It’s the beginning of April and I did it: finally decided I’d had enough, that I must leave you and return to Canada. I made this decision in great conflict ~ part of me desperately wanted to stay, believing that I could fix this broken thing between us. Another part of me knew that I must seek refuge from you, a force that could and would ultimately take my life. I tried, I tried so hard to hate you. I could not. And so, I felt disengaged, like a creature of loss. I could see myself, a heap of broken angles. How sad, that I loved something which did not exist. In some ways I sacrificed myself to have you, much the same way a junkie sacrifices herself to get her next fix. Loving an abusive man is like playing Russian roulette with oneself. When will the chamber release the bullet? Now? Maybe. Next time? Maybe. Or the time after? Perhaps. Eventually, a finger on the trigger will release the bullet, right?
My intense rage began to melt into tiny, but ever-growing, pools of grief. The butterflies in my stomach died, and a sick, heavy feeling replaced their flutters as I walked through the doors of Gatwick Airport, pushing my luggage cart ever forward. Was I doing the right thing, returning to Canada in such a haste, like this? Something deep in my viscera whispered that it wasn’t the right course of action.
I felt confused. My heart told me to stay ~ to return to you. My pride told me that I must continue on this course. So many people had rallied together to raise the money to pay this air fare at the very last minute. They counted on me to follow through, for once. Me, the unstable one, who forever changes her mind at the very last second. And, so I proceeded, engulfed in those pool of grief. right there, in the middle of the South Terminal of London Gatwick Airport.
I longed for a balm, any kind of balm, to dissolve the pain. I wanted to snort cocaine. I wanted to smoke a joint. I wanted to smoke crack. I wanted to eat copious amounts of chocolate cheesecake. I wanted to drink Absinthe, neat. I wanted, no, needed, to kill that sick feeling that squeezed the life out of my heart. Instead, I phoned my mother collect from a pay phone and sobbed into the phone for about a half hour. And then, I waited. While I waited I watched the night unfurl. I watched people oblivious to the passage of time in their slumber. And I waited. For me, the passage of time felt so acute; it could not pass quickly enough.
I find myself here, betwixt and between, in a remote landscape that does not exist. I long for the city, my city, I long for its seething streets, streets that make me forget what I do not want to remember. I want to walk these notoriously feverish streets aimlessly, carrying my sadness close to me, like some sort of comforting plague. I want to drown my endless longing for you in the beautiful anxiety of life on my streets, to scatter my pain amongst the echo and tremble of their excessive noise.
The more I scatter my pain, though, the more it pulverizes me, seed by seed, grain by grain. Abstract, intangible parts of you linger in each granule of my pain, like dust floating in the air. I cannot touch them; they do not suffice. Right now, in my perfect despair, I feel as though I could die of this life without you, missing you as I do. And so, I’d die if I stayed with you. And I’d die if I left you. Does it really make any difference? I mean, am I better off without you? I don’t know.
Forgiveness sits on my tongue like a frozen thunder. A frozen thunder which, when it hits the air, roars and then shatters. You remain, to me, a broken thing, a question without an answer, a perpetual white-hot flame burning my heart, from the inside, out, and eating away at my soul. And, when I ponder the beauty of broken things scattered across the formless soul of our union, I see so clearly that, no matter how much I loved you, I could never fill the vortex inside you. No one could. And so, loving you broke me wide open, like a smashed incandescent light bulb. My pain crept among the strewn wreckage, feeding itself, like a parasite, on our brokenness, on your brokenness. Loving you, I could not tell the difference between reality and the creations of my own heart.