Yesterday, I received an email from “him.” This time I was not moved, shaken, upset, devastated,
curious, hurt, enthralled. This time, the letters
and words in his message did not jump off the page, making it hard for me to
comprehend their meaning. It took me a
while to process my lack of feeling for his message because for three years I
felt everything for him, love, hate, rage, indifference, heartbreak. This was the first man I adored - adoration
as an allegiance to feeling everything for one person and being thrilled and
grateful for all of it, regardless of the feeling. Adoring him felt like being
consumed by invisible and uncontrollable emotions - all the time.
The truth is that even now my heart wants him for a forever even
though my reasoning self has long ago given up on the idea. But still my heart persists, continues to
warn me about its desire. Even as his message was making its
way to me at 7:10 p.m. my time and 1:10 a.m in Denmark, the signs came through: Chevalier ‘s book, “The Girl With the Pearl
Earrings,” was in the window at the downtown Portland bookstore (once we spent
hours talking about this work), and in the next store was a hanging tee-shirt
engraved with his favorite book, “Zen in the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.” These unexpected reminders were a jolting
shock, a realization that our feelings for each other have nothing to do what
we need or want them to be. I thought “I’ll
probably hear from him when I no longer feel anything.”
Sure enough this time, his email was encoded with complex language intended keep his real feelings at bay. Basically, he wanted me to know
that he has moved on and will continue to move on, always with an
appreciation for all the valuable things in his past. And from that I assume I was one of the value things in his past.
It is over once again, and I am fine; this time my recuperation of his rejection had more to do with the
surprise of not feeling the sting of it as I did in the past, and that left me as heartbroken as before. I will never respond to his message, and all I can hope is he never writes me
again.
No comments:
Post a Comment