Musings of a Healing Heart

Was she angry? She stared out the window, lost in her thoughts, wondering whether or not she should be.

It had been so long since she’d had a normal conversation with him. She’d talked to him because he’d tried to make an effort, but she guessed he finally found out that it wasn’t the same for her anymore; he gave up trying.

She sighed and looked over to where he was now. They were at a party – seeing him there, sitting down with another new girlfriend wrapped around his arm, acting the way he was, loud and obnoxious, had ruined her party fever. Now she simply sat in an isolated corner, thinking about the past.

She wondered if they’d still be together had they not broken up. She wondered about different things, like whether or not they’d be the same, whether or not she’d be happy. She didn’t know, she realized. And once again, she resorted to staring out the window.

It hadn’t been fair that he’d blamed her towards the end of it all. A one-sided relationship, he called it. He said he loved her but she didn’t love him back. She shook her head now; where had he gotten that? She did love him, she had loved him. Sometimes even these days she wanted to just go back and lean in his arms, forget everything that happened and have him kiss her and tell her he loved her again. Tell him that she loved him, too. But she couldn’t and wouldn’t do that. There was something inside her that told her it would never be the same. Too much had happened between then and now, and staring over at him again, she realized she didn’t even know who he was anymore.

He had always been slightly reckless, she remembered with a smile. Maybe that was why she had liked him so much to begin with. He’d caught her eye at the very beginning, and somehow she’d caught his, too. He was the wild type who did things without caring about consequences, and who laughed them off if he ever did get caught. She was never like that. She was always bound by rules, always questioning the things she did. But around him, she didn’t care.

She had been so daring around him. He’d given her a sort of strength she couldn’t find within herself. Around him, she was more like him – brave, reckless, thoughtless. It sounded wrong, like he had been a bad influence of some sort. But it wasn’t like that. He gave her a sense of freedom; that she could do everything she wanted to do, without giving it a second thought. “As long as nobody gets hurt,” he’d say, “then you’re free to live your life.”

He did wild things sometimes just to get attention. He did that a lot, she remembered; he always loved to be the center of attention. While she was more the type to hide half-in and half-out of the shadows, he was the type who willingly jumped in the spotlight. The way he was talking loud now, begging for everyone’s attention, wasn’t new. Why he thought it would work to get himself the attention, she didn’t know. But it had worked on me, she realized. And she wondered why. Before, she hadn’t seen his talking loudly and doing stupid things - like smoking and drinking, not because he really wanted to, just to be cool – as something wrong. She couldn’t remember what she’d seen it as. But she simply remembered that she didn’t think there was anything wrong with it.

They talked a bit at the first party she saw him in, but nothing happened then. He left an impression on her, but after about a month, she pushed him in the back of her mind, thinking she probably wouldn’t see him again. Then, in a very book-like or movie-like fashion, while she had been out one day with her friends, she had literally bumped into him. She was walking backwards, she remembered, beckoning her friends to follow her because they’d been some distance away, and he had turned a corner right then, and she had slammed into him. Turning around to apologize, she recognized him, and after talking a bit, he suggested they hang out sometime.

They went out, just as friends, all through the summer, almost every single day. The days they didn’t go anywhere, he’d give her a call. And she had liked him, more so than she did in the beginning. They talked about everything, and she knew him almost inside-out, and still liked him. So when he asked her out at the end of the summer, she couldn’t see why she should say no.

She sighed now, still looking out the window. Would they have still been friends if they hadn’t dated? She didn’t know. Maybe, she thought finally. But things happen.

So many people always count the months, having an anniversary almost every month, saying, “We’ve been together for 4 months now!”, but she thought it was idiotic to do so. She never counted the months; she didn’t know the exact date and time he had asked her out. Some people criticized her for that, saying that it showed she never cared, but that hadn’t been it. She simply didn’t see the point in making him get her an anniversary gift every single month, especially because an anniversary was really supposed to be after a whole year and not after a whole month together.

They’d stayed together for roughly ten months; she couldn’t remember if it had been August or September when he asked her out. She could always ask him, she knew, but she didn’t think it really mattered. Or maybe it did and the problem was with her. Again, she didn’t know.

Did I love him? When she asked herself like that, her first response was a yes. But if she thought about it long enough, there were times when she wasn’t so sure. She was sure she had loved him in the very beginning. If she didn’t love him, she loved being with him. And in the beginning of their relationship, she’d been crazy about him – those very first few months where everything had been a joyride and she had never felt so happy. But towards the end, she had felt as though gravity was weighing down on her, and when they finally had broken up, she was glad it was over.

She hadn’t cared about the obnoxious behavior on his part at first. He was him, after all, and she didn’t want to change him, because she loved him the way he was. But the smoking and the drinking bothered her, and no matter how much she tried to feel ok with it, she never could. She wouldn’t have cared if he did it simply because he wanted to (even though she still didn’t like the fact that he did it), but he never really did want to. He only drank and smoked when the rest of his friends were doing it. He had never pulled out a cigarette or reached for a glass when they’d been alone.

