With love, there is always loss. As human beings, we are finite creatures. We die, that's just the reality of the human condition. And the people we love also die. No matter how much we love them, not matter how hard we wish that they would stay with us forever, or at least until WE die, people leave us. How we cope with that, how we honor their memories, can define us.
I found the love of my life late in my life, when I was 42. Before that, I'd thought I knew what love was, but it wasn't love. It was obsession, or infatuation. I loved the father of my children, but it wasn't the deep, abiding love that I found with Chris. When I met Chris, it was as if everything had finally fallen into place. As if everything I'd been through up until that point finally showed its purpose. I believe that we go through everything in life for a reason, and eventually that reason will be revealed. Chris revealed those reasons to me.
We were both in recovery. We loved the same music. We both loved books (not e-books, REAL books, the kind that you could hold in your hand and smell and feel). We loved food. It was like we loved all of the same things. We moved in together three weeks after we started dating, and for eight years, we pretty much spent all of our time together. Through good times and bad (and yes, there were bad times, because human beings have bad times), we stuck it out together. Sometimes we worked together. We always played together. I fell asleep every night with my nose in his neck, smelling his good smell - I liken it to butterscotch and vanilla, no cologne, just the essence of
him - and awoke every morning on my right side, with his arms wrapped around me. He was everything to me. We fought once in those eight years. It was a doozy of a fight, but we got through it, and we never stopped loving each other.
And then I relapsed. I mentioned we were in recovery; well, I hurt my back, and I was prescribed opiates to deal with the pain. I, being an addict, took more than I was prescribed, for longer than I was prescribed, and that started a cycle that I'd hoped never to become entangled in again. I started doctor shopping, going to the emergency room when I didn't really need to go, except because I was in withdrawal. When the doctors caught on to me, I started drinking again. And that was pretty much the end.
Eight years. We spent all of our time together for eight years. And then, just like that, I drank, and within a year of my picking up that first drink, everything fell apart, as it does when an alcoholic drinks. We lost everything - he worked his ass off, while I spent my days drinking. At the end, we had to move out of our apartment, because if we didn't, we would have been evicted. Of course, prior to that, we talked, we argued, we cried. I made promises I couldn't keep, he pleaded with me to stop. But at the end of the day, he was sober, and in order for him to stay that way, I had to move out.
I went to the psychiatric unit at the local hospital, and Chris moved into a smaller, studio apartment, with no room for me. I understand that decision; he had to worry about himself in order to survive, whether he loved me or not. I spent two weeks in that hospital, withdrawing from the alcohol, trying to come to terms with what I had done. I'd lost other people in the past due to my drinking and drug use, most notably my children, who had gone to live with my sister when they were very young. So I was used to loss, and the pain of it, although I don't think anything can compare to the loss of a child. There's nothing in the world more painful. With Chris, though, the pain came close.
When I got out of the hospital, I went to live in a "sober house," which was by no means sober. There were drugs everywhere. I was on Suboxone, so I wasn't tempted by the opiates. I went to see him every chance I could get. An hour and a half each way on the bus, to spend a couple of hours with him, just to be with him. He said he still loved me; I knew I still loved him. But things had changed dramatically. He didn't trust me. I knew that, and I couldn't blame him for it. After all, I had destroyed our life. He had been planning, he said, on asking me to marry him. Neither of us was a big fan of marriage, so that was huge. But he never did ask, and that was all to do with the drinking. Anyone who tells you that alcohol is "okay," that drinking when you're an addict is fine, is misguided at best. Because alcohol is what ruined it.
