And when that final blow came, it was the ugliest breakup I have ever known. He cheated. I dumped him. I don’t know who hurt whom worse. I had encouraged the most painful sorts of honesty, and he truly believed that he could confess and I would return home and see that it had all been my fault by leaving. Neither of us could have predicted how it ended. I dwelled on various ways to end my life, then his, then mine again. It was a downward spiral of rage and sorrow. In the end, I decided to get the ultimate revenge—a better man. I set impossible standards, not so that I might fall in love, but to parade these super humans in front of my ex. And then, whilst plotting revenge, I felt love again. It was different, but my numbed sensibilities had some vague remembrance of love before all the rage and pain.
We never spoke again. Perhaps all that dredging of inner truth was enough talking for one lifetime. I know after hearing the reality of his infidelity, I didn’t care to listen anymore… ever again. In his defense, he tried, every day, for a year. He only stopped trying to contact me after I sent a bulk e-mail, (mostly for him), telling everyone that I was getting married.
Now, I’m able to look at my actions and see how big a part I played in the emotional bloodbath that was our breakup. I’m so much more careful now about the dangerous ground that is intimate communication. Neither of us has fully recovered from the battles we fought while our hearts were so vulnerably exposed. I tiptoe in fear of the truth, while sometimes reverting to my old guerilla tactics when I think my husband is cagey.
As for my ex, it’s been ten years and he hasn’t had a relationship that has lasted beyond a couple of months. We’re both scarred in our own ways. Like most wars, there is no clear winner… just the ravaged silence of two sides who learned their lesson entirely too late.
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