When it’s over…

Since there have been a few awkward conversations recently with folks who didn’t know (I didn’t publicize it to give her time), 4 weeks ago I ended my relationship of 4 years with Amy.  It’s been a surprise to most, including Amy, and I’m immensely sorry that I’ve hurt her.  She’s a wonderful person, we got along together better than most, and she made me laugh.  Everyone said that we were great together.  There’s no doubt that she would go to the ends of the earth to make it work.

We complemented each other well in many ways, but unfortunately I didn’t feel like she completed me.  Unfortunately, I know she’ll read this at some point, and I know that’s even harder to hear than that she had a fault that really bothered me.

I haven’t been happy for a while, mostly disengaging and feeling anxiety and frustration.  Having hit some roadblocks at work, I know that it carried over to get in the way of my personal life.  My goals were unclear at work and elsewhere, and in order to try to figure out what my goals should be, I looked back at my past.

What does it say about me that my most active social life, and the time that I was most connected to people was when I was depressed?  It’s really a hard pill to swallow.  Then I realized that it wasn’t my depression, but my writing that kept me connected.  I recently heard someone ask, "What gets you out of bed in the morning?"  What got me out of bed when I wouldn’t otherwise have left it was the connection that I had to like-minded creative people.  In fact, I was depressed largely because I couldn’t reconcile my creative and analytical selves.

If I’m going to be happy, I need to embrace that creative, passionate, hopeless romantic inside.  I need to feel huge feelings.  If someone asks me what I do, I can talk about the IT job, but I have to feel comfortable defining myself also as an artist.  If I have the power to touch people’s hearts by digging around in my soul for something they can connect to, I actually feel a responsibility.  And maybe, while I’m out doing so, someone will touch mine.

Yes, I might die alone, and I have given up a guarantee of a whole lot of goodness.  But I can’t give up on that crazy big love, even if it’s the kind of thing that burns hot and dies out.  In the end, that’s the only way to be true to myself.

As hard as it is, if I end up feeling this way, I will have tried, and be happy for it:

I’m incredibly sorry that it took me so long to realize that I was never going to come around.  I’ve tried to be a good person, and any deception was based upon trying to convince myself.