love hurts

Love Hurts.

Ain’t that a statement of the obvious?

Anyone who’s even begun their walk around the block knows that to be true. And those of us that have been around the block, or a lot of blocks, — we know the truth.

Folks, I’ve walked deeply into some pretty bad emotional neighborhoods. I’d say I’m an expert on the subject of love’s hurt.

And I’ve got plenty of company — millions of fellow experts. At the root, our stories are the same, but the devil is in the details. Me? My details are more like a grocery list of suffering than a proper story.

Love hurts — of course — emotionally. When you love someone, you put a lot of eggs in a basket that your lover can stomp at any moment.

Love hurts financially, at least if you’re a codger like me, with a home and some savings. I’ll tell you, those things can vanish quicker than a cold beer on a hot day.

Love hurts when you’re calling cops, when your lover is in the psych ward, when lawyers drain your account as you pay for these nightmares.

Love hurts in the emergency room when you’re getting stitched up after one of your lover’s attacks.

Love hurts when your world shrinks. When the invitations to friend’s parties lessen and then stop altogether. When you’re dearest friends call you to “break up” since they can’t be around the volatility of a relationship of which you are half.

These are just a few my details. They sprang from my old lover’s struggle with mental health, and her fondness for opioids and booze — the nuance of all of that is another story, for another time.

• • •

Like any decent story on this theme, mine includes "the golden years" — those years when you build up so much to lose.

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With my old lover, our golden years were many — more than 25, without children, valuing adventure over careers, sharing extraordinary travels, aspiring to be artists — those years were golden indeed.

And then they weren’t — and I needed saving.

• • •

And what is saving me? Love.

Once I'd made a change, friends that had distanced themselves from me came roaring, supportively, back into my life. My siblings, who had buttoned their lips so as not to improperly comment on their brother’s marriage, threw open their arms.

One dear old friend, in particular, took me into his home — after I’d run with nothing from my ghastly situation. I asked if I might stay a week. In fact, I stayed for four years. Four years filled with tears, and laughs, and music and nearly everything. His name is Aaron and he has helped save me.

After my years with Aaron, I was ready to reclaim romantic love.

Then, the cosmos aligned and I found her. Well, really, she found me. That doesn't matter. What matters is that we’re perfect for each other. We're animal lovers, music lovers and artists in spirit. Her new love is wiping away my hurt. Her name is Julie and she has helped save me.

• • •

Now, my friends have returned, Julie is restoring my heart, and all is good — mostly — but it’s true that some scars never fully fade.

My old lover of all those years past didn’t choose to be ill. She didn’t choose her addictions. I can’t blame her for the hurt that overtook our lives.

I’ll likely never have a chance to tell her that I will always love her, and that I hope she's healed and is happy, as I am now.

No — I'll never tell her how deeply our love hurt.

Instead, I’ve told you — and you too have helped save me.

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