To Have Loved and Lost

It has been a rough last month for my good friend, one of those patches of life that grabs you and shakes you to your core. At his core, and at most of ours is that most human of basic needs, to feel loved and to give love freely. But what of those times when love is not reciprocal? When love is met with anger, or worse yet, indifference? It is one of Life’s most exquisite pains: love unrequited, one heart beating frantically, a yearning rhythym to ward off impending solitude, one heart beating mercilessly, a military march squarely into singlehood. The echo of retreat is simultaneously deafening in its cacaphony, and yet not loud enough, for each beat takes that one heart further away into oblivion. The oblivion of Ex-hood. Of not knowing every last detail of your fading beloved’s life.

The losses are at first gradual. For the first time in the longest time, you aren’t informed of the blandness of her chicken salad, aren’t reminded of the necessity of daily calls, don’t receive a nightly, sleep inducing kiss. It’s disorienting, like amputating a limb. The world seems tilted, off-kilter, swirling dangerously close to the edge of nothingness. Feelings come in sharp bursts, or not at all. Mornings are the worst, continually bereft of sweet dreams where She might visit, heavy with the re-realization of loneliness. Some feelings recede entirely; the happiness of simple existence, of shared double-churned, vanilla-bean ice cream. So, the solution seems too simple: to eat more. Not so simple. Other needs surface sluggishly, as if oozing through a dormant volcano: hunger, thirst, hygiene. It’s as if a razor has lost all meaning and purpose, for stubble seems insignificant in the face of such mental anguish. The world turns all shades of achromatic. Life begins to mirror your razor blade.

One feeling that is constant is the pain. All kinds of pain. There’s the dull ache of missingness, the cravings of the body and the psyche for the drug of Her. It causes desperate acts, watching 30 second video clips of friendly banter on a sickening loop, just to hear her laugh, haunting you with its joy. Smelling the clothes that she left behind, vowing never to wash them of their olfactory comfort. There’s the whip of despair, acidifying eyeballs from the inside, slashing the tendons that hold your knees upright, disembowelling torsos, and bruising your flesh, top to bottom. After this onslaught, which happens unpredictably, and all too frequently, the aftermath maybe spent kneeling on the kitchen floor, panting, or slumped against the hallway, fists grasping linoleum, eyes unfocused. A large portion of the day becomes an extended exercise in avoidance. Mentally casing areas for clues that could trigger memories and subsequent suffering. At least with pain however, there is feeling. Eventually, even this poor comfort recedes. And then you’re faced with it, looking down deeply into inky blackness, contemplating loneliness not as an abstract concept but a living entity, witheringly patient in its knowledge that all succumb to its silent insistence. The Void breathes, it expands and contracts, but it is ever-present. For there is the knowledge, deep in the recesses of your mind, that you can never escape the finality of it all, the impending island of alone, where all visit with increasing frequency, and eventually take permanent residence.

Then there comes a point where there appears a glimmer, framing the horizon with a pale effervescence. One star appears, wondrous and encouraging, appearing more intoxicating than any star that has ever existed previously. The star takes many forms, perhaps floating in a moon-lit pool after a soul-cleansing run, or the shy smile of a fast food employee, as she gives you an extra serving of greasy satisfaction. Regardless it is there, undeniable, hope coalesced. Then, miraculous as life itself, other stars come into view, braving the icy paralysis that comes with carnal knowledge of the beast. They practically shout, “WE ARE HERE, LIFE IS GOOD!” Their voices resonate with another part of you, as implacable as loneliness, the part that hopes, the part that thirsts for life. Now there are more tears, but of a different nature; tears of gratitude for this shining counterpart, standing out in impressive relief against the despair of the night. There is also an anger, a fierce pride in reclaiming what has been taken. A vow to stand square and firm, and turn your back on the Void, to say “It is not yet your time! I will be strong.” And these feelings combine to explode out of you in a rage of gratefulness, filling the universe with your presence. You were broken and now you are reformed, harder and purer, and more indescribably you than you ever were before.

Truth comes then, a knowing that Void and Hope are One, neither truly existing without its partner. What is a star without the night? What is darkness, but absence of light? Truly, love cannot be appreciated without loss, and that is the beautiful essence of having loved and lost: the hope and gratitude of love renewed...