Music

One of the most intimate moments in my nearly six-year relationship with Dave was also the first. We were sitting together in the office where we both worked and where we first met. We had the night shift and it was late, maybe around 2 a.m. The office was nearly empty, save for a few people down the hall. 

We had known each other for a month or so. And we had become close, though what was growing between us was still tempered by shyness, hesitation and unanswered questions. We were in that early stage of dating where everything and nothing is a mystery.

It was a slow night so Dave had gone out to a nearby liquor store and bought a bottle of gin. We mixed it with ginger ale from the vending machine in the office kitchen and drank surreptitiously under our desks. I remember I was tipsy, but not drunk.

There was a lull in our work and we turned to each other. And Dave, he did something that he would do countless times in the course of our relationship. He told me that he wanted to play me a song.

The song he played is called Violence. It's by Anathema. It's more than 10 minutes long and is entirely instrumental. Beyond that, it is nearly impossible for me to describe. But, I will try. It begins softly, quickly crescendos into something that can only be described as violent and then fades, gently, almost imperceptibly. Toward the end, there is a piano and Dave always said that those piano chords are his favorite in music.

Even more difficult to describe than the song is the effect that it had on me. And, I'm not going to try, because doing so would take pages and, even then, what I write would fall short. Let's just say that this was the moment that I fell in love with Dave.

That was the beginning of our relationship. And it's a fitting one. Dave is a musician and a lover of music, all kinds of music. And I adore music just as much. We had hundreds of records, piles of CDs, dozens of playlists on Spotify. There was always music playing in our apartment, while I cooked, when friends would come over, during quiet nights at home, as we got dressed to go out. Dave spent hours playing guitar in the living room, alone, for me, for our friends, and, later, as we sat, not speaking, wondering what to do. 

I used to write letters to Dave. At first, they were love letters. Later, they were still love letters but more complicated, imploring ones. One of the last letters I wrote to him was about music. In it, I described how the songs that reminded me of him had changed. For a long time, I wrote, all the love songs made me think of him. Later, songs about heartbreak, relationship struggles and sadness began to ring more true.

I ended the letter this way:

"For several weeks now, I've been asking myself the same question over and over again. It's this: "If we break up, what music will I listen to?"

The answer, Dave, is none. My life will go silent. And the silence will be unbearably and horrifically deafening.

Why? Because you are the soundtrack to my life.

You.

I love you."

One of the last things Dave said to me before he left was, "Don't stop listening to music."

I still can, and do. And it's easier than I thought. Yet, there are countless songs that I avoid, entire playlists on Spotify I cannot open, lyrics that come to me, unbidden, and break my heart. And Anathema, I cannot listen to that band.

But, I heard them recently because, of the hundreds of concerts and shows that Dave and I attended together, the last one was Anathema.

Trying

We had a plan, the two of us. He'd move out while I was at work and we'd cut contact. A clean break.

I saw him for what I willed myself to think of as the last time on the morning of the day he began moving out. I stood in the middle of the room, dressed for work. He sat on the couch, hunched over, tears in his eyes. I stared down at him, distant, removed. 

It was time to go but I couldn't leave, couldn't force myself to turn around and walk out the door. I shifted my weight back and forth thinking, inexplicably, that if I could just lift my feet, ever so slightly off the ground, it would make it easier for me to move. It didn't work.

I said the last thing I wanted him to hear me say, which was, "I love you." And then I left.

That's how I wanted him to remember me. Collected but kind. Calm, loving and caring. 

A clean break.

I began finding excuses to text him. Did he get the money I sent him? Did he mail the rent check before he left? Was another shipment of cat food coming soon? Our business-like interactions soon gave way. How are you doing? The cats miss you. 

My self-control started to weaken. I began texting him when I was upset. He'd take a long time to answer and when he did it would be short, terse. So I got mean. And then I would apologize. He'd say it was okay, he understood. And I would ask, "What do we do?" And he'd avoid answering directly.

Finally, today, I completely lost it. I sent a litany of vengeful, hateful texts. I apologized profusely. Then, I did it again. I pleaded with him to tell me what to do, hoping he'd definitively say to stop contacting him. I erased his number from my phone, reached out again, cried in public in the corner of a coffee shop. I met a friend, had two glasses of wine. Then, more texts, sorrowful, desperate ones. I cried hysterically on my bed, checked my phone and sent more texts. 

