May memento

Twenty years ago in May, I met the person who was going to be the love of my life. He thought I was the coolest girl he’d ever met, I on the other hand, I thought he was a bit of a dickhead. Unperturbed by my indifference, he pursued me in the way you’d expect from a hormone riddled, 14-year-old boy in the year 2004, like prey. But he was sweet, almost sickly so. He muscled his way into my favour with compliments that scraped deeper than surface level. He assured me that the self consciousness I carried about my braced teeth was obvious and unnecessary, because my smile was beautiful, in and of itself. By looking through his lens, I learnt how to view the uneven, clunky wires as if lines on a map, illustrative of a journey to an unknown place. He put me on a pedestal. I stopped hiding my face behind my hands when I laughed.

Our union wasn’t representative of a progressive, modern love story; not even slightly. In true fairy tale fashion, the prince rescued the princess. Indeed, this prince saved the sad little girl from herself. Naïveté fooled us into believing we had it all figured out- love means forever, right? Bless, we were just kids. 

 Twelve years ago in May, I married him. He was, still is the epitome of a stand-up guy. We traversed 1000 lifetimes together over our 18 years. We shared firsts; we grew from children into adults together. He literally and figuratively held me as our baby girl bled out of me, as I clawed my way out of the depths of sadness time and time again, as I cradled our very own spider monkey babies in my arms for the first time, as I gained, as I grieved, as I discovered, as a I recklessly experimented with cutting my own hair into variations of a mullet. We lol’d until our bellies ached, shared secret jokes that would seem absurd to the ears of outsiders. We withstood a disproportionate number of hard knocks; his 6ft solid frame copping the biggest brunt. When I consider this, how he was my introduction to chosen love, it’s impossible not to think of myself as one of luckiest girls alive. I wish I’d expressed how sorry I am for vehemently fighting him every time he tried to place a band-aid over my hurts. I should have told him that every attempt was futile, because they were never his wounds to heal. 

Having someone by your side as you learn how to live is as cosy as cocooning your body in a fluffy doona on a chilly afternoon. It’s not until you step outside and allow the cold to whip at your bare skin that you realise, comfort isn’t, wasn’t ever enough. 

Two years ago in May, the life-sized tapestry we’d sown together come undone. I sat naked in a cloud of suffocating darkness pleading with a god I don’t believe in to never let me fall in love again. Throw me to the wolves, turn my body into a smash room for others to annihilate, but a broken heart, please, no, I beg of you, I couldn’t possibly survive this again. When it all became too haunting, when no arms of a loved one were strong enough to hold me, I drank back a cocktail of champagne and valium to escape the brutalising prison of my own mind. I got tired of waiting for a divine intervention, so into the pack I jumped; straight into those salivating mouths, hoping their gnarled teeth and wild intentions would bring me back to life or ruin me, whatever came first. Truthfully, I wanted to point fingers elsewhere, to stop torturing myself. Thereafter, I bid farewell to my innocence. 

Throughout this long, grief-stricken year I was stuck in a cyclical conversation with myself. I berated myself for every misstep, for being underprepared. I questioned why I’d focused intently on the high of falling in love and completely disregarded the intensity of the comedown when the love was lost. No word in my acquired vocabulary has the power to articulate the void that takes up residence inside of your soul when the only team you’ve ever known dismantles, when ‘we’ is abruptly replaced with me, myself and I. I had no concept, was utterly clueless as to how I was supposed to move forward, to heal, when despite knowing I’d made the right decision, my fear rendered me immobile. I couldn’t accept that heartbreak of this magnitude doesn’t merely happen once, it occurs incrementally for the rest of your life. The pain dulls, but grief has a knack for permeating your skin and bone. Over time you grow around it and eventually, if you’re lucky enough, you learn to tolerate it. Then one day you’re driving when The Scientist by Coldplay plays on the radio; you brace yourself, prepare for the onslaught of sadness, but no tears eventuate. You breathe a sigh of relief, whisper goodbye to that ill-fitting version of yourself, then you sing. You sing your fucking heart out.

In May last year, a lovely human bore witness to the scrappier, behind the scenes version of me and chose to love me anyway. We shared laughs, celebrated one another. Having him in my corner bolstered me, he pushed this hot little mess towards a kinder, healthier direction. In his presence I became reacquainted with the parts of myself I’d buried like tiny glass fragments, imbedded deep in my tissue. I started to dig them out, piece by individual piece. I knew he was trying to bring me back to life, animate me, but as my self awareness deepened, my love shallowed. It’s a paradox I’ve endlessly grappled with to no avail. I didn’t give him my best. Truthfully, I fed him snacks when he so desperately craved the full buffet. My love was skinny. It’s the only regret I harbour about our time together. I know he’ll find his full fat love one day; I hope he gorges himself silly. I hope his belly distends. 

In May 2024, two weeks ago, I lost every piece of writing I’d composed over the past two years. Every poem, every rambling thought, the vitriolic venom spat only in mind, all the texts I’d never send. The experience floored me, had me crying on my parent’s lounge room floor self pityingly questioning “why does this shit keep happening to me?”. I slurped two glasses of wine like a thirsty baby, then promptly discarded of my undeserving self-importance. I realised that watching these words once so exquisitely layered with meaning disappear was as equally cleansing as it was agonising. What at first glance looked like losing a chunk of personal history was in fact me finally purging the stories that no longer nourished me. The shedding of old, tarnished skin was visceral. I inhaled. I exhaled. I’d come full circle. I’d found my way back to me. I ate a piece of Lindt chocolate. I went to bed.

In May last week, my brother-in-law built this page for me, because undoubtedly, the guy loves me.

Here I am. 

Here you are. 

I do hope you stay.