an entire week

That's how long it's been, since I last talked to that certain someone. A little more than a week, to tell the truth. Friday morning, the 20th, it was.

I'd had a sort of a bad night the night before, trouble sleeping and all that, and I'd texted him something, late that night, which he'd not answered. The next morning, he texts me something along the lines of "sounds like you were having a bad day", and after a little back and forth, he says he has a meeting to go to, and I say I'm going back to bed. Since then, nothing.

Here's the thing, with that: earlier on, I could see how difficult this was for him, trying to just carry on trying to be friends, and I'd prayed about it (because that's how much he matters to me), and asked that, if I should just step back, not try to talk to him, that at least He make it easier for me.

And it's been easy.

I take that to mean it's the right decision.

things I would say

I need time. Time to allow the things I want in a man to become abstract. Time to allow myself to look for those characteristics in someone new. Someone not you. Someone I haven't met yet. Or maybe I have, but I didn't see it, because I wanted it to be you so badly. I can't do this anymore. You've broken my heart, again, without even meaning to. It's not your fault. You didn't know I was waiting for you. How could you? For a while, I believed you could. I believed we had this connection, something other-worldly, and I believed you knew I was here, loving you, dreaming of you, waiting for the day you would come back.

But when you did come back, you didn't know. You didn't love me. You didn't even remember loving me, as an adult. You could only remember the years before, the awful, heartbreaking, all-too- short teenage romance, and who I was then. You didn't remember the woman you fell for, again, at 34. You could only see the girl I'd been at 17, so you, you became the boy you'd been, instead of the man. That girl is gone. I left her behind so long ago, so gradually, I don't even know when she disappeared. For me, that's a good thing. That girl wasn't my best self. She was alright, but, she lacked compassion, patience, the capacity to accept others as they are without judgement. The woman I was at 34 had all that. I struggle to maintain that now, at 43, but I know, I'm more the woman I was than I am the girl.

It's not your fault. I don't blame you. It can't be helped that I still look the same, sound the same. You look the same to me, too. But, I'm looking at the man you were, nine years ago, when you loved me, the woman I'd become, and not the girl I was. Nine years ago, when you were all those things I need, and more, except, you weren't available. The timing was off. Perhaps it's always been off.

I loved you then. I love you still. But you're not that man.

I want to be there for you, help you to heal after your divorce, as you did for me. But it's not working. I said too much, dreamed too long, kept seeing the man you were, nine years ago, instead of the man you are now, and I broke it. I ruined whatever connection we had, because I couldn't see who you are now, until it was too late. Too late, because you'd figured it out. You saw that I'd been waiting, that I still loved you, and you ran away.

I don't blame you. You didn't intend to break my heart again. You didn't know, until you saw me again, that I'd never gotten over you. That I hadn't even tried. I was just someone you used to know, someone you hoped still cared for you enough to be your friend and help you through a tough time. I'm so sorry I wasn't able to be that for you. I know how much you're hurting, and I know how much you need me to be there for you, to help you feel normal, lovable, worthwhile. You are all those things, though you can't see it right now. And I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am for not being what you need.

further thoughts

Last Saturday, I was out in the yard raking leaves, and thinking. Well, to be accurate, I was fuming. Over the whole Christmas Eve visit, how he'd said that he was, in his head, 18 and running away. Like we were still in high school. Fuming. And I was THIS close to texting him those most dreaded words, words no guy likes to hear: we need to talk.

But, I was trying to be patient, give him, and myself, space, time to think, so I just kept working and thinking, trying instead to find the answer within my own self. And then, it hit me: I'd been feeling, acting, and behaving, overall, like I was 17! Maybe not the SAME 17 as I'd been back then, but, still, there was no question. And if I was behaving as though I was back in high school, who was I to judge him for reacting to that?

Oh.

Not to mention, my pet theory on divorce, which I use often to excuse silly behavior, for myself as well: whatever age you were when you were last single, dating, that's generally the age you revert to when you start to date again. You forget that 10, 15, or 22 years have passed, and you tend to look for someone that age, and behave roughly that age as well. That's normal, and it takes a while to remember how old you actually are. I'd just forgotten to apply that to him.

So, I felt better. I wasn't mad anymore. He might be 18 right now, but, he'd get past that, in time, and start to see me, as I am, now. And when he did, then we could find out if we actually like each other, the people we are now, or if all we have is the past.

And I'm okay with that.

Myself, I'd been back in 2002, at age 34, when he loved me (again) and wanted to run away with me, not run from me. Back then, he was that man, the right man. But of course, if he'd left his wife and family then, he wouldn't have been. Neither of us, least of all him, could have lived with the man he would have become.

That's what led to that conversation, all those years ago. Him saying he didn't know what to do, he couldn't leave his wife, it wouldn't be right, but, what if he never saw me again? And me, asking him, did he really believe he'd never see me again? No, he said, but, "I don't want to be 45 before we can start our lives together." Back then, I felt that we had time, plenty of time. Besides, 45 isn't old. Not old at all.

