Placebo’s “Song to say goodbye” blasts from my JBL Flip 3 speaker. I feel like crying. Sadness and existential angst set in, getting comfortable under my skin. Perfect mood for writing.
I’ve been spinning out of control for years. I got closer and closer to madness, walking too close to the edge of the abyss. After breaking up with L, I took the final step into the pit of insanity. And as I fell, I grabbed onto any ledge I could find on my way down. But these women, these infatuations, were too weak to hold my weight, to save me from perdition. So I continued downwards my unescapable fate, the bottom closing in.
“I’m glad to have you in my life. I feel like I have always been about to fall down a cliff, and finally I found a ledge I can use to get back up,” I text C. Feeling extremely vulnerable and weak, after another anxious insomniac night. She calls me right after reading it. “Are you OK?” she asks, concerned. We talk for a few minutes. “After reading my old blog posts, I can clearly see I’ve been caught in a self-destructive pattern. This is the first time I feel I can leave it behind,” I say. She laughs. “Having a breakthrough?” she says, with playful irony. “Not really, not right now,” I respond; “It’s more like this whole time with you have been a long realization. I love you. And that’s very scary, because I have no control over it.” I can’t see it, but I know she’s smiling on the other side of the line. That sweet, beautiful smile that makes me dissolve into the warmth of the Universe. “Love is a leap of faith. You have no control over it,” she says. “I love you so much, C,” I reply. “I love too you, Edo.”
We were broken up for a little over a week. I wrote her a deeply heartfelt letter and sent it by snail mail. Can’t say I waited patiently for an answer. Checked my phone every five minutes for two days, desperately looking for her reply. Couldn’t sleep. I was restless and edgy. Until she wrote me an SMS to go for a walk and a talk in the park. Which we did, under the afternoon sun, over a half-liter can of beer. We poured our hearts out. And they finally met in the middle. Then our lips met too. Our bodies followed. And the end became a new beginning. Of something different. Better.
It’s been a couple of weeks since then. Now she’s somewhere in Jylland, enjoying her Easter holiday, as I spend my days back in Copenhagen; working out, meditating, meeting friends and editing this book, The Decadence Chronicle. An autobiographic piece that’s been three years in the making, and that’s been painful -to say the least- to reread and polish. Looking back into all the fuck-ups and those stories, those cringeworthy old words and fleeting women. Those stale feelings and vanishing tales of misery with no purpose and without redemption.
Ah, fucking Easter.
It was a year ago I found out I was going to become a father. At the end of Easter 2018, The Moroccan asked me to come to her place because we needed to have “A talk.” I assumed it was gonna be like all the other talks I had with my former lovers, over the last three years. “I can’t do this anymore.” “It doesn’t feel right.” “I want something else.” But no. After she asked me to sit down, she said “I think I’m pregnant.” Which she was. Five weeks in, as we later found out. “What do you want to do?” she asked me. “We can’t have it. Not like this,” I said. And we didn’t. Against her Muslim beliefs and what she probably thought could be the start of a new beginning, she decided to have an abortion. But it didn’t matter that we had agreed it was the right -and sensible- thing to do. She blamed me for it, for not being supportive, for not giving our unborn child a chance. So I withdrew from her life. I left her alone, not knowing what to do to make things better, for us both. Still in disbelief of everything that had just happened; unable to digest such a life changing chain of events. Helpless and powerless, filled with rage, guilt and remorse.
I ran into her during my breakup, three weeks ago. She looked the same, except for her eyes. We had started hooking up again a month and a half after the whole abortion incident, and we continued our “non-relationship” until a couple of weeks before I met C. Despite of what had happened, there was always a special light in her eyes, some trace of hope. We were two broken souls that couldn’t stop crashing into each other. Regardless of how painful it was, or how empty it felt in those naked evenings and rushed breakfasts; there seemed to be the possibility of something significant beyond the darkness. That light was not there anymore. We were two complete strangers now and, as I biked home in the middle of the night after that unexpected encounter, I wondered how our world would have changed with a curly little Eduardo running around.
Sadly, my list of sins doesn’t end with the arbitrary termination of a life that could have been. “Toxic masculinity” doesn’t even begin to describe all the bad things I’ve done, for the sake of the words you have read or my selfish, pathetic little desires. And the more I fucked up, the more I let it become part of me, to the point of losing sight of the good in me, behind the thick smoke of the lives I burnt.
I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. For everything.
Those are just words, I know. They won’t bring relieve nor heal those I hurt. So asking for forgiveness is useless. And I don’t want your sympathy nor I need their pardon to move on. I already found the fuel to turn things around. As I continue to read the chronicle of my life, the summary of my decadence, I can’t wait to close this whole chapter down, to leave it far behind. The days of The Writer are almost over, and it’s about time to say goodbye.
It’s noon, April 18th 2019. The sun is up in Copenhagen and one of my favorites songs starts playing over my speaker. “Thinking warm cuddly thoughts about you ❤,” writes C over WhatsApp. I’m still in this anxious, creative mood. “Aw, babe… sometimes I feel I don’t deserve so much love. Or so much C,” I reply. But I want to believe I do. That, in despite of the countless transgressions I’ve committed and no matter how much shit I pulled and noise I made; I deserve to love and be loved. And that, even if only one person is touched by any of my words, my existence will not have been wasted and the pain I brought and experienced won’t have been in vain.
We are nothing but the memories we leave behind in others. How will you remember me? How will they remember you?