Oh, mirror in the sky, What is love?

Can the child within my heart rise above
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides
Can I handle the seasons of my life?

A day of revelations.

When I was sick after my operation, B was at Pride with Mrs B.  I didn’t realise this was the reason she couldn’t see me at the time.

She never told me we were through.  She just told me it was hard for her and that I didn’t understand.  She also told me she loved me and she wanted to be with me but didn’t know how.  She gave me a diamond ring by Alex Monroe.  (My favourite jeweller, ironically now, he will always remind me of our affair.  Poor man, and his beautiful hand-wrought field animals and flowers, complicit in our twisted acquaintance without ever knowing!)

With hindsight, I didn’t know how to be with her.

I couldn’t be with her.

Aside from all the attacks on what she deemed my essence, she simply never wanted anything other than sex from me;  she just knew dishonesty would make it easier to procure.

I wasn’t in love with B.  She brought out that thing in me that the bully girls did at school.  I wanted B to like me; I was scared of not being special to her, because I was afraid of how she could hurt me if I was ordinary.  I played a losing game where I tried to make her like me by being what I thought she wanted me to be.  I didn’t know this at the time.  I just thought as long as she wanted to touch me, hold me, fuck me, I was alive.  She was alive somewhere else, whilst my kind of love drained her very quickly.

She didn’t have the capacity to love me, so deeply entrenched in Mrs B is she.

I will probably always think of B.  Remember B, at the very least, as I remember very little of the last three years, whether due to the tramadol, the alcohol, the heady intoxication of the mania of never knowing where I stood with her, or the cocktail of zopiclone and a succession of anti-depressants which failed to fix me.  Today I thought of B as I threw out bits of sentimental shit I held onto, and stumbled across the thing I thought I’d lost almost a year ago, the ring she gave me … today when I found that ring, I woke up and thought it was time to grow up, because adults don’t always get what they want, and I ought to remember this, because as a kid I didn’t get what I wanted either, and I’m still here, and the world didn’t end; half the time I didn’t know what I wanted, I just thought I wanted B, without ever knowing who the hell she really was.  I cannot really blame her for that, not one tiny bit.

(re: Fleetwood Mac)

 

I’ve always been true to you, in my own sick way I’ll always stay true to you.

It never occurred to me to tell Mrs B about us*.

I felt there was nothing to be gained from magnifying the hurt.  I do not believe in the gratuitous infliction of pain.  I was deluded, yes, and thought I would not be a transient ‘affair’, but that my affair was the start of a great love that would endure … well, enough said, about the extent of my naivete … But, I never wanted to hurt someone wantonly along the way.  Mrs B will never know the truth.  And this is partly to protect Mrs B, but also out of some loyalty to B, on whom I would not wish pain in turn for the love we shared, no matter how imperfect or fleeting that was.

On the other hand, nothing I could say could permeate the reality that B and Mrs B have constructed.  They are both deeply dishonest with each other and doubtless themselves, but cling on for dear life to their marriage, juggernauts in other women’s lives.  They are welcome to that world.  I will not be knocking on their door with a broadside proclaiming something they know already but are consciously ignoring.

* Let me clarify ‘us’. Not a grandiose attestation to something private, unique or special.  Just the fact of what we did in our time together.  The detail of the time when we were lovers.  That we were intimate in a way that transgresses what most people define as a monogamous relationship.  I mean only the detail of our intimacy that means B was, to the lay observer,  cheating on Mrs B.  I have no idea of the extent of the lies B told her.  I leave that world to them.  B was angry that I’d asked not to be involved in or informed of that world.  In retrospect, I was right, because that world is the one which endures, not the fantasy life which was ours.  I leave them their private world wherein I was only ever a temporary interloper.

(re: Morrissey)