Recently, I started talking to a young man that I met at the Verizon store on the same day I purchased this very iPad that I type on… Meaning I met him little less than a week ago and started talking to him yesterday. I’m sure, by this point, mostly thanks to our texting this evening with a few beers in me, he thinks I’m absolutely psychotic. I suppose then, it’s best for both of us that I’m not currently seeking a mate.
I’m still completely hung up on Matt and last night, laying in bed, dreading this first date that may or may not happen with this young man I’ve recently been in contact with, we’ll call him Mario, and considering how to gently deny him a goodnight kiss (with more suave than I used with poor Matt who slinked off like a wounded pup) and I realized – kiss? I don’t want to kiss anyone ever again. I only want to kiss Matt; and if I only want to kiss Matt, maybe that means I shouldn’t accept a date with this Mario fellow, because what exactly would be the point of that? Not to worry; it wouldn’t appear he’s eager to ask for said date, but it still raises an interesting line of thoughts, none of which I’m currently willing to process.
I’ve recently found myself in yet another rush to “Find a mate and procreate before it’s too late,” (an original quote, if you wouldn’t so mind documenting, should my eminent death occur before I’m able to do so for myself), though thoughts of finding another mate pull at the delicate strings of my heart in remembrance of Matt. I genuinely felt and still (six months later) feel as though he is my soul mate and I could never again trust or love anyone the way I trusted and loved him.
Matt made me realize that I’d never before truly loved anyone, and with our separation, I came to the only reasonable conclusion I can see, despite my previous views on love, that I’ll never again find someone who could in any way take his place. I love him with every breath I take; and every moment we spend apart, I learn on a deeper level that we could never again be the same; not after so long of a separation; realistically, if he said he wanted me back at this very second, I would wholeheartedly leap back into his strong arms and be ready for him to love me the way that I once felt that he did; but he wouldn’t; just like I would never again be able to place my full trust in his hands. I would want to, more than anything in the world, and I would try my absolute hardest, but I just don’t think I could love him again without apprehensiveness the way that I used to… Of course, I never thought I could love anyone the way I loved him; so I could be yet again mistaken, but it doesn’t seem to matter as I’m lacking the opportunity to find out.
Matt doesn’t love me. That’s all there is to it. And this writing is not about what we had or what we could have; least of all what could have been – this article is about the possibility, or lack thereof of moving on.
How could it possibly be that we’ve been separated for six months after dating a mere three, and I’m still completely and utterly in love with the man I’ve known him to be? Under what circumstance would one not be ‘over’ a relationship after twice as long a separation than a togetherness lasted? I can only say that despite his dropping my heart, at work, from nine floors up, sending it hurdling toward the first floor at astronomical speeds during a lunch break; after meeting him at his apartment, and having him confirm my worst fear; after leaving his dwelling a blubbering mess of hysterical crying and screaming and feeling as though I was on the edge of a mental break; after attempting suicide, in his hoodie, with a plastic bag tied over my head; after failing and having to deal with things more rationally, though I barely make the cut; I love him, with all of my heart and soul. I know three months of dating shouldn’t prove a connection that strong, and it never has before for me, but with him … it was just different; in a purely amazing and wonderful way; and it was so right up until January 9th at approximately 6:45pm, when my “possibly paranoid” feeling of impending doom was confirmed to be true; to be the end; the end of everything I’d come to know and trust with reckless abandon.
I suppose, whether or not I choose to admit it – this is entirely about him. He is perfect; I am not. I ruined our chances to share a beautiful life full of love and laughter together and there’s nothing that I can do about it. Suddenly, I’m reminded that the original issue at hand (my eggs losing vitality within me) has come back to my complete lack of desire to do anything about it without him. I still feel lost. I hide it better now, but I feel completely and utterly void of purpose without him. Some might say that I’m better off with someone else; that we were incompatible on some important levels that I wasn’t yet able to see in such a short span of time that our relationship lasted; like our difference in opinion regarding animal companions or our preference in housing arrangements. I’d call them wrong. I was willing to make sacrifices in return for compromise in other areas. He and I (as far as I know) were completely open and honest about our likes, dislikes and indifferences to everything about which we spoke.
