It sounds dramatic to say last night was the first time I really missed my last relationship. In many ways it is untrue, in many ways it is absolute. Losing the little piece of heaven that would have been ours didn’t make me miss it. That time was the only other time in recent past where I remember hurting this much. Then, I was grateful for the solitude. Especially since it was a secret I kept from him for many years. Shielding him from the hurt I felt and relieving him of the responsibility for in any way comforting the woman who had just walked away from him, cutting our red ribbon. 

Last night as I lay crying and feeling the sort of sadness that can only be described in shades of grey I had one pervasive thought: I wasn’t supposed to be out here alone, I was supposed to be out here with you. Down came yet another flood gate and seemingly I cried myself to sleep and awoke with the headache to prove it. I wasn’t angry with him. I wasn’t even angry at myself, I was angry I was alone. I feel like my tears fall invisible and into a void. It’s as if no one wants to look directly at me for fear they might have to assume some responsibility for my healing. I don’t want anyone to fix me. I just want someone to be there. Here. 

I was having a discussion about death with a therapist whose population is hospice patients. She said sometimes all people want in the end is a witness, that in and of itself is powerful. I explained to her it was the only substantial reason I could think of to get married. But I suppose even in partnerships, people feel my kind of loneliness. Some venture to say it’s even lonelier to be bound and still feel alone. Though I think either way is pretty terrible. 


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