Someone recently asked me whether I think a love story is worth living even with a bad ending. Had they asked me this three or even two years ago, I would have found ten thousand arguments not to do it. Not to embark in that serious, outstanding yet critical and consuming kind of relationship that only lifts his spirit to later drag it into mud.
You see. Even though bitter movies like Blue Valentine and 500 days of Summer blow up our expectations regarding love and shake & stir our beliefs and confidence, it totally is worth loving and being with someone and sharing everything even if it ends up bad & in tears.
There are certain things that ONLY love can bring out in us, good things, inspiring and moving and the kind of stuff that makes him want to be better and more smart and caring and giving…which would really not happen to us if we’d keep away from romance.
I personally think that love does not last for 3 years, or 10 or 100. Real love, consuming and hungry and wild and tender, lasts beyond the boundaries of a relationship. It breaks hearts, bad habits and it changes lifestyles. And that’s when it grows into a better, bigger, more generous love. The only real issue with this deal is the persistence of memories.
Relationships today are completely fucked. I’m sorry, but it’s true! If you got in one 50 years ago, maybe, MAYBE, you had a little less chance not to throw your life down the drain.
We were engaged. People kept telling how beautiful we look together and what a mistake it would be for us to be apart. Everyone thought we had the ultimate recipe for perfection. Our relationship was never too healthy or happy though. It was rather an example of how meeting your supposed soul mate can turn into hanging in a cage with your biggest enemy. Toxic, and tense and terrible, really, we spent seven months of our lives arguing on MAINLY stupid little things that turned gigantic every other two weeks.
We made mistakes, horrible ones. He wouldn’t apologize until it was too late or too meaningless. And I sit now, thinking that I craved for this boy’s face, and words and touch for months, expecting the worst but hoping for the best. I craved – literally – for everything that he was. Or what I thought he was. We were not the people we hoped we were. Perfection, it’s an exaggeration, but we were far even from peaceful or happy.
I changed a lot and he changed a lot. He ended showing me no appreciation, respect or real love any more. Not even lust. In my dreams, we are still happy. In my sleep sometimes, we still hold each other till our breath stops, we still curl our arms around each others neck. Bodies don’t know our ache and at night they still react to the same chemistry that brought people together. Bodies weren’t scarred, tired, beaten or hurt like the heart has.
And I do love him, despite his yelling at me, despite his mean and untruthful words, despite his jealousy, his lacking respect, his aggressiveness, his capacity to turn me into nothing just by looking at me. I love him so much that I never even considered lying, cheating, calling him names or even think about someone else as a potential boyfriend after I confessed my best and my worse to him. I love him so bad that nothing him have done or would do could break or terminate my feelings for him. So strong that I can wish him nothing but happiness and success and fulfillment. So incredibly passionate that I would not consider letting any other boy touch me even though we’ve broken up. So much that I couldn’t bare the thought that him’d be cold at night, hungry or helpless. So much that if he wanted me for good and kept me in his life I would have followed him no matter the place. I love him so much that despite his bad temper, bad manners and sometimes bad judgement I managed to see the heart he’d never wear out. I love him so dear that I let myself inspired by his good deeds and let his brutal words all pass through me.
But I still have to let go. And not knowing how is probably the thing eating at my heart.