I love break-ups!
Nyet, seriously, my darlings, I am not being flippant here.
Well, okay, maybe just a lil’. Because no matter the number of departures I’ve survived, every time it seems to hurt like a mother fucker! You’d think I’d learn to deal, yet every time one of the participants goes, “I’m out!,” the words hit my heart like a mean defibrillator, and I feel like doubling over.
But then, as I’ve said before: I’m Russian, eh? We prefer to think of life as an endless series of shocks straight to the heart anyway.
As a matter of fact, I am quite sure I got myself a free one, at birth, when motha brought to register my newborn body at some local bureaucrat’s office back on some god-foresaken coast of my Motha Land.
“Oh, you’re two hours old?” the greedy and lazy government official said, accepting the bribe of vodka from my motha in exchange for my birth certificate (Stoli — is an official currency of my homeland, dontcha know? It gets shit done o’er there.) “Well, how about a freebie then?” — and the fucker attached the electrodes to my tiny heart. Happy fuckin‘ birthday, bitch!
The only way we know how to deal with pain, as a nation — a nation full of tortured, exhausted hearts addicted to shock therapy — is to laugh. Or to chuckle at least. For me, this recent bye-bye by a beloved has caused me a few laughing sessions (mostly at my own expense though). As for my witnesses and life-long keepers of my secrets, they tend to find me absolutely hilarious during times of loss. And truth be told, in their tear-jerking, breath-taking laughter, I find myself again — while the heart resumes beating at its healthier pace. So, this week, I’ve been very busy, you see: taking my stand-up routine around town and groveling for the healing powers of laughter by my beloveds.
But that’s not really the reason for my recent love of break-ups.
I’ve noticed that if I behold long enough after the initial heart-shocker, there always comes a moment of clarity; and that’s exactly the one I am starting to adore. Now, the messier the relationship and the more chaotic of a break-up, chances are this clarity will take years to sweep over (if ever). So, it must be some odd joke I’m currently living through, but just like the relationship itself, this break-up has been… well, kinda great. Because that’s just the thing: If during a love, the participants agree to behave according to their personal graces (as my recently beloved and I have), at the end of it, there is no room for guilt or self-defense to suffer through; making the process of healing much quicker. All along, my lover and I remained kind and generous, so besides an occasional self-delusion on both of our parts, there has been no injustice committed upon each other. So, in comes forgiveness.
(Want a little personal secret? “Forgiveness” was the first one-word message from my beloved that I’ve archived, until recently. Are you smirking? That’s bloody irony for ya! Yourr velkom.)
But here is V’s newest discovery. Had I been on Oprah, she would’ve called it an Aha Moment. (What?! Shut up! I don’t watch Oprah!) So forgive me, my darlings, if I go a little New-Agey / SoCal-Hippie on your pretty booties. I promise soon enough I’ll be back to ranty-cuntry — and we’ll share a laugh again. But this time around, my Aha Moment is so fragile, I hurry to commemorate it; because tomorrow I might wake up in so much pain, I’ll have reach for the defibrillator myself. So, let me cradle my tired lil’ heart for a while — a heart that, thank Shiva, has so obviously refused to give up on loving, even after its recent shocker. Let me cradle my heart and whisper it to a steadier rhythm with the help of a humbling insight:
It’s part of it, my darlings! It is ALL part of it.
The loss, the pain, the tragedy; the mourning and disappointment; the bitterness and the letting go — they are equal components of love, just as happiness and lightness. I am not sure where and how we’ve learned to misinterpret love as only its collective moments of elation. They are, of course, a part of it. Or rather they are part of falling in love. But the actual state of being in love — or BEING LOVE — encompasses every possible emotion, except for the destructive ones. Why not the destructive? Because (oh, boy: I’m about to let it rip!): Love — is life. And if one is gripped by emotions that are meant to damage and to destroy oneself or another person, then the story becomes about the pursuit of death. A thousand little deaths that get one closer to the state of non-living; non-being. Non-loving.
(Do you hate me yet? It’s okay, babies, I promise I’ll get nice and angry tomorrow and overcompensate with a cunty lil’ rant.)
“We are meant to live a life of love. When we’re not in love, something is the matter.”
These are the first words from a book gifted to me by my dear departed boo (my baby-boy, my kitten; and my big, strong man); a book titled Zen and the Art of Falling in Love. It has been my go-to during this most gracefully-executed romantic relationship of my life, and although I still have kilometers upon kilometers to go in search of my personal Zen, I feel that with this fleeting realization — that life is not just synonymous to love, but IS love — I am ever so closer. So, even as I find myself newly single — lashing out on occasion, to earn the laughter of my permanently beloved — I have not fallen out of love. I carry on loving life itself — loving you — and what’s most difficult, yet rewarding, loving myself.
Oh-kay! That’s enough!
As my love used to say in our phone chats:
“Hey, Eckhart! Give the phone back to V.”