History

Once upon a time, I was in a long distance relationship.

Oklahoma to Australia type long distance, not exactly a wise choice on my part.

But we were uniquely compatible, the chemistry was -potent-.

Or so I thought.

The  fragments of that breakup are scattered across my profiles on these  here internets, buried in blog posts and journal entries and facebook  statuses. It wouldn't be inaccurate to call it one of the defining  moments of my life up to this point, but all of that has been said.

This was, after all, ten years ago as of this April.

We  had some brief contact since then...enough to watch her move halfway  across the world, and wind up in another serious relationship. I believe  she married the guy? Who knows.

Some time ago, I  made the choice to bury whatever was left of it. Five years ago? Six? I  don't remember anymore. The one caveat I let myself keep was this: if  she ever came back, I would let her.

Weird, right? Short sighted? Pointless? Pathetic?

Don't worry, I thought all of that too. I am a lot of things, but easy on myself isn't one.

Fast  forward to several days ago, when I'm cleaning out my closet. I get to  the box that holds all of the stuff she sent back to me - a dreamcatcher  I made for her birthday, few of my old shirts, several letters, some  photographs...memories, in short. I knew it would hurt to open it, but  I'm a glutton for emotional punishment.

It's all safely  stored away in a plastic tote, now. Safer that way. I toyed with the  idea of setting it all on fire, some years ago. Couldn't bring myself to  do it. Weakness, I thought.

I've been dealing with the requisite mental fallout since then.

For perspective, I used to hold the belief that it would kill me stone dead.

If I'm being totally honest, I think part of me was disappointed when it didn't.

But  here I sit, so we're past all that. Now it's just a lot of morose  recollection of the happy times and the not-so-happy times, reflections  on my mistakes.

I've come to the conclusion that my self-assessment was wrong. That is, my little caveat isn't pathetic, or weak, or hopeless.

I am patient, and I am forgiving, and those are strengths even if they hurt me sometimes.

It's  not as if I'm not a different person, now, or as if she isn't a  different person. "Coming back" would entail starting a relationship  from scratch, learning each other all over again. It's immeasurably  unlikely to ever happen, but letting myself remain vulnerable to the  possibility isn't the pitiful little shard of hope I used to believe it  was: it's kindness, to myself and to her.

For some reason, that makes me feel a little better, for once, about all of it.

-C