Shattered Glass
Image by Simon Giesl | Pixabay
I can tell you the exact moment the glass shattered. When the realization of who he was and how he operated - so different from the way I did - hit me so hard it would only be a matter of time until we unraveled as quickly as we’d come together.
I remember the innocence of the conversation; just enough revealed that I slowly arranged the pieces and saw what was in front of me behind the charm and heart-tugging smile.
Behind the words that now feel empty.
It was a past and a lifestyle that plenty could live with. It didn’t make him a monster; simply someone I no longer saw as my forever.
I wanted more in my life partner.
It would take me months to break up with him. Eventually a second incident would snap another definitive chalk line in my mind, and a third incident would open the door for me to end it.
And it would be longer still until I stopped finding my way into his bed and him into mine. I would miss him, the hope in my heart would spill over, and I would ask to see him. It was an unhealthy cycle of over-explanation and spiraling on my part as I processed and validated my decision out loud, beating him down with each word.
When it did end, when we finally severed it for good and moved on, it would be because he met a girl that same month. A girl he would fall in love with – just as he had with me and the girl before I came along. In swiping on her, he no longer needed me to fill his emptiness.
As she shifted into his life, he quickly stepped out of mine. The break was welcomed; needed.
They would date for more than a year while I struggled and grew at work in a new role, continued to fail at relationships, and achieved a decade-long dream. It was a year of growth for me. A year of empowerment. Of meeting more people who filled my heart with joy and support, even if romantic love never seemed to fall into place.
I was understanding myself; taking leaps when I could. Embracing where calculated and uncalculated moves took me. Guarding my heart and opening it up; simultaneously it often seemed.
Nearly a year would pass without us exchanging words – until I ran into him unexpectedly while out with friends. He would text me that night and through our exchanges he would reveal he no longer was dating anyone.
And in a short time, he began reaching out more. Through his messages I recognized the helplessness in his words. His wounds were fresh, and I recognized in that moment that he was drowning.
Any anger or resentment melted away as I knew that feeling all too well – the way I felt for months after him. The mind-numbing pain of longing for someone you love. It wasn’t my place – but I couldn’t walk away as he went under.
It was innocent for weeks. Texts only. Then video messages. Then with time, a get together over French wine. And while I didn’t see it at the time, he was slowly wrapping himself around me, prepared to sink me in an effort to keep himself afloat. It likely wasn’t malicious, but merely survival on his part.
It was a whirlwind of a connection I missed, intimacy I craved, and a familiarity that brought comfort. And yet behind all the short-lived highs was a quiet disappointment in myself. What I failed to accept was that while he was still my familiar, I was no longer his.
“What I failed to accept was that while he was still my familiar,
I was no longer his. ”
In a normal world, I tell myself it would have never happened. But nothing about the world was normal at the time. I question if I used that as an excuse to rationalize my behavior that even I didn’t fully understand.
For moments in time while the world stood still, and then weeks later when it became loud - begging to be heard - he was there.
He was my human drug, with fixes of him sending me soaring. It was a high that never lasted, leaving me hollow and empty after; wanting to push him away but aching for him at the same time. He ached for her in the mornings while falling sleep beside me at night.
It wasn’t real. I’d remind myself of this. And him, and everyone around us, as if saying it out loud lessened the foolishness of my actions. The pain I felt as the water continued to rise around me.
“You can feel my mind
and move my body
with the fiction, fantasies
Just call this what it is,
we don’t don’t pretend it’s real.”
He needed me, and after weeks of hanging shelves and organizing spice jars it felt good to have an outlet for my energy. It felt good to help him and support him and, in the beginning, I was strong enough to do it. I welcomed his company after weeks alone. There were benefits for me as much as for him.
But the scale largely tipped in his favor, and I knew when it ended, it would be my heart bruised.
On the day it did, the day he climbed out of my bed where he’d woken up with me, he would receive the text he’d long been waiting for. A text from her - asking how he was and suggesting they talk.
I could tell her how he was. After all, in the absence of her he had filled the empty space with me. I’d been with him most days, absorbing his pain until it became my own.
He responded by saying he wasn’t doing well at all, that he missed her constantly, a play-by-play I asked for in the moment and he was foolish enough to tell me. A slow rage washed through my body, replaying the nights he spent with me and imagining the story he would paint for her as they found their way back to each other. Whether rooted in fact or fiction, the story I was already telling myself was she would believe he suffered alone for her, my presence and pain now an afterthought.
He gathered his things, hugging and thanking me, and left to meet her in hopes of reconciliation. I stood there numb, unable to process how I felt. Shame seeped through my body and released itself through hot tears on my cheeks.
“It’s better to feel pain,
Than nothing at all
The opposite of love’s indifference ”
I knew it wouldn’t end well. I knew it would likely end worse for me. But knowing pain is enviable doesn’t make it easier to endure.
I think back to the moment that glass shattered more than two years ago; at the choices made by both of us. I question how and why he found his way back into my life when I’ve known for so long and so clearly that he would never be in my best interest.
How long did I think I could creep along those shards of glass until it caught my skin and cut me deeply?
We parted ways and I watched, feeling hollow inside, as the only man I’ve loved in years left to run to someone else. He was still driving home when I messaged him asking for space and time. To stop the bleed. To clear my head. To assess the damage.
The next day, in the dark of my room, I slung words at him in anger. I wanted him to feel my hurt. My suffering. The pain he caused using me to lessen his. The consequences of his selfish actions.
I cried until I had no tears left.
And like with all disappointments, time slowly stepped in. My wounds began to heal. And finally, my voice grew silent.
Because he doesn’t deserve me or my words any longer.