Unrequited Love

Recently I received a complete sucker punch to the gut.  It was the kind that knocks every bit of air out of your lungs and leaves you gasping, yet unable to drink a breath.  And I asked for it.  I stood up and invited it.  To be fair, I hoped it wouldn’t happen.  I hoped for a different outcome, but I didn’t get it.

I have known this man for several years.  The history here is lengthy and emotion-laden – to say the least, at least from my perspective.  To him, I may just have been some attractive-enough woman he enjoyed for a time.  I don’t know.  That’s not really what I want to believe, but I don’t know.

Truth be told, he’s not a blog, he’s a whole damn novel, but I can’t write it here. In short, it was an on-again, off-again affair over about 6 months, really much more off than on.  The chemistry was amazing, the sex was great, the connection wonderful.  He made me feel.  Unfortunately, things got too intense too quickly.  The pain was tremendous. 

I have endeavored to move on and move past this man, many times.  I have dated other men, but I still think about him.  We have mutual acquaintances and from time to time I run into him – online, occasionally in person – by accident.  There have been so many coincidences and so many things that if they had been aligned just slightly differently, things might have turned out…well, differently.

A few people I’ve mentioned this to have suggested that I reach out to him, but I have maintained that I can’t.  Not anymore.  I hold that I have already reached out to him, several times, and he responds to me with silence.  His choice is not unclear. 

One day in the mail I received a book.  I had ordered one, but it was not the book I’d ordered.  ‘A mistake,’ I thought, as I turned it over.  However, when I opened it, there on the page I happened to flip to, and stop on, was the perfect poem about this situation.  It warmed my soul.  It spoke of balance and duality in unencumbered love.  I had ordered a book on parenting; what I received was a book of classical poetry.

Not long after, while meditating, I had the certain notion that I should reach out to him come to me unbidden.  It felt right, yet I had my same response. ‘I can’t.’  I felt my same fear – a fear of rejection.  But still, it felt right.

‘Am I really going to reach out to this man again?  To he, who has rejected me so completely?’ I asked.

‘Apparently, I am,’ I thought.

I did.

I put my vulnerability in an envelope, written onto a card, and tucked into it the aforementioned poem that had found its way to me.  I didn’t say much, but what I said was genuine.  I mentioned an event that I would be at several times.  I told him that I would love his company.  I sent it.

The card came back to me: Return to Sender.  He sent it back.  Unopened.  It stung. 

As I gasp for breath I have two thoughts.  The first: ‘I love foolishly.’  Then, somewhere in my head I hear a quote from Pride and Prejudice, “We are all fools in love.” 

Somehow, as I cry and grieve for what I wanted that isn’t to be, for what is lost to me, the second thought stands firm:

‘NEVER. BE ASHAMED. TO FEEL.’