The first time my heart broke was in the summer of 2001. It was June, and my very first true love was leaving my life. His name was Ali, the first Ali I loved. Probably the first man I fell in love with. We were going to wait to graduate college and get married. I was 19. This was one of those things that was probably never gonna happen anyway, but when things, whatever they may be, break into that final run towards the end, all you can think is of what may have been. The truth is, all I could think of was what might have been, had I decided to stay with the most fascinating human being I had known in all my years.
Ali and I never stayed together past that summer, but we broke up every few months for the next five years. It was a very short engagement followed by a terribly long goodbye, and no matter how many times we talked about it, we could never get enough of hashing it out. There was always an extra finger of hurt to point or a last favourite moment to grasp at. We had a whole six months of these moments together, after all. Never mind the logistics. Never mind the fact that 12 years on, talking about Ali reduces any linguistic evolution I have had since back to its 19-year-old version. Never mind the fact that the Ali that followed and I were together for most of my 20s. Never again did I hurt as much as I had hurt back then.
Suddenly though, I am back at 19, I am starting at 30, and I have been clubbed over the head with the following fact: The first man I loved as much was not Ali, my longest relationship to date with a man has not been with another gentleman called Ali, the worst kind of breakup is not one where you are self-styled star-crossed lovers who will not allow themselves to be together. The greatest betrayal, I have learnt recently is not where some dickwad cheats on you for the fifth time - it is when the one man you have trusted and loved most absolutely from the moment you breathed your first decides it's time to go.
How do you fight that? What is the parting shot you can take that will make him want to stay another minute and one-up you? How do you tell him he has to stay because you love him so much, dammit? Because you still haven't talked about everything. Because 30 years weren't enough. Because once he walks out, that's it. There's no coming back, pal, you walk at your own risk. It will be an entire lifetime before you can see me again. Can you live with that? Can I?
It's the natural progression of life, I've heard. It's the next great adventure, Dumbledore said. But how is it that none of that gets past the constant scream in my head asking him to stay. To not leave. To stay for one more minute, to stay here, for the kids.
Ali and I never stayed together past that summer, but we broke up every few months for the next five years. It was a very short engagement followed by a terribly long goodbye, and no matter how many times we talked about it, we could never get enough of hashing it out. There was always an extra finger of hurt to point or a last favourite moment to grasp at. We had a whole six months of these moments together, after all. Never mind the logistics. Never mind the fact that 12 years on, talking about Ali reduces any linguistic evolution I have had since back to its 19-year-old version. Never mind the fact that the Ali that followed and I were together for most of my 20s. Never again did I hurt as much as I had hurt back then.
Suddenly though, I am back at 19, I am starting at 30, and I have been clubbed over the head with the following fact: The first man I loved as much was not Ali, my longest relationship to date with a man has not been with another gentleman called Ali, the worst kind of breakup is not one where you are self-styled star-crossed lovers who will not allow themselves to be together. The greatest betrayal, I have learnt recently is not where some dickwad cheats on you for the fifth time - it is when the one man you have trusted and loved most absolutely from the moment you breathed your first decides it's time to go.
How do you fight that? What is the parting shot you can take that will make him want to stay another minute and one-up you? How do you tell him he has to stay because you love him so much, dammit? Because you still haven't talked about everything. Because 30 years weren't enough. Because once he walks out, that's it. There's no coming back, pal, you walk at your own risk. It will be an entire lifetime before you can see me again. Can you live with that? Can I?
It's the natural progression of life, I've heard. It's the next great adventure, Dumbledore said. But how is it that none of that gets past the constant scream in my head asking him to stay. To not leave. To stay for one more minute, to stay here, for the kids.
