I broke up with my lover of 7 years last night. I knew I was going to do this, I’ve done it before, but we both knew it was different this time. I’m different. I now think more of myself than I have before, my feelings matter. That’s very different.
I broke up with this man because we have political differences that I can no longer reconcile, that I can no longer dismiss. We have had numerous, hateful and hurtful discussions over our beliefs. Our hawk and dove fights have been flurries of feathers, screaming matches where I have thrown things, my discourse too often tantrum as opposed to dialogue—and I am ashamed of that behavior. I do not debate, it requires more research than I am inclined to do, a stronger commitment than I currently possess, and when the knowledge to support my position is not available to me, I default to childishness. I can do better, but I cannot deny, nor am I ashamed of the fact that I value feelings over intellect. I am sensitive and passionate to a fault—and for that very reason, I have dismissed all of our incompatibility for the extreme love we share in the bedroom. Our lust for one another, our passion, is boundless. There has never been a man who has touched my core in this way.
And I broke up with this man because he could not tell me he loved me. I broke up with this man because he lied to me about other women, because he is text-book narcissist and manipulative. I begged for the words, I begged for reciprocal feelings, I begged, I whored. But he remained true to his belief that the words were meaningless, that his liaisons were to be accepted, that what we shared in our love making was evidence enough of how he felt. It was and is not.
But he threw me a curve ball—I expected him to be cavalier about this break-up and he was anything but. I hurt him—a lot—a feeling, coming from the woman full of feelings, that I have experienced only once before in my life. I hurt him. And then we made exquisite love, not make-up sex, but sex like it was last-time-sex. And after we released, after we released all of the sex and some of the anger and some of the hurt, he pulled me close to him and told me he loved me. And I left him in my bed to come to work this morning, a cold and wet and miserable and heartbreaking morning, and I kissed him goodbye and he told me he loved me again. I am sad beyond belief. He will still be there when I get home, and I’m counting the minutes until he holds me again, memorizing the words of love and apology that I want him to hear, wondering if I called him in a month would he take me back. But I don’t think I’ll call. It’s different this time.
photo credit: the daily beast