Since my breakup back in March, with an incredible man who's a reluctant alcoholic (I say reluctant, because by his own admission, he abhors it, he loathes it, but is powerless right now to kill it), I had been trying to sort through my emotions and wrestle with my fate. Anyone who has experienced the loss of love -real, deep, amazingly serious love- can maybe begin to understand what I've been through and continue to navigate. To pretend it's over is just a lie and disservice to my heart, mind, emotions. I imagine it will take years, if ever, to move past this. I suppose it's the same as losing someone to death...only with the loss of a loved alcoholic, closure is slippery to grasp.
So I write. I try to figure things out. And I haven't communicated with him. But part of me - my most ethereal soul, is reaching to him and longing for what is lost. This is my perspective:
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Flit had to steel herself. She knew what needed to be done, for her sanity and his freedom from agony.
She found courage where she didn’t know she had it. She alighted on Pad’s matted fur, his weary head drooping slightly, eyes clouded over. She was small enough that even his ears were bigger than her, but her heart was very large right now, her resolve fierce as an eagle, despite her being the frail hummingbird she was.
At least part of her felt very frail. Like the spun glass found in the carnival stalls; cobwebs of artistry, sun shining through the strands of the figure as it perched, frozen, forever poised from the release of the torch.
“Don’t shatter,” she told herself. She grasped Pad’s reddish brown ear and hugged it as tightly as she ever had, afraid to let go, knowing it would be the last she would touch him in any physical capacity. She knew it was the end. Her strength was fully depleted. No matter how much she coaxed him, loved him, encouraged him, empowered him…it bounced off him futilely.
She didn’t care that, as he stood there, he was dirty. She didn’t see how matted and bedraggled he was. She didn’t mind that, in his turmoil, he had neglected everything that was dear to her, to him, to them. She knew he was lost and in so much pain.
So she let go. The memory of his soft ear, his sun-kissed fur tips, the warmth when she snuggled safely against him, those memories were far away now. She stepped back, looked into his sad eyes with her own brokenness, and flew away.
She didn’t look back; at least not with her tiny, keen eyes. Her heart reached backward violently, but she flew onward, into the spotted light of the forest before her. No, she not once looked back, not from where he could see her.
Fully letting him go was the only option. For her. For him. She’s been in a story similar to his. She’d been in a darkness and depth of despair. She had an idea of part of what he was dealing with. That he was lost, conflicted, depressed and agonizing over letting that pain affect someone who was bound to his heart. Flit had to loose the bindings; and she did.
So Pad, the lone fox, was released. The forest was his again, to explore and travel and navigate alone. Perhaps he felt all lightness; Flit could only speculate. She wanted to imagine what was happening in his heart and head, but she could never really know. Pad had never been very good at revealing the deep parts of himself to her, but her imagination and intuition were fairly keen; she trusted this instinct now. It’s all she had.
And yes, her heart continued to reach back to him. Flit was confused, and angry, and sad. She blamed him for being weak, blamed him for messing things up, projected an imaginary add-on to the ink upon his heart; the reminder of past death, the permanence of failure. Another relationship shot down, like the markings on the side of an airplane. She was incredibly angry and sad and rejected; these thoughts were all she had to help her cope with her sudden, massive loss.
Well, it wasn’t so sudden, really. A year had transpired where Pad and Flit were together in the forest, trying new adventures and testing one another’s hearts. The dark babble in Pad’s mind was constant, consistent, unfairly loud and clamoring. And poor Flit was oblivious to it, mostly. Pad couldn’t, or wouldn’t, share with her the extent of the voices. And she neither understood the separation, nor saw the depth of the wound that was beginning to form between them.
Until the day she left. She knew suddenly, with surety, it was the only option left.
So she occupied her time in the woods, lonely and alone, darting among the trees and animals. Caught in the winds and rains of storms, sometimes finding shelter, sometimes not. Slowly, she found new friends and discovered beautiful wonders only imagined before. She flew out of the trees on occasion, warming herself fully in the sun with others who had a love and beauty of their own, and uplifted Flit for her own inner courage. It was a time for healing for her. And she needed it. And she let it happen.
Flit had heard things about Pad, seen his scratchings around some of the trails they shared together, unknown and unseen. These sightings were very painful for her; they reminded her what she didn’t have anymore, and she imagined him gaily traipsing along, happy to be alone again, and it both angered and saddened her. Angered her that he should be so fortunate to find happiness when she felt such deep despair. And saddened because she still loved him more wholly than she thought possible. She was jealous of him, and envious of his friends who still had his love and friendship, and also angry at how they were encouraging and cheering him when she knew the truth of his pain and brokenness, and his choice to not face it. Mostly, she didn’t want to see him find a new love; she didn’t think she could fathom that - that he would move on so easily when her heart was still so raw and shredded. So she avoided those trails. She didn’t want to risk seeing signs of him, for they were a sharp prick to her heart, and she could hardly bear it.
But there came a day, months later, when it wasn’t as hard to reminisce about Pad. She had taken to praying for him, giving him over to her God, who was much bigger than Flit ever could be, and who, she knew, could talk to Pad when she couldn’t. She sent messages to his heart through her God, she hoped he heard her, felt her, sensed her. She secretly kept small tabs on him, asking this quiet rabbit or that wise owl if they’d seen him and what, perchance, he was doing. She sent her love to him and wished much strength for him.
The pain of loss was still there, but it wasn’t as sharp at had been. Time seemed to have dulled it to the point Flit could bear it easier. And she had some rationale mixed in to help her not lose her downy mind over the entire matter.
And she had faith.
She started to wonder about the idea that, maybe, just maybe, when Pad was finished journeying, he would return to her. Maybe his darkness wouldn’t last forever. Maybe he was missing her like she was missing him. Maybe he was pondering the depth of their relationship, as she was. Silly notions began to enter her mind, the idea of the two of them being born from the same star matter, or the idea that her heart was bound to him with unbreakable bonds. And that no matter how far and wide he traveled, they would still have the tiniest silk thread of connection.
Romantic, ridiculous notions. But, nonetheless, Flit wanted to believe. And she was willing to wait for him to complete his journey. She was hopeful he would find healing for his troubled mind and heart. She had faith his bondages would be broken.
She told him forever and to this day maintains, she believes in him. Even if he doesn’t believe in himself. She will always love her Pad.
