She didn’t know how to say I’m sorry. I guess her husband is partially responsible for that. She was in a fruitless and empty relationship for 18 years. Who stays for that long is a constant state of anxiety and unhappiness? A prisoner. I guess she has nothing to apologize for. She’s survived abuse, neglect, drug addiction, and me.

She survived me.

I rushed in, like the romantic fool that I am. I should’ve listened. She was still divorcing, or to be more clear, she was still married. Nope. I did it. I lept in, thinking my skills, my experience, my strength and hope, would be enough to pull us through the maelstrom of emotional fallout she would be tumbling through. With me, now, rather than alone.

Nope.

From love and rockets to “Take your things. Pack your stuff out of my house.”

She needed to reclaim ownership. Boundaries. A guitar that was not her husband’s guitar. She put the guitar hanger up for MY guitar. It lasted one day. She then asked me to take my guitar, and my other things, and tread lightly. I can’t reverse course so unexpectedly. I choked down the request and withdrew all of my things. My toothbrush. Books. Even my love letters, needed to be expunged from her house. I think it was her husband that needed to be physically removed from her house, her heart, and her fearful experience of being in a relationship.

What was I thinking? That we, that she, could join me in a lightspeed jump to WE?

Not possible. I tried. I leaned in. I repaired and recovered my own hope and enthusiasm, over and over. She sayed mad. Stayed anxious. Stayed in a defensive posture. When it was reestablished toward me, I began to get the picture.

This is just as things began spilling out into our loving partnership. A rupture would occur, something unexpected. And she was gone. Like a ghost. She wouldn’t look me in the eyes. She was a gone girl.

I am not going to be a gone boy. I’m going to release her back into the river of life. I will make my way alone again, reclaiming my evenings and my sleep routine.

I’m already missing the contact and laughter. But the ruptures continued to happen. There was never an apology from her side. It was about me. My anger. Me shutting down. Um, I have evidence to the contrary.

But this is not a litigation. I will not argue over text messages. I don’t do well doing it over the phone or FaceTime. But we cannot rejoin from our fallout shelters. She doesn’t need me. That’s certain.

Now, she can find her peace. Enjoy the solitude of her home. The rainy day we should’ve spent loving one another. Now. Some other path ahead for both of us.

Namasté.

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