Sunday, 27 November 2011

I don't love you anymore

The cruelest thing that one human being can say to another. 
"I don't love you anymore."

And then you ask "Why?

"Why? Why Why? Is it something about me? It's me isn't it. It's something intrinsically wrong with me. I am unloveable."

I distinctly remember both times when I said it and when it was uttered to me.
The first time was with my boyfriend of eight years. He woke up in the night and was scared of his nightmare.

"Say you love me," he demanded greedily, like a child.

And I found myself unable to say it. I was physically and mentally disabled to love him.

I remained silent.

His panic and dread at the discovery was palpable. We went back to sleep and woke up strangers.

The second time was my ex-husband, flicking his Hugh Grant hair uncomfortably. Very English. No drama. Restrained and dignified.

"Is there something wrong darling?', I asked fully expecting a reassuring response.

"Sorry, I just can't do this anymore", he said diplomatically.

I looked at him in horror. 

"But what about all this?!", I asked incredulously, swinging my arm around our designer flat and the beautiful dog of a very fashionable breed sitting in the corner obediently waiting for Mummy and Daddy to stop fighting.

The comprehension of how final his decision truly were, was instant. I looked at him and realised that he left the room, the flat, the dog and me and the whole concept a long time ago. The English do that. They never advertise emotional detachment. His eyes were empty, kind. It was the kindness that was killing me. The lack of passion and a tangible sense of relief at finally being able to say it was the unnamed elephant in the room.

I went back into the room and was out of air. I ripped my t-shirt off me like an Italian widow. I am a foreigner after all. Drama is to be expected. He watched in horror. As I was choking on a perplexed anger I run out of the flat.

Being unloved or unloving someone isn't an easy thing. It's a hell hound, whichever way you slice it. But it is not about you. It's about them. Or you. Whoever does the deed.

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