I keep searching for something profound to say, something that will bring me closure. But I have nothing and he doesn't either. At some point, it all becomes cliche, a tiring cycle, a downward spiral. We've already said all the things that two people who've fallen in love, been happy, been unhappy and broken up could say. 

Time

"Today wasn't so bad," I thought as I got off the subway at my stop and began walking home from work. I didn't cry at my desk, I had lunch with my coworkers and I laughed a few times without having to force or fake it.

I squinted into the early evening sun as I wound my way up the busiest street in my neighborhood. The street with all the storefronts, bars and restaurants. I passed a wine bar that opened a month or so ago. Outside, I saw a sign for "Wine Wednesday," at which time, according to the sign, all bottles of wine are half price. 

"That's a good deal," I said to myself, "I should go there sometime."

And then I remembered. I was there exactly a week ago, with Dave. We shared a half-price bottle of prosecco. We talked about our day, everything seemed normal. He wanted to order another bottle but I said we should go home instead so I could cook dinner. 

So we went home and I cooked dinner and he broke up with me. One week ago.

I mulled this over as I continued walking home. I thought about it carefully, from a distance, so as not to shatter my composure.

When I entered my apartment, I saw that the last of Dave's stuff was gone. In one week, he broke up with me, moved out and found a new place to live. I had asked him to leave his keys behind, partially out of spite. He left them on a clean, white napkin, which, for a moment, I thought was a note. 

"It's been one week," I marveled. And I couldn't - I can't - figure out if it seems like it's been longer or shorter than that, nor can I decide if the passage of these seven days means my heart will heal more quickly or more slowly than I initially thought.

I'm Doing The Best I Can

I'm doing the best I can.

I'm doing the best I can.

I'm doing the best I can.

This is my mantra.

I am doing the best I can when I redecorate the apartment, when I clean, when I force myself out of bed and go to work in the morning and do a good job while I'm there.

I'm doing the best I can when I stay active, see my friends, leave the house, run errands.

I'm doing the best I can when, instead of going to work, I stay home, drink wine, give myself a manicure and listen to breakup songs.

I'm doing the best I can when I get angry and send him mean texts. Or sad, desperate ones.

I'm doing the best I can when I can't get out of bed because I'm paralyzed by grief and heartbreak, when I cry so hard and for so long that I worry that I'll never be able to stop.

I'm doing the best I can because I'm trying, every minute, every hour, every day, I'm trying.

Day 4

Even the worst fights between me and Dave were civil. There was never any name-calling, yelling, no throwing stuff around or storming out of the apartment, no silent treatments. Once, I lobbed an empty water bottle at the opposite wall from where Dave was standing. He never let me live that down. Occasionally, I would raise my voice. But when I saw the effect that it had on him, I would speak more softly.

When we broke up, we said that we would remain civil. We would not let things get ugly, the way many couples do. I promised to remain kind, understanding and gentle. I also promised to refrain from reaching out, said he would never hear from me again. A clean break.

I kept both of those promises. For four days.

On the morning of the fourth day, my sorrow and heartbreak turned unexpectedly to rage of the highest order. I may explain one day why I was angry and why much (or some?) of it is justified but that is not the point of this post. To point is, I was completely overcome. I felt as if I was turning to fire and ice at the same time. And so, with the fiery furor of someone who feels wronged, scorned and abandoned and with the icy coldness of someone who wants to inflict maximum damage with no regard for the consequences, I began writing Dave a text.

I typed the nastiest, most unkind, cruelest and abominable thing I have ever put into words. When I was done, I read it over. I told myself that sending this text would be inexcusable, shameful and wrong. I thought about saving it elsewhere on my phone. I told myself to go to sleep and that I would feel better when I woke up. But the fiery rage scorched my reasoning and the ice froze my heart.

I hit send.

There is nothing good or redeeming about what happened next. I broke my promise. I hurt one of the people I love the most. I failed.

The answer to one's pain is never to hurt the person who caused it. Heartbreak is not something you can give back or force onto someone else. Trying to inflict damage only inflicts suffering on yourself.

That is all.