The magnitude of history

It’s my usual Sunday night, me rummaging through notes and notebooks, editing and writing. I stood up and went into my writing closet. Realizing that the binder I wanted was at the very top, I stood on a stool and yanked at the bottom of the stack. Swiftly it all came toppling over me, hitting me in the head in the process. Papers and folders scattered everywhere.

I grunted. I began picking them up one by one when I ran across a manila folder gently titled “WEDDING” in block letters, with a red heart sticker following the word. I’d forgotten I was planning a wedding. I slid slowly to the floor till I was sitting and I began to go through its contents.

There were lists of first dance songs and father/daughter songs; clippings of flower arrangements, swatches of fabrics, notebook entries of budgets, and location listings. There it all was. Very detailed and organized. All I ever dreamed of, all I thought I ever wanted. And on the last page, on the back cover of the folder, a pasted picture of me and him. I ran my finger across his face and it took my breath away. Your past is always your past. Even if you forget it, it remembers you.

It didn’t make me exceptionally sad. It didn’t make me miss him. It just made me painfully aware of the magnitude of the history. One that by placing on a top shelf, in the back of a closet, I had hoped to forget. Except I couldn’t forget, I couldn’t even move on from it without first acknowledging its presence.

The truth is I’d tried. I followed the ill-advised sentiment of the Mexican saying that goes “un clavo, saca otro clavo”. This to say, that it is the belief that to get over someone or to forget someone you have to simply fall in love again. That another nail will drive out the already preexisting nail. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t fall in love. Instead I butchered the attempt because I simply hadn’t correctly healed, nor had the correct amount of closure. In order to give your heart away you have to have one to begin with. And mine, well mine had simply gone.

It’s true. You don’t always get the perfect moment of closure. Sometimes you just have to do the best you can under the circumstances. And till that moment, I thought I had. Except my past still held chain and shackle over my heart. And I didn’t know how to break free from its grip. And all my best intentions kept making an even bigger mess of things. Because that is what happens when you try to run from the past. It doesn’t just catch up, no. It overtakes. Blotting out the future. The landscape. The very sky. Until there is no path left except that which leads you through it. The only one that can ever get you home.

They say that if you don’t pay attention to the past you’ll never understand the future. In my big attempt to let things go and put things behind me, I had managed to miss the biggest lesson. That it had happened it all. Despite our differences, we did have history. No one understood where I was coming from the way he did. I’m not sorry that it’s over but I am sorry for the way we let it end.

The night that we broke up was the last time I ever saw him again. It’s been over a year, and it is still hard to comprehend that a person that was such a big part of my life for so long is gone. Ultimately forever. Sure, I tried finding closure in some way. I wrote countless letters I never mailed. It’s like that song by Carrie Underwood says I said all I had to say in letters that I threw away. I picked up the phone a thousand times and tried dialing his number a thousand more. But each time the words fell short. It’d been so long and it wasn’t easy. It was literally like trying to spin the world the other way…

Our ending had been so messy, so excruciatingly painful that I wanted to make-believe we’d never happened. Except we had. And with the downfall of our relationship, a 10 year friendship was swept away. But I didn’t acknowledge that, not even a little bit. That this person, this lifelong, way before he was my boyfriend, friend was gone. That it was agonizing. That it wasn’t right, and would never be right. Pretending that his taillights in the rain where the last remanence of him wasn’t helping anyone. No, not even myself.

I held the folder close to my chest and began to feel out of breath. I laid back and closed my eyes, pressing my cheek to the floor and waited. What for? I don’t know. To be rescued or found. But no one came. There is something so heavy about the burden of history, of the past. I wasn’t sure I had it in me to keep looking back. Except I had to. I had to retrace my steps and take down notes, and paste lost and found notices to find the heart that vanished.

You can’t just turn your heart off like you do a faucet. You have to go to the source and dry it out, drop by drop. I knew it would take me time to get my heart functioning again. That falling in love again wasn’t even the end game. That it was about me just being okay, content, and serene. I didn’t know what that looked like but I had a feeling it wasn’t lying on the floor reminiscing about the regrets for the choices I’d made. It was out there, where stories broke free from its pages that eventually I would find myself again…

And so it is.

