Day 10. Talk about breaking someone else’s heart, or having your own heart broken.
At first, I thought I would talk about having my heart broken because that is easier, in a way, to write about. I know my own heart – knowing another’s is not so easy. For those of you who have been reading my Scintilla responses, it will not come as a surprise that Brett and I broke each other’s hearts often. Although, the memory of my brokenness is still vivid I am going to try and talk about the time I broke Brett’s heart: The time that he still throws at me; sometimes teasing but sometimes, not.
I met Brett when I was 17 and I fell in love with him when I was 19. He confessed to me one evening that he had fallen in love with me. He was married with small children. I didn’t really get that. I thought that love conquers all – after all, it always did in the books I read. I assumed he would get a divorce and we would get married and life would be good. I was so naïve. During the time I was in college, we had a relationship. We would break up over the wrongness of what we were doing, but we always got back together again. Even when I transferred to a university that was five hours away, we continued through long letters and phone calls. Periodically, I would cut class for the day and drive south to meet him somewhere. As I neared graduation, I began to suspect that we were not going to marry as promised. He was making no movements towards divorce and I wasn’t so naïve anymore. When I confronted him, he admitted that while he wanted to be with me he couldn’t leave his children. I was devastated. I didn’t see him again for a couple of years – when my first marriage ended.
By that time, I was living back in the LA area. We started seeing each other sporadically. He would call me and come over to my apartment. Then he would disappear for weeks at a time. It was wrong and it was painful. I couldn’t move on with my life while I was emotionally wrapped up in him. I started feeling cheap and used. Eventually, I got to the point where I didn’t want that kind of life anymore. I wanted to be more than occasional sex to someone. He swore he loved me and couldn’t live without me but I didn’t believe him anymore.
One evening, he called and wanted to come over for a couple hours. I met him at my door, told him it was over and to never contact me again, and shut the door. He left. I stood behind the door in my apartment, shaking like a leaf. An hour later the phone rang and it was him. He said he understood, that he wouldn’t call again, but it was important to him that I know how much he loved me. I had trouble talking as I was still shaking and I think he took the silence as coldness.
I didn’t see, or talk to him, for ten years. But, that’s another story.