grades of shade

I fell in love full throttle.

After four years with her and an uncomfortable year alone, I was ready, ready, READY to fall. He appeared and I was smitten. Recalling how I hurt her cheating and carrying on and caring only for myself, I was ready to be a woman- a good woman, faithful, true.

He smiled, came over for dinner, stayed for the weekend. He was a wounded thing like me, seeking integrity. The weekend hookup snowballed into a relationship. Two weeks later we were committed, in love, making all-day and night phone calls, shifting to fit our relationship- the newest and greatest priority in our lives.

Things fell apart as quickly and dramatically as they came together. Soon we were fighting about dust mites and sunbeams- I mean anything that crossed our eyes or our thoughts. There was no peace to be had. Then by gargantuan effort we were peace again. Just like that we were spending weekends ensconced in each others arms, more tender to each other than ever before.

Early mornings the rising sun would catch me looking at his smooth skin, glowing a reddened brown-black, with lashes so long they stroked his cheeks. He was a pretty man and soft. And his waking was gentle and squeaky, a 'hey'-smile-kiss-sleep-wake, gradual.

He did love me. He did. Hmmm... maybe he actually loved my image. After all, I was as much in love with what he symbolized as I was with him. He loved my image... yes, I feel comfortable with that idea. It rings true in my core. I was the strong black woman- creative, self-assured, spiritual and connected to/grounded in my roots. So it seemed, yeah? So wrong. Inside I was confused, lost, lacking direction and purpose, wounded (deeply). I was empty inside or maybe I was full and rotting. What a discovery! She shines brightly, but is fools gold. He was caught in a pretty trap and sought escape, but I would not let him go. I fought to keep him because he meant that I was ok, normal, a woman.

And he was only pieces of a man. Broken from his past hurts, he would crawl into bed and curl up beside me, a delicate, defenseless animal- small. He thought himself strong- maybe he was strong- but he would lie in my arms, head on my breast, curled like a fetus, clinging- a wounded man. Hurt.

He would also wave opinions around like a baton and club me in the head with his rightness. We struggled then decided that, since no one would admit defeat, we should just not fight anymore. Silence bloomed between us and he dwelled in ambivalence, regret, hurt and dissatisfaction.

His feelings about me he kept close. We were together, but he was gone. Where did he go? We were over again. I fought again, but it was a losing battle and I knew it. My fight was a bloody retreat. Was that it? Was that it then?

It hurt more than any pain I've ever known.

I cried and smoked and drank myself into the realization that I had been given an opportunity to become whole. My choices were to come apart or to heal (Healing sucks, by the way).

The first part was awful. I felt raw and he wanted to be friends and call me and hang out and talk about his life and mine, the separate life he'd forced me into leading. I tried to do it, but soon realized that I couldn't support him and heal. It had to be me or him, but not both. Cutting ties was scary because it meant WE were really over. It also felt really, really good to put me first.

ME FIRST! ME FIRST! ME FIRST!

yeah.

So, I'm alright! It feels good to write this, to put this down and feel that it's true. This is the point of all the heartache, I guess. If I hadn't loved hard, I wouldn't have experienced the loss and if I hadn't lost him, I wouldn't have felt the pain and there would have been no healing and the healing is what's gotten me to clear. clear. joy. and alright.

It's a thing of beauty.