Growing up when people asked me what I feared the most I had only one answer. Most people would say spiders, or insects, big dogs, or even heights. Those are usual fears and it’s even true that they were some of mine. But quite frankly even at a young age I knew what I feared the most. Regret.

Regret is a peculiar thing. More often than not, in the moment, we don’t know if we will face it as part of the outcome for our actions. We direly hope that the doors that we close, and the paths that we choose are inevitably leading us down our very own yellow brick road to blissfulness. Regret, like hindsight, is 20/20. The truth is that none of us are perfect. That we won’t always make the right decisions. That sometimes we will do what we can with what we have. And that inevitably we will face that life has a way of disregarding even our best intentions.

A couple of weeks ago my first love got married. I met the news with so many mixed emotions. A downpour of thoughts crossed my mind, along with a thousand what ifs. All truly unwelcome and surprising as this person hasn’t been a part of my life in a very, very long time. What I failed to comprehend was pointed out by a dear friend. “You’re not crying because you are still in love with him. You aren’t crying because you have lost him forever. And you aren’t even crying because you miss him. You are crying because you regret the outcome. Because the news makes you take inventory of your own current status and you realize that you aren’t happy with where you are in life. So nostalgia blinds you and makes you wonder if it could have been different. You are sad because you wish, not for him to be your happy ending, but because you wish you had one at all.”

I looked at her in disbelief. In a few sentences she seemed to narrow down to the source of it all. And it was completely true. Certain events do make us take inventory of our lives. They make you ask yourself where you are in your own story. They make you look around you and pinpoint exactly what is missing. And since we only have our own recollection of experience, nostalgia hits, showing you images of the moments when you did have what is now gone, making tears escape violently.

It so very easy to misinterpret these as real, tangible, feelings that profess love. The truth is I’m not still in love with him. I don’t even know him anymore. All I have is a collection of sweet reverie memories. Life through rose colored, first love, everything is beautiful, glasses. He isn’t the boy who kept me from falling anymore, and I’m not the naïve, inexperienced child he once knew. Even in alternate universes our story had an ending.

But what was true, was that it made me face regret. To look at the path that I took since him, the long sometimes thorn covered, dark winding roads, and the detours that mislead me. To now. This place. I’m no better off today than the last time he said goodbye to me. And that hurts. Because I’ve made so many poor choices when it comes to relationships. Because I’ve looked near and far and have yet to find where I belong. Because in the grand scheme of things I came out with the short end of the stick.

SD once wrote: “So many times it seemed like there were chances to stop things before they started. Or even stop them in midstream. But it was even worse when you knew in that very moment that there was still time to save yourself, and yet you wouldn't even budge.” I’ve spent a lifetime not budging, and then flinching at the inescapable cost thereafter. And that’s not anyone else’s fault but all my own.

If regrets are repentance for an action taken, especially for consequences that you knew you could of easily avoided, mines are as deep as the ocean blue. Unavoidably we become the people we said we would never become.

I think back to a sun dress wearing, brown hair, hazel eyes, freckled face kid. And everything she feared she’d become, she now is. And that… that’s what I regret the most.

Sometimes the truth weighs heavier

It was a late afternoon when she received a text from one of her best friends to meet up for dinner. It’d been a long day at work. And she needed a bit of distracting. So they met up for sushi. The waitress had just finished handing them their menu’s when her phone rang and her other best friend was on the other line. She smiled and said “Oh look who it is” showing the phone to her friend across the table.

“Hello Sunshine!” She said in her usual cheery voice.

What followed were a multitude of pleasantries, and there was an eerie sense of worry that came over her. She knew in her heart that, that conversation had much more to do with something important than what the weather was this time a year. She could hear the nervousness in her friend’s voice so she finally said

 “So what’s up? What can I help you with?”

“Well, I don’t know how to say this.”

