I thought this experience was teaching me new colors.
There were many times this belief was validated, too—when I found myself at the end of my rope with our incompatibility, some occurrence would happen that would confirm that I was loved despite our differences. There was constant validation that love at the foundation would carry us forward. Now I wonder if the rainbow I saw in us was a mere iridescent reflection of the beauty I have in myself.
Did I create color?
Did I create these colors because I was afraid of never finding it again? Without knowing the answer, I must give the relationship credit, because I am absolutely positive there were colors at first. I was not always so annoyed with his presence. I was not always so reluctant to see him. I was not always so disgusted by his habits. I was not always so unsatisfied, so fed up, so discontent with circumstance. Perhaps there were colors at first, and over time, they faded to grey.
And as I stare at the now-grey pallets of paint in front of me, I must ask myself if it was actual, authentic, pure love. What is love if it runs cold, dry, and pale? What is love if I am too ashamed to hang its colors on my walls? If I struggle to recognize it as something I’m proud of? What is love if I feel I need to hide it? What is love if I can’t see the beauty in it, no matter how many paces I step back, how many degrees I tilt my head to alter the view, or how squinted I make my eyes?
If this love we created was meant to be art in my life’s museum, then why did I feel the incessant desire to close off its wing to the public?
I let it overstay its welcome.
We often hear advice about how some friendships, and some people, are meant for certain seasons of our lives. The concept of a friendship having an expiration date from the moment it crosses my path never felt right to me, but here I am—in real time—trying to enjoy cereal with curdled milk. I figure it’s time to finally dump it down the drain, and I trust that this is a road-opener for whatever’s next.
I’m sure you’re wanting to know the big ‘why’, and I can assure you it’s nothing drastic. There was no big incident that pushed me away. There was no major betrayal that could create a more interesting story. It was merely an ocean of small drops that didn’t make a difference in our relationship until they formed together and tried to drown me. Even the greatest of swimmers cannot wade in the waters of sheer incompatibility. In the best of circumstances, I feel he and I could be great friends in the future should our paths cross again. I could never deny our platonic compatibility.
But for now, however, I feel the Universe is telling me to completely wash (and dry!!) my hands, button my boots, and start fuckin’ walking… even though I was late to the journey, it doesn’t negate the destination.
-Z