For nine months and two weeks, I was in love.
Actually, it was longer than that, because we were in love before we ever admitted it to each other. And even if I knew exactly when it had started, I still couldn't put a number on it, because I'm still in love - with who she used to be? who I thought she was? what we could have been? I'm not sure. You don't need to be sure to be in love.
But for nine months and two weeks, I was in a relationship. I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to say that. When you've reached the age of twenty-six without ever having been on a date, you don't expect your best friend to tell you over dinner one evening that she's in love with you. She'd gone through a short phase a few months earlier where she wondered if she might be attracted to women, but I thought she'd established that she really wasn't. And even during that time, she never even hinted she might have romantic feelings for me. Of course, I never asked. I don't know what terrified me more . . . that she might say she did, or that she might say she didn't.
I knew, in those early days of our relationship, that things were moving too fast. Perhaps if I'd been more experienced, it wouldn't have been such a problem, but this was my first time being half of a couple. I wanted to savor it, to be sweet and silly and do all the things I missed out on when I was sixteen. I wanted to walk hand in hand, weave flowers into her hair, feed each other strawberries dipped in melted chocolate. I wanted to fantasize about our dream houses and dream lives as if money were no object. I wanted romance. Instead I got smacked with more reality than I'd ever been faced with in my life: we visited an apartment complex, just to check it out, and next thing I knew we were shopping for furniture and planning our monthly budget. She could tell I was a bit overwhelmed and asked if I wanted to back out, but I insisted I wanted to go forward. I didn't want to disappoint her.
I never got over feeling cheated that I never got to be courted properly. Perhaps that's a silly thing to want, at my age, to have such a craving for romance and cuddles, but I admit I was resentful. I was resentful, too, as we discovered that our differences were greater than we'd thought. When I saw how big the living room of our apartment was, I rejoiced that there would be room for plenty of bookcases; she exclaimed what a great place it would be to entertain guests. She kept trying to convince me that I don't hate to entertain. Well, I do hate to entertain. I can say I don't, I can pretend I don't, I can suck it up once in a while and help throw a party and do a fine job of it, and if you ask me afterwards if I had a good time, I'll say yes, because I managed to make the best of it. But was it worth having to prepare and clean up afterwards? Not in my opinion, though I was willing to do it for her sake. Is "making the best of it" how I really wanted to spend my afternoon? Not by a long shot. Again: chalk it up to the things we do for love. She never wanted a living room walled with bookcases; she wanted to hang pictures, to display her photographs and keepsakes. She endured the books for my sake. I don't know what hurt me more, that she mentioned her gracious tolerance of my bookcases nearly every time we argued, or that it wasn't good enough that I merely assisted and endured her entertaining as a service of love, rather than enjoying it for its own sake with a relish akin to her own.
What can I say about the one I loved, and still do? She is one of the most genuinely caring souls I have ever known. I'm not the only one to have turned to her compassion and wisdom in a time of crisis, and she has a subtle and quiet intelligence, too, that, after my years growing up in a family of flashy intellects, never fails to humble and astound me. She has a voice like pink strawberry cream, a gentle balm of a voice that could coax a wounded wildcat out of hiding. I'm a naturally brooding soul, prone to black humor and even blacker humours, and she was the yang to my yin: ever a child at heart, naturally predisposed to find the good in everything and everyone. Sometimes it got on my nerves how good she was: how family-oriented, how conventional in a lot of ways, but I loved her for it at the same time. I could not despise her for living in the light, just because I was myself more attuned to the shadows.
She cast the light into my life. She loved butterflies and the color pink. I would keep on the lookout for gifts to bring home to her: anything with butterflies, anything pretty and sparkly. She loved little "treasure boxes" for jewelry and other keepsakes. For Christmas I got her a Payless Shoes gift card. She had a special love for new shoes (something I've never cared less about): one of my fondest memories is of her stroking a beautiful pair of pink flats she got on sale with the gift card, and saying to herself, "Pretty-pretty-pretty-pretty-pretty-pretty-pretty." I loved to bring beauty to her life. I loved to make her smile. She did the same for me, surprising me with little gifts and treats.
We had a home together. I wish I'd appreciated it more at the time. I didn't know much about caring for a home, but I was learning. Sometimes it seemed she was proud of me. Other times it seemed nothing satisfied her - not what I did around the house, not what I said or didn't say, not my acting naturally and not my aiming to please. And the more confused I got, the more I just did nothing at all - so then she legitimately had something to complain about.
