currently listening to this.
This month I thought of every person I have ever loved in October.
I thought of every person I kissed in the Fall who loved me through the Winter and into the Spring. And though most never followed me into a Summer, this month I wondered whether they thought of me too.
The very nature of my yearning leaves me to assume that my grief is one-sided, and yet my intuition seems to insist otherwise.
That is to say, there’s no way in hell my exes don’t think about me! For even in our separateness, we carry our shared memories together.
This is the way the calendar works, bringing us back around again to exactly where we were before, only this time, some things have changed.
We know that our body works in tandem with these cycles.
The way the sun sits in the sky, the way a candle burns, or the breeze blows through an open window. We almost can’t help but be reminded of the past.
Why would I ever assume that I’ve been forgotten? Why would it even matter if it were true?
The idea of anyone forgetting anyone for good feels dramatic and absurd. Yet even the dictionary displays its innate tie to heartbreak:
to put out of one's mind; cease to think of or consider.
"forget all this romantic stuff"
This time of year I remember pictures I made in the Fall of 2013. I think of my sisters and me as kids, squeezed tightly into a radio flyer wagon racing down a hill in the church parking lot. Our mother is sick in bed next door in the parsonage as our father works late into the night at the office. I smell rosemary and imagine the sprigs we rubbed together in our palms and the three trees we climbed and claimed as our own.
In Los Angeles, I hike along the same trail I proposed to my college sweetheart on. I climb the steps of our old apartment building at night and notice the full moon rising the way it did that night he pretended to drop an orange on the ground only to bend down, reach into his pocket, and pull out a silver ring.
I remember the girl I kissed last October, and watching Harriet The Spy, while their cat snored soundly nearby. Buying cheap coffee in the valley the next morning before driving back to the east side. But when I return to the present, I remember that we don’t speak anymore.
My internal landscape reveals the physical void of every person I once loved, and I remember that this too, is a part of it. I let myself bask in the memory of every good and perfect part, just as much as I consult The List of reasons why it had to end. I allow myself to feel pride for having risen from the ashes of heartbreak once more and let it dissolve residual crumbs of regret.
I am familiar with this ritual of remembering. I am in the practice of exercising the necessary muscles of truth-telling enough to not get stuck in nostalgic fantasy or storytelling that can lead to self loathing or at least the type of bitterness that makes my friends roll their eyes at me. Even so, it doesn’t seem to change the fact that remembering anything at all, can hurt.
Recently, I was asked by a friend if I’d ever consider getting back with an ex, and I paused for a long time before replying.
In the silence, I was aware of the parts of my consciousness that still felt attached to my stories of what it all meant. Initially, I considered one or two people who, if given the chance, I might give it a second go. But after a while, I recalled The List and replied with a heavy sigh followed by a gentle No.
I can’t forget the way things ended as well as they could have or in some cases, beyond repair. I can’t forget all of the work I did to let go of the resistance to an ending. I can’t forget my commitment to not chasing or shape-shifting for the sake of another. I can’t forget the love I had for each person which is to say: I will not try and control you—I will not demand that you stay.
This question of what I would do if given the chance shows me that my grief is not tied to a wish for an alternate ending, but in facing the mistakes I can never undo, or the mind of a person I never could change.
Grief shows me what I longed for but never received. It reveals to me who I wish to become, and reminds me of what I can’t control. Grief points me back to my humanity.
I do not want to hold both.
Remembering the bad along with the good is uncomfortable at best. Traipsing around in the memories of my past, the people I tried to love, and everything that got me to where I am now means remembering the inevitable end of all things. It makes me fearful of the next thing that will end, even if I am devoted to keeping my heart open.
Regardless, when considering the possibility of wiping these memories à la Kate Winslet from Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind, my heart still speaks a resounding No.
You cannot pin a grief wave to the shoreline. What is felt in the presence of one when it arrives is par for the course. Recently I have experimented with how I engage with my memories, and instead of ruminating on their meaning, I have tried to picture them exactly as I’ve just described: like a wave.