I stayed sober for a few months. We were talking about moving back in together. And then I drank again. I can't even say what brought it on, honestly. Well yes I can. I started taking Klonopin. Which is a benzo, which is addictive, which is something else I can't take. I said it was because I just couldn't cope with my anxiety, that it was the only thing that helped (I've since found a natural alternative that, while it's not covered by my insurance, is just as effective but without the horribly fallout). I disappeared from his life for a couple of months, and I really don't remember what I did or why. I was at that point living in a community residence for the mentally ill (I thank the Goddess every day for this place, where I still live - it saved my life). I'd gotten some money from my mother, who had passed away that spring, so I took a little "break" over New Year's weekend. I stocked my hotel room with booze, drank half a bottle of rum, and started texting Chris. He knew immediately that I was intoxicated, and it was the straw that broke the camel's back; he told me to never contact him again. He blocked me on Facebook, blocked my phone number, and stopped responding to me. It was over.
I spent the rest of the weekend in a drunken state of heartbreak. Of course, it had been my fault. And of course, being active in my disease, I was looking for any other reason than the truth. I couldn't find one. I couldn't find one other person to blame, other than myself. My heart was demolished. When I returned to the community residence, I suffered my way through the hangover, and went about the business of life without Chris.
I thought I was doing okay. Then, last March, I got a phone call from a mutual friend, who had stuck by me through thick and thin. She asked me if I was around people. Of course, I said, I live with nine other people, I'm
always around people. She told me to sit down, and I knew something bad was coming. I didn't sit down; I told her to just tell me already.
Chris was dead. Cancer had crept into his body and taken him from the world, from his parents, from his sisters, from me. There was no chance of ever fixing the mess I'd made, no chance of his ever knowing how sorry I was, no chance to tell him one more time that I was sorry.
I will never forget that day. I dropped to my knees and howled, an injured, ancient sound that came from somewhere in my soul. I felt as though I had been stabbed. I finished the conversation with Deb, then just sat in the dining room. Of course, a staff member asked me what was wrong. I told her. But there was no way to describe it. We weren't technically "together," so there was no way to explain the love I felt, and how it had been ripped from my chest like a live thing, still beating, but gone.
I've spent the last year missing him. I dream about him almost every night. I wake up and for an instant I feel his arms around me, like always, and then I realize that he's not there. It's a waking nightmare, and it doesn't seem to get any easier as time passes. People say, "Time heals all wounds." What they don't tell you is just how much time it takes. It hasn't gotten any easier as the year has passed. I feel like it never will.
Yesterday was his birthday. He would have been 52. That is too young, by anyone's calculations, for someone that good to be ripped from the Earth. I wanted to call his parents, but I don't want to cause them any more pain, and they weren't too happy with me at the end. I don't blame them.
My reason for writing this post is that, despite the void that I feel, I feel like I need to reassure anyone else who may be reading that you
can get through grief. I haven't had a drink in the year that he's been gone, except for once, and it had nothing to do with the grief. I'm trying to live my life, the best way I know how. I'll be moving out of the community residence in a couple of months. I'm working. I'm going to therapy. It sucks, and it's so hard, but I'm doing it.
I'm trying to live my life the way that I think Chris would have wanted me to. He wouldn't have wanted me to sit in my room with a bottle, drinking myself to death. He was a good man, with a good soul; and I know he loved me, even at the end, even after all I'd done. He would have wanted me to live the best life I could.
I've lost both my parents, a child (a stillborn, whose birthday I still celebrate), and the love of my life. But I carry on. Why? Because we must carry on. We must move forward or die. And the reality is, as I said at the beginning of this post, people die, and they leave us to carry on.
How we carry on is a testament to their lives, their memories.
As I said, it's not getting any easier. But I carry him with me in my heart. I know that he's forgiven me, even though he moved on without me. He had to, to live his life. And he was surrounded by friends at the end, good friends who loved him. I wasn't there to help care for him when he was sick, but I glean some comfort from the knowledge that the people that
were around him loved him well. I hope they provided him some succor during the throes of his illness. I hope they helped to alleviate some of the pain. I hope they made his passing more peaceful.
I will never stop loving him. He was the best man I've ever known (except for my Dad, but nobody compares to a girl's dad), my best friend. The love of my life. But I'm here. And I have to live. If I can learn to let go, even just a little, and live my life, I'll be okay. I know that's what he would have wanted.
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