The Death of Love
Anais Nin said, “Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish it’s source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.”
Sometimes love cannot be saved. Sometimes it is not enough just to be madly in love with someone. Sometimes it’s not enough to wake up every day thinking, “what can I do to make her life better/easier/more enjoyable?“…
Take this scenario:
Last week, my friend’s wife left her. Just like in a bad Lifetime movie her wife packed up their two toddlers, cleaned out the joint bank account, and hit the road. I didn’t know she left… heck, I didn’t even know they were having problems. But my friend isn’t one to talk about her feelings. Actually, unless coerced, she never does. But that is irrelevant, sad… but irrelevant nonetheless.
Fact is, she is now just as loveless as the rest of us.
I’m not saying that there isn’t love in my life, because there is. A lot of it. I am excruciatingly happy, and am pleased to brag that I have now become one of those annoyingly smiley people who holds hands and makes out in public. It’s cute, trust me. More-so, it feels healthy… which is so important to me.
But seeing my friend earlier made me think; if she can’t hold on to it, then is there any hope for the rest of us?
My last relationship ended even before it began. We were both lost, completely desperate for companionship and love in whatever form it took. With her I came out to my family, I learned how to just have fun, and I learned to never EVER let my guard down. As unhappy as we were, we were in love. Not with each other, but the idea of each other. To her, I was the social one so when we went out, she could be known as my girlfriend. And to me, she was the ultimate act of rebellion against what my family had told me was acceptable; queer, blue collar, socialist and borderline anarchist. It worked. We were comfortable. She would spend the day playing video games, and I would spend the day trying on outfits I thought she’d like me in. At night we’d go to the bar where she’d hit on anything with tits and a half-decent face, and I’d pretend to be ok with it while secretly screaming into my gin and tonic.
Then I woke up one morning and just couldn’t do it anymore.
Maybe that’s how my friend’s wife felt. Maybe that’s how we all feel when we know it’s over. The love just can’t be replenished anymore. The well of love which we so graciously drank from ran low, then dried up completely.
Maybe it’s inhumane. Maybe I’m a bad person. But, I don’t entirely blame my friend’s wife for leaving.
Because… when you’re done, you’re done.