A couple of months ago some health issues she has began to act up even more than usual, and perhaps it was the added pressure from this challenge that finally drove us to the point of no return. I'm still not sure exactly what happened. She hasn't told me what, specifically, it was that caused her to give up on me, and most of our conversations have degenerated into her ranting into my ear about how sick I am and how much I've damaged her, while I just listen, wondering who this is that has become of the one I loved. I don't doubt that I've made some mistakes, but I don't believe I'm as awful as she makes me out to be, nor do I believe I deserve to be yelled at all over again for something hurtful I did back in October. I'm afraid that she's on the verge of a major health crisis, that this isn't really my sweetheart talking but some misbegotten foulness of her weakened physiology. Everyone who knows her that I talked to shortly before this happened told me that they knew she wasn't herself, but they couldn't really do anything to try to help her until she decided she wanted help.
So where does that leave me? Worried sick . . . and heartbroken. I don't regret loving her . . . how could I? She is, more than anyone I've ever known, worthy to be loved; the only fault would be in not loving her. . . . But none of this is worth losing her, and it's worse when I think how hurt and angry she must have felt to have wanted me out of her life. I remember how happy she was, our first days together, when she said she wanted us to be together forever. . . . When did that change, Bug? What did I do to kill that joy in you, to take away that hope? Tears come to my eyes when I think about our sweetest memories, and when I think about all the plans we had. In the words of one of her favorite singers, John Denver, "It's such an incredible loss / It's all the things you'll never do / And all the dreams that will never come true."
I keep seeing her everywhere. Not her, but her essence. Things people say, songs on the radio. . . . I was taking a walk, a route I've done dozens of times, and I noticed, for the first time, a stained-glass window with a butterfly design. Everywhere I look I see pictures of butterflies, or the word "butterfly." I've been accutely aware of butterflies for over a year now, and I don't think I've ever had this many butterfly images coming on me at once. One of her favorite movies, an old classic, showed up in my mother's Netflix recommends this week; my nineteen-year-old sister spontaneously expressed a desire to see another of my sweetheart's favorites - a mediocre (by most accounts; I haven't seen it) children's movie from the nineties. I called the bank to report my change of address, and the song that played while I was on hold was one that I burned to a CD I gave her on Valentine's Day. My mother previewed an educational video she was considering showing to her students, and one of the film crew happened to share my sweetie's rather uncommon last name. Whatever I do, I keep stumbling across things that remind me of her.
Worse, I keep talking to her in my head. Hey, Bug, my brother got green streaks in his hair. They look pretty good. You'd be proud of me, Bug, I've been working about eight hours a day most days grading papers for Mom, I'm sleeping six to eight hours a night and not crying all the time anymore, and after the first few days I was here I went back to eating, and showering without being reminded, and so forth, and on Saturday I was up and working before anyone else was even awake, and I've even been helping out around the house too, and except for my still crying a little once in a while and sleeping with the lamp on at night because I hate to be sad in the dark, I'm acting pretty normal, aren't you proud of me? We saw this movie Bug, I just loved it, I can't wait to share it with you, except - never mind. Anyways, it was called Defending Your Life, and it was funny and thoughtful at the same time, and the end made me cry. That man was just like me, Bug, held back by his fears and sputtering his pathetic little shallow excuses, and don't you wish life could be like the movies and too little too late could still be good enough? Oh, Bug, you missed it, it was so funny - I said the funniest thing the other day. We had a family meeting, and Mom asked what we all wanted for Easter dinner, and her partner said "Carry on," and I said "Carrion's good," and everyone laughed. I'm thinking of planting a garden in the backyard; would it be too transparently sappy if I said I wanted to plant a butterfly garden? And I've got this other new project, Bug. You'll never guess. I was a little nervous about telling you, because you reacted so negatively when I told you I wanted to keep my personal journal on the computer instead of on paper just because I can type faster than I can write. But anyways, I've started a blog; isn't that exciting? The first post is all about you, and how much I miss you, and I was honest about the bad stuff, but mostly I talked about loving you and missing you and being worried about you and how I miss you so much, I talk to you in my head. And after that I'll write thoughts and viewpoints and essays and reviews and whatever else occurs to me to write. Won't that be fun, Bug? . . .
. . . Bug?
