#38 | hate
I woke up early on Friday and rolled over in bed to check my phone. I entered her phone passcode on accident and winced. 5-8-5-2. Wrong. Fuck. It’s one of those weeks when everything hurts, but enough time has passed where I’ve trained my brain to not wallow too much, so the pain is more of a dull ache.
Yesterday I went back to our apartment to clean things out. My heart involuntarily pounded as I approached the building. I wished it could just be calm. To be a passenger in your own body is scary, but it reminds me that grief is physiological and cannot be willed away. I unlocked the door and thought about how many times I had opened it to see our cats eagerly awaiting dinner, and now there was only silence and dust. The last time I was there, one of them perched on the top stair and watched me leave, distantly, like he knew our time together was ending but there was nothing either of us could do about it.
I took down a print she left hanging up, and snapped pictures of unwanted junk to give away online. She left a trash bag of cat poop on accident. I lugged that to the curb along with other garbage. There was a hard seltzer in the fridge I considered dramatically chugging, but I concluded that would be stupid. I gave it to my friend later.
I don't think we will be meeting to resolve things anytime soon, if at all. She cannot. I understand and don't want to force her to give me information that she doesn't have. That was the last plan in our shared timeline, though, and I won't deny it's devastating for it to sink in that the future between us is now completely, infinitely blank.
Anger still comes occasionally but never stays long. I see it as a passing thought that reminds me to have dignity, to shake off oblivion and consider myself worth kindness. Because in my opinion, anger ultimately stems from that emotion with which I’ve become newly acquainted: shame. Shame that maybe I deserve to be treated coldly and left in the dark. Shame that she didn't leave me out of grief, but because she just doesn't love me anymore. Shame that she doesn't love me anymore because she thinks I’m passive, impatient, and unreliable, and I’ll never be desirable to her ever again. Shame that she could be deeply correct—but that teeters into self-hatred. In an effort to be kinder to myself, I swap out the lens to see she was wrong and didn't mean it—that I was doing so much to care for her but she pulled away and couldn't feel it, didn't want to feel it, even, because accepting care requires acknowledging need and pain. I can see she was in acute grief and lashing out. But to say she was completely incorrect feels mistaken. Surely, even in grief, someone who knows you well and leaves you after five years can identify at least one flaw in you and mean it with their chest. To truly dispel shame and anger, I need to welcome and accept all possibilities. I accept that perhaps she actually does think of me that way and could feel that way forever, that yes, she could be even a little bit correct, in order to also accept that that doesn’t make me incapable of growth or less worthy of love.
That is also so hard to think about: that I need to consider love from other people and a future without her in it. My friends say they hope I can move forward with my life instead of waiting for or needing closure from her, that there's an opening now for someone who could provide me with the emotional intimacy I was missing towards the end of the relationship, as she began to push me away. I hate the realism but I know it’s supposed to help me. Anything is possible right now, including that she never speaks to me again, that our hearts find each other later on, and that new love can enter my life. I need to be okay with it all.
The idea of moving on is still so painful, but it appears to be the next milestone in this process, even if so far away it isn’t visible to my eyes. Sometimes I think, what’s the point of being with anyone else if one day she could return? There was nothing wrong about us, despite her family, despite the occasional chinese people in our neighborhood who would stare at us holding hands. I would gladly wait and not be with anyone else. Moving on is not about dating though, I realize. It’s about growing and opening my heart to good things in life, allowing myself to be happy and loved by others. And happiness and love come from many places. For now, they come from decorating my new apartment, running, and friends. They can’t come from her, nor can they come from the fantasy of being with her again. I thought my love was unconditional, unwavering, steady despite pain. Perhaps it continues to be—in a way, it's because of love that I can give her what she wants: my absence and complete detachment, with little resistance, with compassion and forgiveness. I must allow time to do its work for now; whatever is next will come next. If I follow what brings me joy, it will always be with me.
Last week was meditative but ultimately very lonely. So on Saturday, I ran 1.5 miles and met with my childhood friend for the entire day, eating sandwiches, hopping to two cafes, watching the Sopranos, and hanging up art in my new apartment. He and I attended the same high school. Seven years ago, there was a string of alumni suicides, and it was something we rarely discussed until yesterday at a cafe a song came on that I knew he associated with one of them. The song ended and he softly smiled and recounted his final memories of them.
Sometimes thoughts on my ex would come up in conversation and he always listened intently and offered advice and clarity. Even in the presence of friends, I think about her constantly and prefer to say the thoughts out loud rather than go quiet and dissociate. All thoughts, big or small: she loves thin french fries, I’ll recall while reading the menu at a restaurant; I’m doing much better than I was a few weeks ago, or, I’ve slid backwards since the last time you saw me; she hates cucumbers, I’ll note, looking into my glass at a bar; oh yeah, I remember that movie, I watched it with her; and often, just a placid “I miss her.” So on and so forth. Nobody judges and everybody listens. I needed my friend’s presence so badly and I knew he knew. I reminded him he could leave whenever he wanted and I would be okay, which was the truth. I’ve needed so much support lately and have felt burdensome. But he was choosing to be with me, and I trusted he meant it too. I was so relieved every time he said he wanted to stay longer.
I still sometimes hate who I am and believe everything she’s ever said to me is objective truth. But I’m also PMSing so that’s just how it is sometimes lol. When I can't shake self-hatred, writing it out helps. I hate how I look, I hate my intense personality, I hate how much I cry. If she moved on first, I’d hate myself so much more, I know it. I could hate her then, too, and I really don’t want to. My stomach is in knots thinking about that. But I’ll force myself to flip it and say, I love myself. I love myself so much that I’m making myself a new home. I love myself enough to stay in New York. I love myself enough to stay in touch with friends, to visit some of them this coming weekend. I love myself enough to eat breakfast every day. I love myself enough to recognize I loved her, that I am good and was good to her. I love myself enough to know that love takes many forms, and some of those forms come and go.