A
cool breeze wafts across the porch. It carries with it the scent of the purple
flowered bush next to the steps, sweet and tangy. It has flowered every spring,
but only for about six weeks, when the flowers die and do not reappear until
the following year. I wish I knew the name of it. I wish the flowers bloomed
longer.
I
wish for a lot of things.
It
is bright today. Hot. But under the shade of my neighbor’s towering birch, it
is cool enough on the porch. Cool enough to write, anyway. And think. Though only
one thing dominates my mind these days. It follows me everywhere I go, lingers
like a foul odor, does not allow much room for anything else. It is all I can
do to go to work, and try, at least, for a little while, to forget that my life
has changed forever.
I
glance over at the window where my cat has curled up on one of the many boxes
that now fill my house. They line the walls and lay scattered across the living
room floor. Books and kitchen things. Old files and memorabilia and photographs.
Tools and Christmas decorations and things from my childhood. All packed away.
The furniture is still there, but the shelves are empty.
The house is
empty.
I am empty.
She left three
months ago, and I still do not understand. I wonder if I’ll ever understand.
Last year was
hard. I have wrestled with depression my entire life, but last year it struck in
a way I had never experienced. I lost my job. I broke into hives. My hands
wouldn’t stop shaking. Some days it was all I could to get out of bed.
It was hard on
her, too. It is painful to live with someone with mental health issues, and
last year must have been a nightmare for her. It is one thing for me to talk
about the emptiness and loneliness inherent with depression, but altogether
something else for our loved ones who are powerless to help. I had hoped that
she would stay, counted on this year being better, but it was all too much, I
think.
She deserves to
be happy.
I would have
fought for this relationship, done whatever it took to make it right, but
sometimes we reach the end of our rope and must protect ourselves. We’re no
good to the rest of the world if we’re miserable, and everyone deserves the
right to be happy, no matter how much it hurts. No matter how much I hurt.
Love is not
about me.
I take a deep
breath and stare out across the street. Watch the leaves on the trees shift and
sway in the wind. Love is not about me.
I have said that a thousand times these past three months. I believe it, but it
only helps a little. It certainly sounds right. Something you say to convince
people around you that you’re being wise and kind and patient, when inside your
emotions are a boiling cauldron of frustration and sadness and anger. When your
emotions are desperately trying to escape so they can scream and yell and lash
out, and all you have is this thin barrier, largely constructed of mantras and clichés
and whispered hope, to reign them in.
Sometimes they
escape. Sometimes I do not think kind things. Sometimes I am so overwhelmed I
can hardly move.
She deserves to
be happy.
I have always
believed this. That hasn’t changed.
Pain of this
magnitude is a great teacher, if we allow it. It gives us a mirror into our
lives that we rarely see. And for a while, we can see ourselves from the
perspective of someone else. I have stared into this mirror for three months,
and it has taught me a great deal. It has also given me more wishes.
I wish I’d known
she was so unhappy. I wish I’d been a better husband. I wish I’d been enough.
I sigh and put
down my laptop. It is time to pack again.
Back inside, I pack
two more boxes. The wedding photos are the hardest, but I see her everywhere. I
remember everything, every story behind every book and nicnac and kitchen appliance.
And every time I put them in a box, part of me disappears with them.
Tears slide down
my cheeks. It feels like I have been crying for a long time. I know that one
day the tears will stop, and that spring will come again and I will live
without pain. I believe that, I just can’t feel it. Not yet. Perhaps not for a
while.
Some days I
think about our life together. Think about what I could have done differently.
At night, I sometimes dream that we’re together, that I’ve made better choices
and she is happy. Those mornings are difficult.
I do not believe
everything is my fault, of course. I am not that arrogant. But I cannot control
anything but who I am and the choices I made, and to focus on anything else is
fool’s gold. The intent of pain’s mirror is not to cast blame or throw stones,
but to check my thoughts and heart and actions.
Where did I go
wrong? What could I have done better? What kind of person do I want to be going
forward? Again, these are the kind of questions that sound like I have things
all together, but don’t be fooled. No one “has it all together” when they lose
the love of their life.
As a Christian,
I believe in God. I also believe in a broken world, which is as much a
reflection of my faith as it is my understanding of humanity. We are not
perfect. We make choices that hurt people. And we do it every day.
I do it every
day.
And somewhere
along the way, I made too many of these choices. Perhaps she made too many of
these choices. And so we broke.
That doesn’t
make me a bad person. And it doesn’t make her a bad person. It makes us both
human.
I put down the
third box and head back onto the porch. I scrub the tears from my face. I am
greeted by the fresh scent of my little shrub. I wish she were here. I wish I could
tell her how much I loved her and hoped for her happiness. I wish that my heart
did not feel so empty.
I wish for a lot
of things.
