Time and contrast.

Relationships exist relative to each other, or in contrast to them. In the wake of this recent breakup and the legal issues surrounding it, I’ve been blessed to be able to see my other human relationships as they truly are, rather than how I viewed them in fair weather alone. The older I get, the easier it becomes to cut someone out of my life. Though I suppose nowadays it’s not so much a momentous and painful amputation so much as it is a gentle push. A push away from me, a push out of the innermost circle of my friends and trusted ones, a nudge to the outside edges. We will say hello. I will be civil, kind, I will offer a hug and inquire about your life, but I will not let you in any longer.

When you fight your way through a terrible breakup in which your loved one abused you verbally and mentally, gas lighted you, retaliated by causing physical harm to you and those around you, it becomes less about who will be there when I’m crying about my bad day, and more about who will be there to reach out and say, ‘I understand. I sympathise. I support your openness about your situation, and your ability to take legal action.’ I had people who I haven’t seen for years, or those who I have never been especially close to, reach out via message and text and phone call, simply to show their support. On the other hand, I’ve had people who are supposed to be my closest confidantes say absolutely nothing. And it’s staggering, really, to see that kind of response from a person to whom you’ve shown nothing but loyalty and faith in the years of your friendship.

Am I angry? Resentful? No. Not nearly the way I thought I would be. I am so exhausted from carrying the burden of my recent trauma that I am simply relieved to see others as they are, and see with clear eyes who to trust versus who to keep at arm’s length.  It is sad that some of the people becoming arm’s length acquaintances were people I counted as close to me. But what is there to do, other than be grateful for the time I did have with them, and to focus my affections on those who have proven to be there for me in the darkest of times? It is a relief to be able to see who my fair-weather friends are. They will, and do, remain friends. But they are not the people I will invite into my home for a meal and a long chat over a bottle of wine.

Similarly, this human trauma has caused me to forgive those against whom I held a grudge. The comparative betrayals in my recent history have allowed me to choose grace over rage, kindness over coldness. There are all kinds of secret blessings in the violent and terrible betrayal I suffered at the hands of D.

Kevin tells me I have extremely high expectations of others, the same expectations I carry for myself, and perhaps he is right. I do expect people to always be brave, and always apologise, always forgive, always fight the good fight and choose others over themselves. I admit I do not always do these things myself, but I actively strive for them. I am constantly attempting to only think of myself, especially in tough times — a “Save yourself, screw the rest” mentality in order to survive — but it’s not in my nature, not the way I was raised. My priority nowadays is to be in service to others, after years and years of petulant selfishness allowed me as an only child. I can’t forget, however, all of the times I failed as a friend. It is as important for me to try to forgive myself and do my penance as it is to forgive others for their missteps. Meredith tells me I should demand loyalty of my closest friends. I simply request it, and allow others to show me their true colours. Sometimes it takes years for the reveal. Sometimes it takes only months. But I am forgiving everyone lately.

One day I will even forgive D. But that doesn’t mean that in forgiving him I would ever be willing to be in the same room as him again. The forgiveness is really to assuage my soul. To let go. To be light. (Meredith, again, tells me I carry too much weight. She is right, of course. But my weight is all that I know — the weight of my memories, regrets, longings, fears, hopes, histories. In writing I simply set down the weights, but I do not erase them. I memorialize them, in the hopes that I will learn from them. And they are all beautiful. They are all gifts because they have all been lessons. Jason Kirin taught me to ask “Why is this happening forme?” and it is the most useful advice about growth that I have ever received.)

Certainly, I am still crawling out of the wreckage, in many ways. I still drink more than I should, and smoking has reemerged as a passing habit (as I write this, I light my third cigarette). I am still not fully capable of being impassive the way I have always been in a professional setting. I let things get to me — shitty customers, confrontations, and so on. The court hearing is on Monday and until then I cannot rest easily. I pray, over and over again, that he won’t show, and then the PFA resets automatically to a three-year duration, and I don’t have to look at his face and feel a combination of death and sadness and fear. Social events are no longer something I agree to easily. I have skipped several USBG events, even though I am a highly active member running for a position of office, because I will never forget how my blood ran cold when I was told he had come to an event that night looking for me, assuming I would be there. I should care more that this might jeopardize my running. I know I should care more, and yet I retreat into my shell, into my home which finally feels safe and warm again, and choose to avoid asking for special treatment or deference from the current council members. I’m an adult, and there is no crying in restaurants, or much of anywhere else anymore. I quietly temper my expectations and try not to ask anything of anyone.

Eventually this pack will run out and I will get back into an intensive workout regimen and work will pick up and I will stop thinking too much (maybe). The court date will come and go and the days will rush headlong into the end of the year, leaving all of this unpleasantness satisfactorily in the past. But for now, I am waiting, scratching tally marks into the walls and feeling the time tick in my bones. This will pass. I will keep on fighting for myself. I will live and I will mean it.