I still ask myself, aside from being ill, which he professed wasn’t the only reason we split paths, what I did wrong; much like I still, after so much time passed, stand by the door at which I wait now, anticipating his still familiar, authoritative knock upon it; always ready to throw it open with reckless abandon in hopes of seeing his face on the other side of the screen, ready to make amends. He never comes, and so I find myself spending more and more time avoiding the confines of my home and the company of the only decent living relative I have left, out of sheer pain avoidance. Let us, if we can, get back to Mario. He seems nice enough; funny, witty, a spice of sarcasm, and of decent intelligence, wrapped up tight in a ball of not-at-all-bad-looking. He’s short, 34 years old, and has eyes that bulge slightly… But he’s still pretty cute, and more importantly, seems to have an adaptable sense of humor, depending on what the situation warrants. I do not yet know the details, but he’s recently divorced; sometime within the last year, and has been putting weighted thought into moving. I find it interesting that he has a very similar background and upbringing to Matt; being around the same age, and growing up in Long Island, with family still there. I almost wonder if they went to school with and possibly knew each other, and if so, how well. Not that it would particularly matter, unless they were still good friends; in which case, that would be awkward, but chances lean against that possibility; though I probably should ask one of them if they’ve previously heard each other’s name. It wouldn’t much be of use, though, as I’m still crestfallen over Matt and not seeking a relationship; I’m not sure why I accepted Mario’s number and followed up days later, with a text. I am in the market for friends, but guys don’t give you their number for that reason. I probably should have just filed it in my compilation of guy’s numbers I’ve previously received and never responded to; but it’s a little too late for logical thinking; I was, and still am in the throws of a ticking ovary issue!
Maybe if I just knew what I did wrong, or what personality conflicts existed, or why I was boring to Matt’s manly senses – I mean; I thought our make out sessions were phenomenal; though this could merely be because I’d never before “made out” with anyone; if I just knew WHAT made me or WHY I was inadequate, I could at least work on myself! One of the moments that constantly resounds in my mind comes from New Years Eve, at the bowling alley, after The Ball dropped in Times Square, NYC, and we were surrounded by the cheering and noise maker blowing of all around us as we parted of a near everlasting kiss of pure passion, and I looked deep into his eyes and uttered with complete confidence, for the first time in my life, “We’re going to have a wonderful year together.” He looked back into my (normally) green eyes and replied, “Yes, we are.” Eight days later, it was officially over. Eight days after I was so certain that I could entrust any secret in his hands… Eight days… My heart sinks with the pain of unanswered questions; questions I’ll inevitably have to accept will receive no honest answer; answers that are serious enough to completely ban even a friendship between us.
Why was I so certain, in that moment, that we would last; that someone could actually just love me for more than a second? I would have bet my life, in that moment, that we’d be together until the day one of us died; and I would have sorely lost… Fact is, I nearly did. He means so much to me that I was willing to make an attempt on my own life, out of the purest form of love I’ve ever encountered, short of a story or film. I think of it now; the night preceding my returning his only possession he’ll accept back; a navy blue Michigan endorsed hoodie in Extra Large size that I’d borrowed during the youth of our short lived relationship; I think again of ending it tonight, better prepared with a thoroughly inspected plastic bag, wearing the last bit of us that I have. Short of Romeo and Juliet, I’ve heard of no love as pure as what I have for him – and I desperately want to cling to it; even if it no longer exists; more than anything. I wish he knew how much I love him; I wish it mattered.
I must accept that my undying adoration for him is simply not enough. I must not make another attempt at my life as it would not matter in the slightest to him if I were or were not successful. I must accept that I do not understand the reasons or ways in which I failed him; and that they no longer much make a difference. I must accept that my love is not enough; nothing I ever do will ever be enough; and that there is nothing I can do about it. I must accept that I may or may not love him for the remainder of my lonely life, and that my time in home may or may not be spent waiting at this door for him. I must accept that regardless my willingness to do so, I must return his personal property, as he has mine, and that upon doing so, all ties will be cut between us. I must accept that I may have found and lost my one true love in less than one fourth of a year. I must accept that he is, upon returning my belongings, and writing about other women, ready and able to move beyond our relationship, with compete disregard of my feelings; and I must accept that, at least for him, it was not true love.
I do not wish to accept these facts, but I do not know how much longer I can go on denying them, either. I failed. It’s as simple as that. I failed at possibly my only opportunity for true love, and there’s no way I can mend it.
I do know one thing; whether or not these feelings pass, and whether or not I one day “fall in love” “again” or not, I can never again trust a single soul the way that I trusted his. This was supposed to be about Mario… but nothing will ever be about anything if it doesn’t involve you. Matt, for what it’s worth, I love you with all my heart, and I simply don’t know how I existed before or how to continue existing without you. My life is so empty without your smile and your embrace and I don’t feel as though I’ll ever even try to find someone as worthy of my affections as you are. For whatever I did, I’m sorry. This isn’t a plea; I know you’ll never find and read this; it’s just an earnest admission. I. Love. You.