Beginnings are a constant . . . and they require no real commitment. There he was, my new beginning and I was his. Easy. I did not know at that time that he walked freely from beginning to beginning. He could not commit . . . not to relationships . . . not to their endings. I read between his lines (and his linens)
He told me in the beginning that he would not marry (anyone) and he also said, "I'm an asshole and you'll find out soon enough and go running for the door." I thought I could rescue him . . . me, the filtered ear that I am . . . the wanting heart that I am . . . the student of Jung that I am . . . the mother archetype that I am . . . I heard, “Please love me for what I am.” And I opened wider, and invited him in . . . deeper. So loving am I . . . so God-like am I . . . so, “I know what’s best for you and for me,” am I . . . so arrogant I can be.
It was simple and I complicated it. Things are far simpler and closer than they apear.
I wanted more and he knew it. I wanted more and he could not give it to me. So, I ended it and he agreed. I let go and breathed a sigh of relief . . . he called three times that week. I phoned him back . . . scratched open the scab (hoping he was going to heal me afterall) . . . and I bled for three more days. No word from him.
Now, all I want is his commitment to this ending . . . or mine.