Dear John, I Love Jane: Women Write About Leaving Men for Women (10 page)

Ani DiFranco is playing, on continuous repeat, through the speakers in the ceiling. The music becomes the soundtrack of my awakening; the rhythms knit themselves into my expanding soul.

come here
stand in front of the light
stand still
so I can see your silhouette
I hope
you have got all night
’cause I’m not done looking at you yet

I know that I will never hear that song again without being taken back to this night, to the sweat and the sounds, the twisting current and the sense of perfect clarity in the midst of total disorientation.

There is a rawness and urgency that would have been frightening if it were not so perfectly, instinctively natural. There is no hesitation, no nervousness. The energy flows through me as if it always has.

Everything in my life has spiraled to this exact point in time. Spiraled to a point as sharp as the blade of a sword that slices into my skin and leaves the thinnest line of blood-red desire.

There are no spaces between us. The universe is spinning faster and faster, and so is my head. I taste salt on her skin. No world exists outside this room and I am lost and I am found, over and over and over again. I am dizzy with the newness and exquisite familiarity. My soul has already been here, I understand that now, it has just been waiting for me to find my way back.

She is trouble. I know it from the first moment I see her. She is trouble and she wants me and I should run far and fast in the opposite direction.

I need this. I need this to not be gentle. I need to be reckless. I need to be off balance. I need. I need. I need.

In random moments it floods back without warning. Like a quick punch in the gut I remember all that I have done, all that has been lost. The pain is so fierce I question how much I can take. And I wonder, will I ever feel whole and complete again?

I already find it hard to remember so much. The last time I kissed my husband. The last time we made love. All the other seemingly inconsequential moments that usually pass by unnoticed.

What about the last time we took the kids to the park? The last time we put groceries in the same cart? What was the last movie we watched together? Where did we go the last time we rode together in the car? When did we last say, “I love you”? When did I last lay my head against his chest and feel peace?

I don’t know the answer to any of these questions, and sometimes I want to scream.

I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

When did it end? Was there one specific final moment, or just a combination of lasts too numerous to count? If I had known that none of those things would happen again, how much longer would I have held on?

The psychic’s twinkling eyes and lilting British accent keep me mesmerized as I tentatively give him my birth date and lay my hands, palms up, on the table between us.

“The key is forgiveness,” he says. “You must forgive him for not being all that you need, and he must forgive you for not being all that he needs.”

And when I express my fears that he had moved into this new relationship before truly dealing with the end of our marriage he replies, “Ah, but he’s happy now. Isn’t that enough?”

I think it has to be.

“What are your fantasies?”

We are lying nestled together in bed. We fit so perfectly that I forget she hasn’t always been with me and doesn’t already know the answers to all the questions. My mind is blank, and I am surprised to find myself without a response.

I pull my eyes away from hers and look down at our bodies, a tangle of limbs atop a white down duvet. My eyes run across the smooth expanse of her back, her strong shoulders, the curve of her breasts, that perfectly formed space between her ribs and her hips. I lift my gaze once again to her golden brown eyes, and as my hand traces a path along her arm I am in awe at the almost unreal softness of her skin. I interlace my fingers with hers and experience a wave of deep contentment and a rush of exhilaration so interconnected that they feel like a single emotion.

This breathtaking sweetness and lightness—this is exactly what I wanted for so many years. It’s what I longed for, ached for, dreamed about, yearned to experience. Until recently I didn’t even let myself imagine that I could possibly live this, that it could ever be real. But it is real—aside from the births of my children, it is the most true and honest thing I have ever done.

Lying here with this woman (who somehow found me despite the fact that I wasn’t looking and was determined not to open myself to possibility)— this goes far beyond anything I could have imagined or dreamed or hoped for.

“This. This is my fantasy.”

And I lay my head against her shoulder, close my eyes, and breathe in the utter perfection of this moment.

I am on the floor of my bedroom closet. It is midnight and I keep the door closed so the sounds of my sobs will not be heard by anyone in the small two-bedroom apartment we now call home. Hot tears slide down my cheeks and emotions shake my body. I cry not just for tonight and tomorrow, but for all the countless moments of our lives when we will not be together. I cry for the reality that my daughters will forever be moving between two places, instead of resting securely in one. I cry for him and all that he has lost in the wake of my truth. I cry because the costs are so much higher than anyone could have possibly imagined. Self-pity, grief, and endless, all consuming guilt. It is a vicious combination.

It is Christmas Eve. Today I will say goodbye to my girls and send them back to the house that never had a chance to become my home. When I kiss them goodbye I’ll know that I won’t be the one to help them put out cookies and milk for Santa. I won’t be there to remind them to include a carrot for the poor overworked reindeer. I won’t tuck them into bed, and kiss them on the nose and recite from memory the familiar words of “’Twas the Night Before Christmas.”

I won’t be with them in the morning. I won’t see them open the presents I bought to fill their stockings, or see their reactions when they tear into their gift from Santa. I won’t hear their squeals of excitement or witness that gleam of magic in their eyes.

When the unraveling begins there is no way to predict where you’ll end up when the vortex finally ceases. You know, of course, that there will be collateral damage, but even the most somber imaginings don’t have the power to pull you from the necessity of just taking one more breath, one more step, of getting through just one more day.

If even the smallest of actions can alter the course of a lifetime, what of those that fracture a family? And what if you are the one who faced the truth, spoke the words, made the choice?

What then?

And so this is Christmas . . . and it won’t ever be the same again. But within the changes, within the loss, within the grief, perhaps there is beauty to be found, gifts of a different kind, wholeness hiding amidst the broken pieces.

All I can do is hope.

“Was it worth it?” she asks.

I get emails like this on a fairly regular basis. Other women in circumstances like mine; struggling to navigate seemingly impossible situations; trying to minimize pain and hurt; fighting for wholeness in a world broken by our own actions.

Each of these is a treasure, evidence of the validity of my experience, a hand outstretched through the darkness, to say I’ve been there. I am there. I’m going there.

Some offer reassurance. Others desperately seek it. All of them say, in one way or another, I find my own experience within yours, and there is comfort—at least some small measure—in that. After all, what do we all want but to know that we do not stand alone?

Was it worth it?

I do not respond for almost a month, and when I do, I still don’t have an answer.

How do I tell her I don’t think there is any way to know for sure?

“What are you thinking?”

Scenes slide by outside the car window, blurring into one another. I see it all without taking any of it in.

She always knows almost instantaneously when I slip into that space where memories live.

I don’t ever know how to answer her.

How can it feel for her, I wonder, when every adult memory I have involves us or includes him? She must notice how often my stories begin with “he did,” or “we went,” or “he always.”