On hearing of your marriage, my lovely friends and family asked if I would like them to sabotage your big day. They had a variety of ideas – all messy, all imaginative, noisy and colourful. Despite being tempted, I settled instead for crying pitifully, alone in bed, lamenting what should have been.
In our six years together, we too had planned our wedding, often with great clarity. Yet, when it came to the many times I was certain and ready to move on to the next step in our relationship, you never were. You always needed more time – time to adjust, time to process, time on your own, time to work, time for space …
And because I loved you with my whole heart, I indulged you.
But now, less than six months after we broke up, you have married someone else. How could this be? What did I mean to you in the end – or even in the beginning? Was I too loyal, too accommodating? Did I love you too much? Does “she” have less cellulite, better taste in music? Is she more articulate? Does she smell sweeter? Is she a fabulous cook or a whore in bed? I cannot allow myself to dwell on these questions for fear I will be irreparably damaged by the lingering shadow of “Why her and not me?”
Despite the crushing sense of rejection, I want you to know that I still have every little thing you gave me on our journey together: empty perfume bottles, train tickets, Post-it notes with inane, dull messages, entrance tickets for exhibitions, concert ticket stubs, even sweet wrappers and nine diaries, mostly filled with musings and angst-ridden ramblings during, about and after our love.
Alongside these, I have the burden of the memories of the things you said: how you felt beneath me, how you smelled and tasted, magical places we went together – memories that are so dear to me I can conjure them close in a breath. I cannot imagine that you have managed to reclaim or reshape these with someone else, or that you have managed to erase me from your past, although I have no doubt you will be trying to.
But before that happens, I want you to remember that you walked away from someone whose heart skipped a beat when she saw you, who relished just being with you, even doing nothing at all, who happily sat with most of your bad habits without much complaint, who, quite frankly, would have done anything for you. This for me is the most difficult part – I hope that I can lose the surety of how I felt about you, or at least lose the idea of what I thought I was to you; or, even worse, who I thought you were to me.
Enough of this wallowing. I have brushed myself off in true stoic style (you would be proud of my resilience) and enrolled myself in speed dating, joined a night class and begun volunteering. I have gutted my flat with a view to selling it and finding a new home, somewhere your body has never lain. I have taken up running and swimming.
Yesterday I even removed your numbers from my phone. “Are you sure you want to delete xxxxx?” it asked. If only it were so simple. But I am hopeful that I can one day move on to someone who deserves and cherishes my ability to love with my whole heart and who offers it back, someone who can help me see our time together for what it really was.
At my best, I hope you have found the love of your life who makes you feel deep peace and joy in who you are, both together and apart. I loved you too much to want less for you. And at my worst, well, I’ll leave that to my friends to plan for me.
Anonymous
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