So you are engaged. This is a new thing and to be honest the news was quite crushing. I think its part of the grief process that I feel pain, and partly because I haven’t let go and I still love you.
But I think you are responsible for that too. You never replied to my letter. I didn’t ask you to reply in the letter, but I posed some things that could deem responses: my apology for hurting you, my need to want to see you again (you could definitely have responded to that part and the fact that you can say neither yes or no speaks volumes of indecisiveness that I am acutely familiar with in my own parallel world). But you’re not entirely indecisive are you? You decided to get married.
I feel angry all over again. Mostly at myself for caring. I knew it was coming, I guess I didn’t realise how much it would hurt. I think about our last conversation, four months ago, where we talked for an hour. In that time you told me that you might marry. You mentioned your relationship (when prompted) in a very grown up manner. She’s ‘lovely’ (a term I’ve noticed is overused in your written and spoken word) ‘intelligent and funny.’ And finally how she “fits” with O, your son. But you also relaxed with me after a few minutes and picked up on conversations and connections that we had years ago. You told me about how you play guitar now, and that you’re getting quite good. How you love Monday evenings and watching the 7:30 Report. Did that trigger a thought? How you used to love Monday mornings…? Because then you brought up the conversation of sex between us, which, incidentally, in every meeting we have had since our relationship ended, you have brought up. Why do you do that? Why do you mention how amazing the sex was every time we meet or speak?
I’ve thought about this quite a bit. Why did I not allow these conversations to take place, particularly in our last chat. I said that I would hang up and not talk anymore if you were going to continue. I was uncomfortable with how much you were pushing that conversation. Is it normal to be sensitive about not wanting to talk about what sex was like once a relationship has ended?
And, what would happen if I had entertained the thoughts that were coming into your mind as we were talking? What if I had talked about it explicitly? About the time in the car in the park, when it was raining so heavily that no one was around and we could get away with sex in the middle of the day in a park. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, and so we did it in the front seat of the car. I’m sure you remember that moment very clearly. I do. And the other time that I met you at the petrol station. Again in the middle of nowhere, taking a risk. Both times I remember kissing the beads of sweat on your forehead and looking into your eyes and hearing the sounds of pleasure coming from your voice. Really? You wanted to talk about that? Or the time on a Monday morning when you were kneeling on the bed and I wrapped my legs around your hips and lifted mine. That position was so new and different and beautiful, and later that day you whispered to me at the counter at the coffee shop how that morning you had one of the most amazing sexual experiences in your life. At 37 and 38 respectively, that’s no mean feat.
So. Did I leave anything out there? Yes. It was amazing and beautiful. My insides used to do a dance every time I saw you during that time, both before and after any of our catch ups. My skin glowed and I relaxed for the first time in years.
And why? Because my insides moved a little every time I saw you from the very first time I met you, not in the same way as later, but something was there. From the bike ride home after a few beers with you over 7 years ago, to random dinner parties, a wedding where we both did the speeches, an exchange of emails over 12 months to our first lunch date. Did you not think that was wrong? To meet a married woman? Was I just this femme fatale? Or someone that needed to be saved? Or was it just a connection that neither of us could explain. Remember how the coffee turned to lunch, which you paid for by the way. That almost made it a real date.
I need to tell you something about that day. Apart from the fact that I was nervous and excited. I was also suffering from deep depression, post traumatic stress and an emotionally abusive husband. (You knew about the latter.) Every weekend I would lie in bed and think about dying. How I could do it (I had no idea how I would do it in case you’re wondering) and how I would be better off dead. At least that way I would be with my babies and I could raise them in heaven without criticism. But that’s not comfortable coffee conversation is it?
But you know what? That day I was a little lost, unsure of exactly where to meet you. And then I saw you sitting at the table. You were wearing a jacket that had patches on the elbows. And you were slightly hunched over. Your hair was a little messy – no surprises there. And I looked and you and I said under my breath, ‘Oh my god, he looks like dad.’ And you did. So academic and so endearing. And so I relaxed and thought to myself, ‘There’s no way I can have romantic feelings for this guy when he reminds me of my father.’ So we drank coffee and I noticed that you were kind and gentle, just like my father was, and had a curious look in your eyes. I wonder if you still have that now? That look.
When I lost track of time and had to leave quickly, I wondered about hugging you and about kissing you. Part of me was saying, ‘you don’t want to kiss him,’ yet another part was wondering… So I hugged you and left feeling so happy that we had finally met.
I did go away and Google not longer after that, ‘how do you know when you feel in love?’ I was so unsure of myself then. I was in love. And so were you. I still feel like it was a love like no other that I have experienced. It’s so hard to let go of that. I’ve never felt like this before and I still don’t know how to handle what happened between us.
And so that’s that. I’m still married. I couldn’t leave the marriage even though part of me thought I could. I feel sick at the thought of not trying to see if we have something still, but paralysed with indecision yet again. It’s hard because I know you don’t talk to me because I’m married, but also its too hard. I know I can’t live the way I am forever. Even though my marriage is no longer abusive, it lacks love and intimacy, perhaps that’s what I’m holding onto with this love I still feel for you.
enmeshedmum 