Love's Ending

"I just want one day when I don't wake up and feel like shit."

On the other end of the phone line, separated by 700 miles, my best friend begins to pour out his sorrows.

"I'm serious - I just want one day when I don't wake up and search for the nearest bar."

I murmur sympathetically. The twin wounds of heartbreak and betrayal are still fresh on his heart; at this point, there is nothing I can do but listen.

As my friend talks, my lover comes up behind me, scooping me into an embrace. I quiet my breathing and feel our chests rise and fall in tandem. We are connected. I revel in his touch for just a moment, and then kindly push him away. My friend is still on the line. I need to empathize with him.

His love is now lost, removed from him by way of betrayal. His pain is deep. He mourns.

Helen Fisher writes about the loss of love in her book Why We Love: The Nature and Chemistry of Romantic Love. In her chapter on lost love, she writes of the point of resignation:

Eventually the disappointed lover gives up. Their beloved is gone forever and they are spent. Many plummet into hopelessness. They toss in bed and cry, Drugged by the potent liquor of sorrow, some just woodenly sit and gaze into a void. They hardly work or eat. Perhaps they feel an occasional urge to renew pursuit of their lost love or a passing flash of anger. Generally, they feel deep melancholy. Nothing pries them from their anguish - except time.

---Fisher, p. 168

After venting for a few moments, my friend stops and recovers.

"I'm sorry, " he starts, "I just don't know who else would understand. You've been there, you would know."

He is apologetic for his weakness, his endless belaboring of the issue. I tell him everything is fine. Sitting here almost a full year later, I have seen love's full circle. I remember sitting alone in my apartment, grappling with the idea that the most significant relationship of my life had ended. Isolation crept in as most of my friends were in relationships - they could not empathize. I remember the feeling of being absolutely alone with my feelings and myself.

And yet, some how, three months later, I was out. I got new friends, went to new hangouts, found new hobbies. At first, it was just to fill time. Later, I realized I had always wanted the life I created. Five months later, I fell in love for the second time. Love found me a bit gunshy, but I back into it anyway, giving rise to the most fulfilling relationship I have ever known. Eleven months have passed, and I am happy. I am in love. My life is good.

Unfortunately, my friend cannot see that now. He is deep in the throes of pain. The constant reassurance that "it will get better" is not sinking in. For now there is only darkness.

I sigh and touch my love, who is stretching on the bed next to me.

"It's no problem," I say, "Just keep going. How do you feel now?"