Full circle

​By the time my last word is typed down, the futility of this might become painfully obvious. Or there could come, finally, the sense of conclusion. This goddamn closure that keeps on avoiding me, through the years, the pandemic, the change of continents, seasons and brain chemistry, messed up by me idiotically forgetting to take my anxiety pills for three days in a row.
But, look here, babe. The time has come for me to thank you. Very much so, to be frank. Thank you for not coming back and staying there in the shadows; present and absent, in tandem. The distance you’ve kept from me has been a blessing in disguise that my loneliness, depression and dread of the future would not allow me to see. But there it is now, as clear as day. The dragging of this love for you was devoid of meaning and, honestly, just plain dumb.
I gave you everything I was, everything I had, and that was never enough. You were like a black hole, sucking up the light from me. Never to be fulfilled nor satisfied. Not by a single individual, at least. And for so long I believed you. I confided in your assessment of me being lower than trash. A beggar for whatever breadcrumbs you’d let me have. Breadcrumbs of love, of attention, of care. But I could never aspire to get a fraction of what you gave to others. Those other men had your total, undivided attention. And the biggest piece of the cake was always for you and your succubus of an ego and self-absorption. It was never me, nor about me. It’s was you, you, you and always just you.
It’s been very easy to tell a compelling story when you worked so hard to establish yourself as the villain. Everyone around me knew it, but their words of caution fell on deaf ears. That was totally my bad, though. It was way beyond you, although you probably don’t like to hear that. I made your story part of my own redemption arc. Saving you was saving myself. Redeeming your sins was a proxy to being able to forgiving myself. And, in the background, it went so much further. “Stop dating your mum,” my therapist summed it up, gracefully. Because yes, I wanted you to see me. But you seeing me, acknowledging my worth, was, asynchronously, my inner child asking my mother to fucking love me, unconditionally. And I failed. None of you ever did. And never will.
So yeah, you can see that I’m rightfully resentful. Yet, I’m letting it go. Cutting you and our whole story lose, for good. You treated me like a beast of burden and, even after you were long gone, I still carry this damn load. Holding myself back became a vice, an addiction. Adoring and detesting you, too. Because being the victim has it’s undeniable high, you know? Until the narrative changed. Just like that.
Enter the hero.
You never liked me having a certain spirituality. You never really liked me, in general. But that’s easy to guess after these intense three years. But, yes, I believe in fate. That everything happens for a reason. And every single tear, insult, salt in my wounds, infidelity, etcetera; everything put us in Frederiksberg Have at 11 AM, this Monday. We walked past each other in the park, as I was coming back from getting tested for COVID, before my trip to Chile. She looked just like I remembered her from five years ago. But she looked happier, as she walked with her date towards me. I stared into her eyes, trying to make our gazes cross. She didn’t notice me. Not then nor on the next time we ran into each other, about 10 minutes later.
“I just ran into you, at the park. You looked so happy with your boyfriend,” I wrote her on Snapchat.
“It was a date,” she swiftly replied, with a smiley emoji.
“You are in the dating market again? Why haven’t you contacted me, then? Why don’t I get a date?”
“Let’s go on a date. When?”
“Now? I’m going to Chile for a month tomorrow.”
And we met, soon after. And we had coffee and went for a walk. And we reminisced those days when we were lovers from Tinder. When she was married, in an open relationship, and I slowly started getting feelings for her. Inconvenient feelings that lead her to leave me. That lead us to take on messed up relationships, trips, flings, never ending PhDs and unfulfilling careers. Writing books, getting fired from jobs, going homeless. Miserable. And happy, at times. Ever growing. Ever evolving. As if getting ready. As if preparing to have sex again, that Monday night. And talking about what the fuck are we doing with these sudden feelings that came the morning after, as I had to rush to the airport. As I departed to the other side of the world and she wonders if she should continue to “date” gay men who want to have kids and share custody. And we fight over the phone, about shit a solid couple would. And I am terrified of fucking up again. But considering being the straight guy who ends up fathering her kids. Because they will be my kids too. And why is this feeling so familiar, so fucking obvious, after just a few days? As if those five years apart were not really a separation. As if this is, at last, it.
So thank you, babe. Thanks for the silence and the distance. For the good times and the awfulness. For the great sex, the hikes, the dinners and the countless shitty times. You paved the way for this awakening. All your exes end up in happy, long lasting relationships. Well, all of them cheated on you and dumped you for their mistresses. In a way, I broke the rules. But will, potentially, end up fulfilling the standard procedure of the aftermath of you. And couldn’t be more grateful for that.
Merry Christmas, C.

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