One Year Passes

In some ways the night one year ago is so fresh--the big fight, his announcing he had started another writing group without me, which of course meant he'd been meeting other women writers without telling me, even as he promised me we would move in together, leaving apartment leases on my doorstep. He had no intention of that, I know that now. He just kept me strung enough for an easy fuck, a emotional tilt when he needed it, like a tequila shot, or a hit of acid.

He accused me of cheating when all I'd done was try to break away after he got married, tried desperately to free myself. But each time I found someone, he'd pull me back, such beautiful colored words, such apotheosis each and every time. I'd tried to fight him this time, not accepting yet another breakup. "This is the last one," I told him. "I told you I couldn't take even one more."

But I had so many times. Dozens over the two years. Why would he think this one was any different?

But each break up spiraled up in intensity, and each reconnection took a better promise, a bigger risk. I knew I was nearing the breaking point.

That night I scared everybody. I met my ex and the girls for our traditional Wednesday dinner, a tradition that ended that night. I couldn't stop crying, hysterical, madly typing text messages on my phone until ex finally said, "I think you need to go home."

I'd run out of the restaurant, lunged for my car, and drove spastically to his apartment, texting him all the while. When I got there, I didn't even know if his wife was home. I texted him saying he had to break up with me to my face. We'd promised each other we would. This was our fallback, our certainty.

"Go home, please," he had responded, kicking up a section of his window blinds to peer at me down in my car.

I realized I had crossed a line into stalking. I was utterly out of control. Mad.

I drove home, wrote him a brief email saying sorry to have scared him. He returned the email, saying he was worried about me.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

And I wrote my last email to him, the last one where I would declare love.

Readers who were with me as recovery began knows what happened then. I began this blog after crying much of the night, committing acts of self destruction, fearing I would harm myself irrevocably, and vowed to get help, to stay away from him, to get better. I wrote down every step, every slip--therapy and failed relationships and fear.

I dismantled the blog later, when I committed to a new, healthy relationship (we've been dating since December) but left a few scattered blog posts, including the first one, up here--a place holder for all that pain, a tombstone.

And I did see him today. We did not speak, but I saw him across the library, his beautiful long black hair, his dark face, his penetrating eyes. I do not fool myself into thinking I've let it all go, but I have accomplished enough, managed well enough, that I can live without him. It was a long, long journey to get even partway into the light.

Happy Anniversary to Me.