Coming home

May 25, 2020

Finally found a moment to write my thoughts down after a long time.

Semi-lockdown is still going on. People can see 4 other people outside the family and I have picked two, one ex (who happens to be the father of my child) and one current boyfriend. The son picked a few friends, I think 2 or three so we are basically seeing more than we should - combined. But then judging by my neighbours chatting in the parking lot, I suspect we aren’t the only ones.

I just broke up with a boyfriend I went back to after I broke up with the current boyfriend. Confusing? Maybe I’ll explain it another way. I broke up with Mr. F because I thought he was not ready to bring me into his life totally. I loved him and maybe that triggered this unbearable insecurity in me so I sort of ended it without any sort of closure. You could say I just drifted away. A month and a half of feeling broken hearted, Mr. C sent me a letter dated Valentine’s Day – how romantic. I only saw it two days after, having had quite a busy Valentine weekend with the girls dining, clubbing and generally strutting our wares to the outside world.

So remember I was feeling miserable for the drifting apart with Mr. F and was very vulnerable and needing to be loved. There was a frantic exchange of messages after I answered Mr. C’s initial letter. And I agreed to meet up with him at his house, feeling sure I would be able to resist reconciling. I was wrong of course. Long story short, I stayed the night, had make up sex and without so many words we were a pair again.

I left a few days later to a previously planned vacation designed to forget Mr. F thinking I would be healed in the process. Oh boy how wrong I was… big time. I brought a book with me to lull me to sleep when I was resting at the hotel and it was like deja vu in text. The story was about Mr. F and I in reverse. I was the pathetic loser guy and he was the widow who was still so totally hung up with her dead husband. As I read the passages I was pushed further and further to a quagmire of dark melancholy. I missed the fucking bastard. How’s that? But I swallowed it all and dragged my feet to finish my trip in the fashion I envisioned despite the strange emptiness of Florence reminiscent of perhaps the black plague back in the dark ages.

Then I went back home to once again resume my evenings with Mr. C. Sure it was idyllic. He made it all pleasant. I made it all pleasant. I agreed with all of his arrangements, cooperated with his plans, and followed his suggestions, like a robot all the while missing that one person who truly owned my heart.

I decided to send the book I read with a letter to Mr. F. Before long I received a message thanking me for still keeping in touch, opening up his heart, his soul, his longings, his deep sadness. And my heart melted like marshmallows in hot chocolate, turning into small bubbles that popped and finally disappeared into the depths of the brown liquid. What can I say, it was a second wave of heart break caused by this man.

My reconciliation with Mr. C became a prison cell I wanted to escape from. But I was not very keen on causing another heart-ache on him. This would be the third wave for him if I ever did. Did I wish the same sorrow I am experiencing now on another person? No. But will I be happy going through the motions of being in-love? Not either. Will I risk a steady influx of love from someone by plunging back to the insecurity of being giddily infatuated with a man carrying heavy emotional baggage? After weighing my heart with my mind, my mind allowed my heart to win. I have not done this very often, this may perhaps be the only moment I really totally gave in to my heart.

So broke up with Mr. C did and there I was again feverishly communicating with Mr. F. The lockdown was full on at that moment. We saw each other again in person two weeks after our official reconciliation.

I have forgotten how smitten I was with him. He really was such a beautiful man although I doubt if he realizes that. His hair had grown wild, the golden curly strands framing his face like an old Greek sculpture. He was wearing a decent t-shirt, bless him. But his tattered working denim pants made him look all too real. At sixty he looked so disarmingly boyish, squinting at me and standing there with his lanky legs in an angle, looking so totally James Dean and awakening the sleeping butterflies in my stomach. It felt like coming home.