And her heart sank

“Well just say it.” She squirmed in her chair.

“I received an invitation in the mail.”

“And?” She still couldn’t put things together

“He’s getting married.”

“Oh, god” she gasped.

That moment felt like being at the end of a mountain when the snow separates from the ice caps, and an avalanche rushes down. And you gulp and close your eyes like if that will be enough to help you escape its wrath.

That moment felt like being in the middle of a frozen lake skating and feeling carefree. Till the ice beneath you cracks, and gives, and the freezing waters begin to devour you. And you throw your hands up in the air. Like if reaching for the surface will keep you from drowning.

That moment felt like being in the middle of a concrete city surrounded by buildings when a magnitude earthquake hits and the walls start to cave in. And no matter what you do you can’t weave fast enough before another wall comes crashing down. And you flail your limbs as though it will be enough to stop the earth from swallowing you whole.

Her friend continued on and she asked a flurry of questions. Who was she? Had they dated a long time? Why hadn’t she ever seen her? Had he loved her long? A thousand questions to make sense of one undeniable truth. He wasn’t hers to keep anymore.

Her friends did their best to comfort her. The one on the phone lived in another state and could not be there physically so she arranged with the other to tell her this way. So she wouldn’t be alone. So she’d have someone to shed the tears with. Once she was done asking a million questions she got off the phone and the tears began.

She did her best to wipe them but every time she did another quickly followed. It was a type of sadness unimagined. A thousand emotions came to surface. So many she’d tried for years to suffocate.

Their love had been the kind of love that stays with you a lifetime. He was the boy that taught her what love was. She was the girl who brought him joy beyond compare. And though that love was young, it was pure. It was everlasting. They grew in years together. But she was broken. And he could never see that. He so direly believed in her that he didn’t see her jagged edges. He saw so much potential in her and that was enough for him to keep on loving her through many years. But the brokenness in her made her push him away time and time again.

The years went on, and their unwavering love caved inevitably. She loved him so much she couldn’t drag him down with her. He never understood that sacrifice. So she did her best to move on, dated, and in crowds of men she searched for his face. In hearts of others she called his name. And after every breakup she suffered, her heart longed even more for him. But it was too long, too late, too wrong.

6 years passed and she saw him rare and few. She heard of no other in his life, so to hear that he was now getting married not only shook her, it left her breathless.

“It’s the end of an era” she said to her friend

“Yes, it really, really is.”

She began explaining things to her best friend as if she didn’t already know.

“I never wanted to hurt him. I just wanted to save him from myself.”

“I know.”

“It’s silly isn’t it? To cry over someone who hasn’t been a part of your life in so long? I have no right to be such a mess.”

“NO, it’s not silly. It is normal. It is expected, believe me I know.” And she did know. It’d happen to her too. “Everyone’s favorite unrequited love story is really over. It really is the end of an era. Not only for you, but for so many others as well. It is sad, it is heart wrenching sad. And you have every right to cry over it.”

So she did, as quietly as she could in the middle of an uptown sushi place. Surrounded by people and lovers, and stories that were beginning. As hers was direly ending.

Dinner was over and she walked to her car. She barely made it inside when the weeping broke through. Like a dam that gives, obliterating everything in its path. She went home and pulled from the back of her closet a box she kept well hidden. Every physical part she had left of him was in that box. Pictures, and CD’s he burned for her, stuffed animals, a collection of snow globes from every city he went to, a music box with two little porcelain Chihuahua’s inside. T-shirts, and hats, and post cards, letters and cards. And in one wooden box, two wilting roses. The first he ever gave her.

And with every object, a memory appeared. And the memorabilia of their love story played their silent movie in her mind and heart, as she cried uncontrollably.

She crawled into bed that night and put Michael Buble’s song “You were always on my mind” on a loop. She laid back and faced the empty side of the bed and she wrapped her arms around his absence one very last time.

Sometimes the truth weighs heavier than all the castles you painted, than all the dreams you created, than all the endings you thought were fated.