He’d tried to persuade her to drink and smoke with him, numerous times. She always refused when he asked, even when he pressured her to try it. Once he’d gone so far as to hold a glass of vodka on her lips, trying to pry them open and make her take a sip. She wondered now if it had all been just a test, just so he’d see how she would react. Later, he had told her that he admired her because of the sheer power of her will, and said he wished he could be the same. She hadn’t thought anything about it then. She sat and wondered about his words now.

She couldn’t remember when it had started to fall apart. She simply remembered that it hadn’t felt right after a while; that she didn’t feel the same happiness when she was with him, but mostly spent her time worried for him. She tried to encourage him to stop drinking and smoking just for the sheer sake of it, tried to encourage him to start studying so he wouldn’t fail. When their principal’s had threatened to kick him out of school because of his general behavior, she worried again, and tried to convince him to stop acting like an idiot just to make people like him. “You can still do all the wild things,” she had told him, “but just draw a line somewhere.”

Maybe he got angry after a while when she tried to alter his lifestyle somewhat. She hadn’t tried to change him though; that wasn’t what her intentions had been. Whatever he was, she loved him for it, and didn’t want him to change. She was just trying to help him out, to secure his future. The last thing she had wanted for him was for him to get kicked out of school.

The drinking and smoking around his friends increased as time went by. They were growing up, after all. It bothered her, a little voice in her head always nagging at her when she saw him drinking. He was usually wild, so when he got drunk, he was on the edge of insane. And it bothered her. She couldn’t say that it hadn’t bothered her. But she lived with it, because she thought it would all work out. It’s just a phase, she always told herself. Just a phase.

And then came the drugs.

She hadn’t known. Not at first, anyway. He never said anything, never mentioned it, never touched anything that was unfamiliar to her when she was around. She heard about it from friends, but refused to believe it until she saw proof herself. She looked for the signs she’d heard about; a change in attitude, a change in appearance. But she saw nothing. He was still the same. Her friends told her that it was foolish of her to look for signs. It’s not like he’s addicted, they said, he just tries it out once in a while with his friends.

When she confronted him about it, he hadn’t said anything to deny it to prove her fears wrong. He had simply kissed her and told her everything would be ok. But her worries piled up, and she felt as if everything would be the complete opposite of ok. She wasn’t ok.

He blamed her when it all ended. He told people that it had been her fault. But when people asked her, she told them that it had been both their faults; that they had both been equally wrong in the things they said, the stuff they did. Was I wrong thinking that way?, she wondered, was it really all my fault? Or were we both to blame?

And again, as usual, she wasn’t sure. She didn’t know.

He had always been arrogant. She knew that, because he always told her how he was too good for everybody; how his friends weren’t good enough for him, how he was always higher than everyone else. And he had always been obsessed with his reputation, always saying that he was one of the most popular people, saying that he was the one who had made her popular. He was good-looking too, and he knew it. Sometimes, that naggy little voice inside her asked herself if he thought the same about her. If he thought that he was too good for her sometimes.

She never had to ask. The silent question was answered on its own when they had a fight roughly ten months into their relationship.

She couldn’t remember what had started the argument. It had started out as a simple discussion. They were out with their friends, and he had called her a coward. He had said something about her being a goody-goody, about her not being brave enough to try anything. Had they been alone, she wouldn’t have cared. He had been taking jabs at her – lowering her confidence little by little – when they were alone for a while, and she always brushed it off as a no-big-deal thing. But the fact that he had the nerve to do it around their friends made her seethe; she refused to talk to him for the rest of the night, no matter what he said. Her friends had backed her up then, saying that if anyone was a coward, it definitely wasn’t her, and it helped her calm down to some extent.

But then he started again, saying she was a bitch who had a bitchy attitude. The fact that he could say it so freely, without even caring, had hurt her, and she had lashed out at him. Somehow the argument went on and on. She told him he was weak, that he simply did things just to look and act cool. That he was an arrogant son of a bitch who put himself on a pedestal. And he had retaliated right back, saying he was too good for her, and that he had simply started dating her because he felt sorry for her, and somewhere in between all that, he had fallen in love with her, which was his only mistake because she didn’t love him back.

She couldn’t remember everything they had said that day. She knew there was more, that their argument had lasted for a whole hour of them screaming things at each other. But she hadn’t wanted to remember them, and miraculously, she had forgotten most of all that was said. But the fact that he said that he was too good for her had hurt her more than anything he said before. She knew he was proud, she knew he was arrogant. But she hadn’t thought that he’d think the same things for her. She thought she was different.

That was the last thing he said, the whole one-sided relationship thing, before her friend grabbed her arm and started walking her to the door. She didn’t resist the pull – she wanted to leave, she wanted to get out. But as they were leaving, he yelled that she was fucked up, and that she’d been a complete waste of his time. She had wanted to turn around then, but her friend didn’t let her go. “Just keep walking,” her friend had said. “Just keep walking.”

