When my ex-husband announced that he was finished, that he was moving out and moving on, my first reaction was panic. Sheer, heart-stopping panic. Inside my head I was screaming, "What is going to happen to me? What will I do? How will I support myself? I haven't worked in years!" My second, almost immediate reaction was rage. How the hell could anybody walk out on me? I'm sure the words out of my mouth were mean, nasty, vitriolic and cutting, because that's the way I am. And even though all this was many years ago, I can still feel the dual adrenaline rush of panic and then rage, almost simultaneous.
Of course, it was a situation long overdue. For years we had lived a miserable existence, together but not together, with two little kids and a mortgage and bills and all of the baggage that comes along with life. Somewhere in all that, communication and intimacy died. Wiped out, along with cherishing each other. Once you lose the intimacy, it's over. For us, it was over years before we actually ended it. I think in looking back, we were both culpable. We really did love each other, very much, once upon a time. But love is a fragile and precious thing, and it will die as surely as any houseplant I've ever had. Love needs to be nurtured and cared for, and fed daily with conversation, tenderness, and caring, stupid jokes and smiles, and laughter. It's a gift, and once it's gone- well, it's gone.
As I get older, I realize what a gift real love is.
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