reeling in the years

a two year anniversary of unanswered questions

It will be two years on January 30th. Here I am, marking the anniversary again, reliving that day, rehashing the short conversation we had, wondering where we went wrong. Wondering where I went wrong.

I’m a sucker for anniversary dates, even if they are bad ones. I record everything in the calendar in my mind and my brain sets reminders that go off incessantly, whispering to me things like it’s been ten years since your trip to Barcelona. It’s been six years since your first tattoo. Today is the anniversary of the day he moved here. And on an on. I don’t mind. I like being reminded of things. I like reminiscing. But every once in a while, an anniversary hurts. I still mark it, recognize it. I still reminisce. I still question everything. The second anniversary of The Great Leaving gives me the opportunity to reflect.

I looked at what I wrote last year to mark the occasion. I wanted to see how far I’ve come, or if I’ve even moved forward at all. I wanted to see if I changed, if my emotional well being is any better than a year, two years ago.

Here we are a year later, and that grief and anger are somewhat muted. I’m divorced, I’m free, I am making a life of my own, on my own. I listen to Cake’s version of “I Will Survive” a lot. I listen to Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone” a lot. I’ve tried hard to put the sadder music in my collection on the back burner. I need to move on, I need to become a happier version of who I am. I don’t feel like I really have a lesson to learn here or any growth to do. I just want to be happy again. A full year’s worth of grieving is enough.

Except it’s not! I have learned that grief does not have a timetable, and that it changes shape constantly. In some ways I have moved on and in many ways, I have not. And that has to be ok, because I’m doing the best I can.

We talk often enough, through texts and emails. We talk about being friends, getting together when we’re both comfortable enough doing so. I just need some time. How much longer than a year do I need? I don’t know. It’s been long enough that I forget the sound of his voice sometimes. I forget how he looked in the morning, how he felt next to me at night. I forget what it was like to hold his hand, to eat dinner with him at a restaurant, how blue his eyes are.

Oh, how naive I was. All his talk about being friends, about talking and getting together was just his way of keeping me at peace with him, of alleviating him of any guilt. I have forgotten so many things about him, except when he pops up in my dreams from time to time and he seems so real and tangible and it makes me have to mentally reset. But I don’t have to worry about seeing him or talking to him in real life setting me back, because we have not had contact since July, when I was in the hospital and he told me he’d check up on me after my surgery. I’m still waiting for that check in.

Not talking to him at all has helped me immensely. I no longer wait for texts from him. I no longer think of excuse to contact him. I took him off my pinned texts and his last message to me is buried beneath a mound of friends and doordash texts. His birthday came and went this month and I didn’t even contact him. I stopped caring about his feelings, his loneliness. I stopped worrying about if he is eating or sleeping enough, if he is still going to AA meetings, still sober. It’s just not my business anymore, and that’s a big difference between last year and this; I lost my need to nurture him, to make sure he’s doing alright.

I think I’ll always feel hurt and abandoned by him. There’s no getting away from that and I don’t want to because those feelings are valid and I need to live them and not push them away. The idea that I shouldn’t feel hurt comes from him, but also comes from my penchant for thinking I’m to blame for everything. I’ve been thinking more and more about how I do not have to forgive him, that he is not owed my forgiveness, nor did he earn it. So the struggle I had last year with wanting to be forgiven for things I did not do, and wanting to forgive him for unforgivable actions is over; I’ve let go of all that.

Two years later, I’m doing ok. I like being alone. I’ve discovered things I’m capable of that I always brushed aside because I had him to take care of things. I’ve gotten to know myself, to befriend myself. I realized I absolutely do not need a man around to feel fulfilled or happy. I’ve learned to live.

I thought about writing him a letter, detailing every hurt, every way in which he betrayed me. I want to let him know what he did to me, to my life. I want to make sure he knows that what he did to me was cowardly and an offense to the trust we had before. But what purpose would that serve? What would I really get out of it? He would not answer me. I would not get the closure I so desire. I have to learn to live with the fact that I’ll never know.

When will I let go of all the thoughts that crowd my head, all the questions that invade my sleep? Is two years enough time to mourn our relationship of fourteen? Despite the fact that I now feel unburdened by his emotions, that I’m no longer a victim to his moods, that I feel freed from living in his shadow, I still insist upon knowing why. The years have not changed that. They never will.

So I mark January 30th down as an anniversary of sorts, and I will set aside the time to reflect on the last two years, to praise myself for growth and chastise myself for my emotional stagnation. Eventually January 30th will go back to just being my son’s birthday. Maybe next year. Let’s see what 2023 brings.

Then again, maybe the misery is just meant to be: