The Artist

In all this reflection and growth I have been intentionally avoiding a certain chapter. So momentous, I know I cannot move beyond it, or reincorporate it until I fully acknowledge it. In high school I learned to receive love. I learned how to be adored. Then I met The Artist. With him, I learned to love. I discovered that unconditional love can heal. I exposed a layer of my soul that is capable of great support and love. I learned my choices are my own, and my emotions are independent. I learned to love pure, and unconditional. I embraced my choices and actions, and accepted both the sorrow and ecstasy.

We met at 17. Friendship taunted us for a couple of years, at 19 we became a couple. At 21 we broke up. I remember his crystal blue eyes, and soft black hair. Stainless steel accessories accented his features. I remember his hands, powerful and creative. I would watch him carve, climb, draw, and build. He was so beautiful, and so lost.

I am wary but incredibly thankful for the reassertion of this type of magnetism in my life. It may have destroyed me, and taken many years to recover from, but I loved him. Through all the pain, beauty, betrayal, passion, apologies and growth, I never doubted how deeply I cared for him. I never doubted how instrumental we were in each others lives. Never did I believe we would be together forever, but never did I doubt the depth of our connection, and the impact we had on each other.

I remember feeling my heart ripped to shreds. I remember being totally at peace watching him sleep, his cat snuggled up close. I remember being furious and frustrated. I remember being so proud of him. I remember taking a deep breath and extending that compassion and forgiveness. I remember living unconditional.

I have been thrust into this memory with the receipt of an email. Simple remorse contained in a simple apology, “I don't treat you well. You're nothing but caring to me"

I am looking at my current object of affection with the same reservations and awareness of patterns from years ago. It gives me hope, not despair. For the first time in years I’m not afraid that part of me has been destroyed. My internal strength and ability to care is intact. Dormant for so many years, through so much pain, so much growth…

Now I remember. I know where the letter is. I know where the ring is. Next month will mark four years since we broke up. I don’t remember the date, but I remember the reflection of lights on the wet street, I remember the smell of the air. I know the taste of my tears and sting of the wind. I had no idea that relationship would have such a powerful aftereffect. I cannot regret it. Some people you never get over. Some experiences you never forget.

I am rediscovering my magnitude for compassion. I am remembering how to give, to care, to cherish and support… No, I don’t want another relationship like that… but I think I may finally be opening up again. I have been so selfish for so long. Defensive and cynical, I have remained detached and bitter.

I don’t know what the future will hold for Whiskey and I. I don’t know how the dynamics will develop from this point, or how long it will be before I walk away.

I’m not saying I am willing to open my heart at this time, I’m not. I’m not saying I will ever get involved in something like that again, I won’t. But it feels damn good to be reminded that I have a heart to give. I feel more real as a caretaker. I am happier when I give. It’s good to know that the damage is not permanent, and that I am able to be caring and compassionate, without return. It feels good to remember how. It feels like me.