I should be happy...

I went to see him, Christmas Eve. I wasn't sure I would, I didn't tell him I was coming, and I almost didn't go. But I really wanted to see him. And I knew he'd be home, because he had all the kids for the entire weekend, and his car is too small to fit all of them. I was already halfway there, up visiting family, so, it was less daunting to drive just over an hour instead of just over two hours.

After the huge fight we'd been having earlier in the week, I kept thinking that I might have come off better, with more of a chance, if I'd been to see him at least once. If he'd had to be confronted with me, in the flesh, right there in front of him, in his own home. That was part of it. Because I know seeing me changes things. Which was, perhaps, a little unfair.

I nearly turned around, so many times. But I wanted to see him.

When I got there, I knew it was his house before I'd seen the number. I drove past, turned around, came back, and parked. I didn't know he was in the front room, and had seen me pull up. I wish I'd parked across the street instead.

I text him, "did you get your package?", because I'd mailed his present a few days before, when we were fighting, because I was sure I wasn't going to see him. We'd made up since, for the most part, but, still. I was so nervous.

A few texts later, he's figured it out, and is asking me to come in. I've never had such a hard time walking up to someones door. It was all I could do to keep walking towards the house. I just wanted to run away.

I'm so nervous, I can't even open the door. I just stand there. He has to practically pull me inside. And all the kids are there, in the front room. I almost left right then, having only been there for a minute. I couldn't think why I'd thought it would be a good idea.

I'm too nervous to sit down, to even take off my coat. I can't look at him, or the kids, or at anything but my own shoes.

He can see this, but doesn't know why. He wonders if maybe I had something important to say, if I'd driven all that way just to visit, or...? So he says, "let me show you the house," and drags me off to the kitchen. I still have my coat on, and I keep wrapping it tightly around me. Like I want to hide. Which, I think, I do.

It's an old house. Full of awkward angles and tiny rooms and added-in spaces. A tiny spiral staircase leads upstairs.

We stand and talk, for far too long, in his tiny hallway. We talk, but, I don't know what to say. I satisfy his curiosity on a certain point, and natter on about the past, the old journal entries I'd been reading the night before. We talk about everything: movies, kids, his marriage, why he's not ready to change certain things about his life just yet.

About and hour and a half in, (I know. I wasn't going to stay. We always could just talk...) I realize, I've reached my limit. I've been standing there in that hallway, talking, listening, looking at him, and all of a sudden, I realize I can't just look at him any more. I want to be all tangled up, not knowing whose legs are whose, but, in my head, we're still dressed. I just want to be that close to him, and I can't just stand there anymore, not touching him at all. I say it's time for me to go. That not touching him is more than I can take. It's too much. (Probably more than he wanted to know, but, I can't help it, I always tell him what I'm thinking.)

He nods, asks if it's okay if he gives me a hug. It's a good hug, but, somehow, I'm still unsettled.

He walks me out to the porch, says goodbye. His daughters are giggling at us from the front room, though there is nothing to giggle at. There is at least a foot of space between us.

On the way home, I talk to my friend, she asks if I'm glad I went. I think, maybe, but...I don't know. Then she makes me promise that I won't apologize to him for coming up like that, with no warning.

I pick up my boys (they went to a movie with cousins), and drive home. I still have to bring in the tree, light it, decorate. Everything is still in the attic, and it's after midnight before I'm home.

I think, after that visit, I should be walking around like Keri Russell in Waitress, right after she realizes what he meant when he said, "I wish it were Friday". But, I'm not. I'm just confused, unsettled.

Hours later, amidst the frustrations of not having enough lights, ornament hooks gone missing, and just a general lack of Christmas feeling, I realize what it is. Or, at least, what it could be.

Despite the last 10 years of my life, having felt quite happy and content with life as it is, being single, not really dating, but being okay with that, all of a sudden, almost without warning, I'm just...lonely. I don't want to be alone anymore. And it's more like that scene where he comes to see her, at home, and she's just sad, and he comes in and just holds her, for 20 minutes. And right after that, she realizes that what she really likes about him, why she can't get enough of him: they talk, and he listens, and what she says matters to him.

And that's what I miss. Have been missing, for so long. I need that closeness of conversation. I want that best friend, always there.

I used to say, after ex2 left, that the worst part about divorce was not being allowed to love someone. Not being allowed to give to someone. I still think it's true.

So, I'm sad. And I don't want to talk to him. Kind of difficult to make that point when he's not talking to me, either, but, still.

And I thought that I missed him, but, I don't. I'm sorry he's gone. I'm sorry I messed things up. I hope he comes back, when he's ready. If that ever happens. I'm sorry I couldn't be his friend. I'm sad that he is still looking at me like I'm 17 and he's running away. I'm sad that he doesn't love me. Or at least, that love isn't enough.