Perhaps one of the greatest lesson I've been called to learn during this period of transition is that I have to sit in anxiety, just like everyone else. That bad feelings, sadness, fear, pain and negativity are part of the kaleidoscope of human experience. That to expect to feel good and happy every day makes me a child and a coward. Sure, I give advice to my friends and clients about how to "just sit in it" and "let this experience of pain carry you." I even post facebook posts describing exactly what "sitting in it means," and have the nerve to explain how to be present and how to let pain carry you.
But I have a secret and here it is: I am so good at telling people how to sit in pain, how to manage anxiety and how to stay in the moment, but I have (had?) absolutely no ability to do this on my own. When things went wrong in my relationship, I begged him, manipulated him, chased him and pretty much did anything to make that anxiety go away. I needed him to change who he was, how he felt, how he responded to stress because my anxiety would get so high, my fear of him leaving would become so all-consuming, that I needed him to do whatever was necessary to bring that feeling down. And that's the key: HE had to change to manage MY anxiety. Because I had no ability to do it on my own.
If I own anything in the breakdown of our relationship, it is this. I became so attached to the particular outcome of us being together, that anything that showed that it may be otherwise, threatened my sense of security. Threatened my entire sense of understanding of how this world is supposed to work. I had no ability to see past the story I had built in my mind. The one that cast him as husband and father. And if he were to be all of those things, he needed to act in a certain way to show me that he COULD be all of those things. He needed to balance a check book and check in with me when he went somewhere. He needed to play the part I created for him and if he did not, my anxiety got too high. I got too sad. I felt let down.
Two weeks after I left, I sat in my therapists office, sobbing. I kept saying, "I don't know what to do." Because I didn't. I had used all of my brain power attempting to devise a plan in which he played the role I created for him perfectly. I was out of schemes, I was through with plotting and I was completely depleted from what, at the time, I thought was giving too much. And I did give a lot. A lot of energy, a lot of tears, a lot of time into trying to make him the person I so desperately needed him to be.
And perhaps this is the lesson that I was meant to learn. Maybe this is why I dedicated a little over five years to my life to this relationship, and maybe, perhaps, this is why it seemingly unraveled in about eight weeks time. Life is full of pain, and disappointment. And in order to get through it, you have to die to your ego, to yourself every day. That human emotion, including the gut-wrenching painful emotions, are necessary parts of human experience and I wouldn't be human without the experience of emotional terror, anxiety and depression. Maybe he was brought into my life to teach me how to be a better person, a better partner, a better therapist, because without this knowledge, I would not be very good at any of the roles I play in my life.
Maybe this all happened so that I learned that the only plot I can control is my reaction to the reality of daily deaths. That I can lose my attachment to particular outcomes and live in the moment. That the only two constants I will ever be afforded in this life is that life IS change, and one day, we will all die. Maybe I had to get so attached to him so that I can experience that pain of loss. So that I can be reminded, probably not for the first time, that permanence does not exist. That forcing him to be the person I so perfectly planned, or forcing anyone to be anything, cannot provide me with a sense of security. The only security I have is knowing that I will be here for as long as I am conscious, and that life is forever, forever ephemeral. Constantly changing, and in that change lives pain, and sorrow and grief.
And, God, have I learned this lesson. It's ironic how I spent the vast majority of my relationship protecting myself from fear, from the perceived threat of his leaving, and in the end, it was me who left. I left physically, I left emotionally and in the end, I threw in the towel. I did so much, some that I feel may be normal, some that I am quite ashamed of myself for, to ensure that he would be with me forever, that I could get a guarantee and a protection from his leaving. I fought so hard for this guarantee, that I was depleted, exhausted and had no desire to fight for anything that included him. Not our relationship or our future. I lost the attachment to forever. I finally realized that it didn't exist. Not in him, not in our relationship, not anywhere. And now, it seems that everything is exactly how it should be.
When I become anxious these days, I attempt to make a map of it, to learn my way around it. To have compassion for myself. I have learned pain and anxiety can be a private event, one I don't have to engulf my loved ones in. One I don't have to control to feel better. I have learned that during those moments, I don't have to DO anything. I can just be where I am, and experience compassion and love for myself. I can feel anxious and pray, or watch tv, or bury my fears in a six hour long marathon of Sex and the City. The point is, I have learned to sit in it. To let my anxiety engulf me, and I will forever be thankful to him for this lesson. By refusing to meet me in that space, by not allowing me to manipulate him into making the bad feelings disappear, he has aided me in becoming a better person, a more faithful person. My relationship, more than anything else in my life thus far, has taught me the valuable lesson that life is constantly changing. That the only guarantee I have is in my own faith in the Universe, in the fact that I have to be my own best friend and in the truth that attachment to any one particular outcome always ends badly. I have learned to observe myself with love and in that way, I have been lucky enough to learn more than most.
Selah, dear love, thank you.
