It was the time we slow-danced in the kitchen at 11pm. His hand on my waist, my head on his shoulder. I was laughing, and he was smiling. And we were spinning. Spinning around a music-less room, multiplying my feelings with the motion.
It was the time my nose was blocked, and he tapped on my head. Annoying, I thought. Before he said, ‘nah, nah, lay on your back, this will help’. And he persisted to tap tap tap my forehead and gently squeeze up and down my nose. And suddenly, I could breathe again.
It was the time we took a football to the park. Kicking and catching, I ran around with endless energy – fueled by his presence. He laughed at my enthusiasm, and terrible kicking. And I cherished the afternoon light and how normal it felt. How, in that moment, I could see the future.
It was a multitude of little moments that did it. Drew me in. Made me vulnerable, to him. I wrapped these little moments up in meaning and held them close to my heart. I used them as evidence that what I shared with him was special, magical. I used them to counteract everything else…
Like the consistent feeling of doubt. The cloud of questions that hung over me. Are you seeing anyone else? Do you like me yet? Am I in your future? What can I do to convince you to feel about me, like I feel about you... All the questions I did not ask, because I did not want to confirm the answers I already knew. And so, the unasked questions kept the hope (and the doubt) alive.
Like the time he said, ‘ambivalent is a stretch’. Our drinks almost empty, we sat at the bar discussing attachment theory. Upon determining his dismissive avoidant style, we googled one of the characteristics – ambivalence. ‘Having mixed feelings or contradictory ideas about something or someone’. With my heart on my sleeve, I asked if he felt ambivalent about me. Hoping, that if he couldn’t like me just yet, then maybe he had fleeting moments of liking me. Or, at the very least, he felt somewhat conflicted between his broken heart and new-found company. His answer, delivered so casually and quickly, came like a kick in the guts. ‘Ambivalent is a stretch’. I tried to swallow my feelings with the last of our drinks, but all I could taste was disappointment.
Like the time, the days, of tightness in my chest. The unusual feeling of quietness, of fragility. A daily feeling of constriction in my throat. I tried to dodge and ignore the anxiety. I tried to convince myself that it was due to something else. But in reality, it was always him. It was the rollercoaster of our relationship that was wearing me down and winding me up. The consistent replies one day and the radio silence the next. The actions of affection coupled with the words of dismissal (hello ambivalence). The inconsistency, the uncertainty, the mis-matched emotions. It was eating me up.
After one weekend of feeling especially eaten, I reached my rotting point. I think I needed to get that far, for the stench of the situation to be that strong, for me to really want to change it. Because, despite all of the uncertainty and doubt and confusion, I just really liked him.
I liked how he made me feel when I was with him. I liked looking forward to seeing him. I liked the idea that he was looking forward to seeing me. I had a lot of ideas that I liked. The idea of the future, of what we could eventually be, of how he would eventually see me. But ideas and reality are different. Entirely different. And in reality, all of my magical moments were just mere moments to him.
In the end, I couldn’t do it – as much as I wanted to be able to. I couldn’t keep having these meaningful experiences, and dubbing them meaningless. When I was eventually brave enough to recognise how the situation was impacting me – viscerally – the decision to act came almost peacefully. I realised that my anguish wasn’t worth the occasional attention. And it certainly wasn’t worth ambivalence (or there lack-of). And I was ready to feel whole again. To feel control again.
So.
One Monday night just like any other.
In a spontaneous phone call of tears.
It was over.
And as the courage came to end the call, so too did the relief.
The weight was gone.