In the very slow and quiet moments, it really hits me. I have been so overwhelmed and constantly moving lately that it just settled at the surface. I only feel traces, like a thin film at a superficial layer as the days pass. But while in NYC, my favorite city, Noah Gunderson swooning in my ears as I sat alone in a subway train, I was unable to fight off the loss.
I am still a work in progress, processing the letting go, the forgiveness, and the self doubt. New York City is usually my asylum, yet the last time I was there was when I was fighting for my marriage and watching my husband gallivant off in the woods with another girl, professing his need for her in messages while ignoring my own. It tainted something, leaving a darkness in the air. I know, in time, that will pass too, but sitting in that moving train felt egregiously heavy. I didn’t want to relive those moments. I didn’t want to remember, but the memories have never left. They meet me in my dreams from time to time, conjuring up these ridiculous images I have to wash away in the morning.
And there are many who dismiss him swiftly, reiterating he’s not worth the time. Sometimes I believe them on the low days, the days when the sediment of heartbreak gets stirred. However, even though he did something hurtful and vow-breaking, that doesn’t automatically erase the love. It’s not a switch on the wall I can just flip. Vows don’t disassemble that quickly. If they could, then I don’t quite see how they belong in the realms of love. Love is a devotion, not an emotion. It’s not anger, or happiness, or sadness. Those are things that can alter in short periods of time. Love doesn’t. It is blinding, and when someone tears that hold, it takes time to heal.
It’s the very slow and quiet moments that magnify the things you are trying to ignore. They rarely allow you to forget whose name your heart still whispers while you dream.
Love. B. R.