Three months ago, I made a dramatic exit. A few days later, I stepped back on stage. What happened on July 4th will remain on July 4th, but suffice to say that the events of that night propelled us back into the relationship. At first, it was good. We communicated better than ever before. We planned to move in together. And we did.
But it’s been a week since he ended the relationship. The parting was amicable. We are still good friends. But the breakup meant that I had to move out. Perfectly reasonable (and arguably necessary) but I could have done without the additional stress. Packing and redefining boundaries and sobbing? Unpleasant activities.
Now I’m back in New Hampshire with family. It’s been slow sorting through the boxes. I feel a little disoriented, a little off-kilter. My life was scattered among home, school, work, and Boston for so long, having it all in one place is disconcerting. I don’t trust any semblance of permanence right now. I’ve been uprooted enough in the past year.
Is my heart broken? A little. Are the feelings still there? A little. (Have I jumped right back into the dating scene? No comment.) But this is better for both of us. I don’t know how the breakup affected his life, but I know that I am better now. I don’t have to worry about making the relationship work. I don’t have to worry about being hurt again. I can relax and focus on other things, getting on with my life.
Still, I don’t regret those 31⁄2 years. As cliché as it sounds, I’m glad that they happened. I was very hurt during those years, but I was also very happy. I’m still happy today, not because I’m free and single but because the relationship taught me how to be happy on my own terms.
But what I wanted and what he could give didn’t match. And that’s the end of it.
I know I’m breaking the silence we agreed upon, but I have to say it’s great to hear that you feel the same way I do about things.
Oh, and Kitty’s blanket & your sunglasses are here, in case you’re wondering.