Stream of Consciousness

A Trilogy of Heartbreaks Part 3 of 3

In the end, we were on separate islands. I had the boat, but you kept the paddles. No matter how hard I tried, the tide would drift me out farther into sea.

At night, our phone calls were sparse. An echoed sentiment of what we used to mean to each other. “How do you do?” to “I’m fine. How about you?”

Once I left you on hold as I collected myself in another room. I painted you a portrait with my tears, though I had no watercolor. Blank canvas – visual epitaph of our relationship.

You were the chapter I never read past. The book left in rough draft. A manuscript left on a train.

To say that you were the one who got away is a misnomer. I never had you in the first place. You belonged to the air, loose leafed notebook paper dancing a sweet bellow.

Personal

All the times that we f**ked up

It’s easy to become callous after a break up. It’s probably no different when breaking up means a divorce. And, yeah, I know. I just made a post about this not too long ago. But I’ve been doing a lot of “soul” searching these past few months. It’s the price of wanting to put myself back out there. So bear with me, o.k.? Is that cool? Thank you.

Anyway, as I was saying.

It’s easy to become callous—pessimistic, even—after a break up. Probably more so when breaking up means a divorce. Today, a “patron” parked their car in front of another patron’s car. Aware that this might need a visual, I grabbed my phone to snap a picture. Aware that I need a job to live, I realized that snapping a picture would incriminate me, especially if my intent was to post it on my online journal. So putting my phone away, I began making excuses why I didn’t take a picture when the opportunity arose. Instead, let’s use this creative writing training I have to make a visual. Imagine, if you will, a car parked properly in a parking space. You got that? Good. Now imagine another car, parked directly in front of that car in a make-believe parking space. This jack ass boxed in properly parked patron. And while we announced over our intercom (are they still called intercoms?) that jack ass should come and speak to us at the front desk, the jack ass never materialized. This, of course, led to speculation. Speculation led to the conclusion (in my and Crissy’s minds, anyway) that this is a case of a jilted lover.

Now I partook in a lot of callow behavior during break ups. And I fell into the pessimistic trap. I did the woe-is-me routine. I scrawled on my adolescent bedroom’s wall (it’s still there, to this day, people). I wrote angst-filled poetry. There are things I’ve done that I’m not proud of, and some that make me sick to my stomach.

And yet, I’ve come out the other end. I got over it. Sure, there are moments when I sit here and think about the good ol’ days. I think about how things would be if I had tried just a little harder. But no one’s got time to live in the what ifs. Especially if they’ll never come true.

There’s a scene in (500) Days of Summer that comes to mind. No, it’s not that scene. Not that scene either. Yeah, towards the end. The movie’s ending right before its epilogue. Where Summer and Tom have their talk.

As I’ve said in my last post about this, I don’t believe in soul mates. And if I did believe in fate, then each of the people unfortunate enough to love me should be considered soulmates. Because wouldn’t that make sense? Wouldn’t I have encountered all these people in order to prepare myself for that ultimate soul mate?

But what if…What if things were different?

Personal

a dumb screenshot of youth

I don’t believe in soulmates. The idea of destiny having any role in who I fall in love cheapens the experience. Besides, the math doesn’t pan out for soulmates. The idea of meeting the one in your own backyard isn’t fate; it’s convenience.

I’m enamored with the idea of “sole mates,” though. The idea of out of the billions of potential people, you’re the one with whom I want to spend the rest of my life. So when I meet a happily married couple (or even a long-term, unmarried couple), I silently root for their happiness.

Not sure if I’m past the age where all my friends are getting married. There are still single people in my circle, after all. But divorce is in season. And I think death isn’t too far off. And the existential crisis starts setting in (but that’s a post for another day).

We spoke about divorce. Namely that of my coworkers’. While I never married Jeanna, the motions that they went through feels familiar. They just handled it better than I did. Or, at least, the way went about it seemed less destructive than path.

I lived my life on the stage. There was nothing too taboo for me to discuss in the public forum. And while I didn’t stay silent on the matter, I was asked not to divulge the details of our break up. And I don’t think I ever did.

When the discussion turned to signs that they missed or were suspicious of before their divorce, I remember the way it was when we broke up in 2008. How, even then, I didn’t handle it well. The things I learned about her and how I learned about them. The helplessness I felt when she slipped through my fingers.

I wasn’t the best boyfriend. I was hardly a partner. My selfishness got in the way a lot. And back then, I wasn’t ready to admit to that. And I did some pretty shitty things to people I loved. Still love.

Sometimes I wonder what’s the proper procedure of moving on. I’ve had my flings. I’ve had my one night stand. I’ve offered my vulnerability to someone who took advantage of it. But when I see people fresh out of a divorce already building a new life with someone else, it irks me. Because what does it mean that someone can get over a marriage of 10 or 13 or 20 years within a matter of months. Unless, your new relationships are just new to the public.

I’m not casting stones. I’m just confused.