a coming to terms
I spent last weekend in Los Angeles, hanging out with my friend Chris and looking after Lise's cat while she was out of town. Late one night, as I was driving through the fog from Chris's house to Lise's, listening to Rufus Wainwright and thinking gloomy thoughts, I came to a realization.
These past few months, I've often thought that death is an easier loss to take than the end of a serious relationship. Death is final and it's inarguable. There's no oh, maybe if I do this, he'll come back to me, because dead is dead. It can't be helped. Bargaining is pointless and any what-if's are clearly fantasy, so the only choice available is to move on with life. It sucks hugely, but in a basic sense, the grief is uncomplicated.
A hundred times I must have had those thoughts, but for some reason, that night on I-10, it suddenly occurred to me: the end of a relationship is a sort of death. What Nathan and I had is gone. It's not coming back. Worrying and trying to figure out what I could change to fix it is just as pointless as trying to raise the dead.
This is not to say that we'll never get another shot at it someday. But if we do--and there's no banking on it--it won't be a continuation. It will be something completely new, with new rules and a new starting point. We'll be different people, and we'll have to get to know each other all over again, from square one.
Oddly enough, it was an empowering realization, although it's given me almost as much sadness as it has strength. That night, I slept in Lise's guest room; the last time I'd slept there was with Nathan, in the early months of our relationship. And when I rose the next morning alone, I felt like I'd finally closed the door on the past.
These past few months, I've often thought that death is an easier loss to take than the end of a serious relationship. Death is final and it's inarguable. There's no oh, maybe if I do this, he'll come back to me, because dead is dead. It can't be helped. Bargaining is pointless and any what-if's are clearly fantasy, so the only choice available is to move on with life. It sucks hugely, but in a basic sense, the grief is uncomplicated.
A hundred times I must have had those thoughts, but for some reason, that night on I-10, it suddenly occurred to me: the end of a relationship is a sort of death. What Nathan and I had is gone. It's not coming back. Worrying and trying to figure out what I could change to fix it is just as pointless as trying to raise the dead.
This is not to say that we'll never get another shot at it someday. But if we do--and there's no banking on it--it won't be a continuation. It will be something completely new, with new rules and a new starting point. We'll be different people, and we'll have to get to know each other all over again, from square one.
Oddly enough, it was an empowering realization, although it's given me almost as much sadness as it has strength. That night, I slept in Lise's guest room; the last time I'd slept there was with Nathan, in the early months of our relationship. And when I rose the next morning alone, I felt like I'd finally closed the door on the past.