Her friend took her home, and when she got there, the house was empty. Feeling as though she was being pulled down a drain, she slumped down and cried. She never remembered crying so hard. She was hurt, and she was angry, but more than anything his words were fresh, and they played themselves in her head over and over. She had pitied herself, thinking of the things he said, thinking he was right. Everyone has something about them that makes them unique, that makes them special, she thought, but not me. And the pity she had felt for herself only served as a fuel for her anger; she had hated feeling so weak, she had hated the fact that he could say things and get her in this sort of situation. And she screamed and screamed and cried until she fell asleep on her bed, mentally and physically exhausted.

Nobody would ever understand.

They didn’t talk after the argument. People heard about it, but not from her. She refused to tell anyone what had happened then, even though they asked. When she heard that he was blaming her, that she was the one in fault, she didn’t care. She was tired of caring, and while something inside her wanted things to go back to normal, another part of her was wholeheartedly glad it was finished. She had been tired of worrying about him.

He was four years older than her. Maybe that was why he did all the things he did, the smoking, the drinking, the drugs. Because he was…well, what was he? Old? He wasn’t old, none of them were old. They were kids, the whole lot of them, and her included. Maybe that’s why it didn’t work out between us, she thought. Maybe we were, or are, too young to cope with that sort of feeling.

Almost a year had passed since that time. She sighed again, and with her finger, traced her name on the window. He had gotten four girlfriends after her, in quick succession. She had remained single. Some people said that it proved that she regretted it finishing, others said she wanted him back. She did want him back sometimes, she wasn’t going to lie. But she didn’t regret it being over. And she stayed single because she simply didn’t feel for anyone the way she thought she should be feeling. Soon, she told herself. Soon.

He said their whole relationship had been a waste of his time. But she never thought the same. The time they had spent together had been wonderful for her because she had been happy almost every day. He could make her laugh until her stomach would hurt and tears would flow from her eyes. And she could tell him anything about herself, whatever it was, and he’d never judge her, never think anything of it. They’d talk about everything, anything, and she trusted him more than she had ever trusted anybody. And she loved him for it.

She wondered where they’d be now if they were still together. Would they both be happy, would it all be the same? Or would she still worry, worry, worry? That had been her fault, too. She had never told him the things that bothered her. She had left them all, let him shrink her confidence, let him worry her sick. She thought things would work themselves out. But they didn’t, and that had been her fault.

They hadn’t talked after their fight, and she didn’t mind. She heard he had gotten a girlfriend, and she wasn’t lying when she said she didn’t care. She’d been angry when she heard him say their relationship was a waste of time, but she had let it go. She saw him again at a few parties, but they hadn’t acknowledged each other. Then, about four months after their argument, he called her. He hadn’t said sorry – nor had she – but he said he didn’t want her to be angry at him. And that had been it. They talked for a few more minutes then hung up and went on with their lives.
He had called her a few more times after that, at monthly intervals, and though she always thanked him for calling, she never called him back. Again, she had been blamed. But she had never called him back simply because she wanted him to stop calling. She didn’t want to get into another relationship with him, be it lovers or friends or whatever. She’d had enough. And after a while, he had taken the hint and stopped calling. They still talked when they saw each other; they had passed the ignore stage. But the talk they initiated was always just small-talk, nothing more. Nothing serious.

She snapped out of her reverie and looked over at him again. It felt like their relationship was so long ago, years and years in the past, when it really couldn’t have been more than half a year. But when she considered him now, she felt as though he was a different person. Then sometimes she thought that maybe he was the same, maybe he hadn’t changed, but she had just never looked at his faults and mistakes so openly before.

He caught her staring at him and she didn’t look away, simply held the gaze. Then he raised his glass to her in toast and she smiled. She looked at the time and saw she’d wasted a whole hour sitting by the window. Still staring at her, he raised his eyebrows, and she shook her head and smiled again, then turned away to watch her friends dance around the room. We’ll grow old and forget and everything that happens now will be just a memory, she thought as she watched them. Just a picture in a photo-album.

She picked herself up off her seat by the window. It’s good to think it over sometimes, but if time went by so soon, she saw no point in her sitting down and letting it run off. Promising herself that she’d leave her musings – all the what if’s and if only’s – at the window, she looked back to where her friends were to see one of them calling her to join in.

I guess that’s the whole point in things, she reflected, that you just pick yourself up and dust yourself off, and that’s it. That no matter how bad things can seem, there’s still a source of laughter somewhere. That eventually everything will be stored in the back of your mind and you move on.

Then her friend came and grabbed her hands and made her join the insane dance they were doing, and they all laughed at the way she stumbled as her friend dragged her then let her go. She laughed along with them and with a final thought, let herself go and joined the mad dance.

Life goes on.