My therapist fixed me with her dark-eyed gaze. "So why," she asked, "do you think, at this moment, he's come back into your life?"Great question. And even as one, whom the Irish say, has "words at will," I was speechless. Part of my brain fired off this suggestion: "Because now you can tell the false from the true." Another cluster of cells had the following: "To check to see how much time you're going to let yourself lose. He's taken years away from you in the past. Maybe now, it'll just be a couple of days."
But my therapist, Wendy, had a point. Why him? And why now?
My ex, my tortured, liminal, hateful, loving, vengeful, tender ex, decided to give me a call - one in a series that have continued for eleven years - right on the cusp of my birthday. But the outreach started a week before. A flurry of emails. References to F. Scott Fitzgerald. Beatles lyrics. Phone messages. I was on the road, had other things on my mind. Couldn't wait to get home.
I let him know via email that if he wanted to talk to me it would have to wait a few days. He asked for my cell number. I didn't surrender. I told him that the call would have to come before 10PM, not in his usual 1 - 2 AM pattern. He followed the rules. We talked for two hours. Hearing his voice brought up the usual. Anger that he broke up with me (for not being Jewish by birth). Anger that he blew me off when my dad died (fear of mortality). Anger that he could so cavalierly say things like, "You know I'm still in love with you" and not mean them. And anger at myself for even listening, for taking the call, for letting him break the silence that I knew he would retreat into once again, just as soon as he knew he had me believing that his apologies were real, his feelings were true, and his intentions were good.
But of course they weren't. Not 12 hours after asking to see me, asking to celebrate my birthday, asking all about the book - the usual. He backed out, made up some stupid excuse, had no inclination to reschedule.
Now, OK, fine - I know I'm not dealing with a healthy person here. But on this round, I think what I realized is that I'm not dealing with a friend. At least, after eleven years, countless days of hurting, endless nights of wondering exactly what it was I did wrong, why he didn't love me and preferred to seriously mess with my head and heart instead, I was able to come to one conclusion: this isn't what love is supposed to be like. This isn't a person who understands love. No matter how gorgeous his taste in literature or amazing his taste in music. This person is just cruel. And not worth my time.
So the question remains: why him? Why now?
And the answer is: because I am smart enough to know better.
As the song goes: Now I know you're not the only starfish in the sea. If I never hear your name again, it's all the same to me.
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