Clandestine Confessions

I received an email a few weeks ago.

“Pick up where you left off!”

It was from a company in regard to a little project I was working on in winter of 2021.

I say “little” so nonchalantly as if I was not setting out to alter my life forever with this gift.

This was to be a proposal.

To take place on his birthday.

Drive up north, get down on one knee, and then go to the wedding a few days later…with him.

Do I realize now how absolutely absurd this all sounds? Especially given the circumstances.

Absolutely.

But I was operating out of desperation – this “relationship” the definer of my worth, a coping mechanism to numb the sadness, an escape…

It wasn’t so much me running into my dream future as it was me running out of a present that screamed of pain.

This grand display of love was to be my shout to prove I was committed, all in on a life with him.

My last attempt to show him I was different this time around – worthy to be seen…and chosen…

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A few years prior I had gifted him my sneakers (a “Runaway Bride” inspired gesture) – to make the same statement.

A promise with which I did not follow through, clearly.

Hindsight shows me why.

But hindsight only comes with time…and until that time passed, I spent those years berating myself for breaking my word.

And in turn, breaking promises I made to myself to make up for it.

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I have been thinking a lot about those shoes lately – in particular how I want them back.

They were the ones that carried me through Europe – hiked Mt Vesuvius, walked the streets of Assisi, danced on a stage in Athens, climbed the Eiffel Tower.

How deeply symbolic for what I was actually surrendering.

And how full circle it would become…

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I was presented an opportunity to move to Italy in the spring of 2022– the plan was for me to split my time between countries.

There was already an apartment picked out for me.

It was to be a dream fulfilled – one that I held sacredly in my heart for 15 years.

Ever since those sneakers touched Italian soil.

He knew about it.

Told me it was causing him to question everything about me…and us.

I remember when that text came through while sitting in the Wal Mart parking lot.

He was asking me to choose.

All the while me being the other woman who never once asked him to pick one.

I trusted his heart.

He seemed threatened by mine…

I went home and sat on the floor of my closet – the one that had been and would continue to be the home of my deepest breakdowns – and begged God, through breath stealing sobs, to not make me have to pick a side.

It was never brought up again.

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The proposal was to be a book.

Did we expect any different from a writer…?

I was turning our entire relationship into a love story written by me – with photos, screenshots, images of texts from the past 20 years accompanying the words.

I once saved everything…and I mean EVERYTHING.

The last page would be the question…

Which would serve a dual purpose: a proposal and an ultimatum.

It would solidify which one of us he was choosing.

His answer would determine if I stay…or leave forever.

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Many hours were invested in its creation before I would never touch it again – the day he publicly revealed his girlfriend.

Mere minutes after reaching out to me for his fix…that I numbly gave.

Shutting off all emotions in an act of self-preservation.

To feel it would end me.

What bred life to his addiction was stealing mine.

And it was in his decision to reveal her that I realized he already made his choice – but would never have the courage to let me go.

Because he was still benefiting from me.

Why would he willingly (outside of it being the moral thing to do) surrender a life living in the best of both worlds?

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It could have been amazing.

The story.

The proposal.

The relationship.

But the endings of each were no longer in my control.

And truthfully, by this point, with how much of myself I offered into invisibility, how many scars covered my body and heart, I did not want them to be.

I had my evidence.

And I needed to stop stubbornly refuting what was before me in order to maintain a fairytale.

Was this really the route I wanted to walk to reach my “happily ever after”?

Eventually I had to cease fighting for what could be and accept what was.

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I never had time to grieve that failed attempt.

Nor did I need to.

The failure led to me flying solo to the wedding.

And what happened because of that would course correct my future.

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Funny enough, Italy got brought up at the reception dinner with the man I had just met who was sitting next to me.

He was one out of five in my life who now knew.

I hesitated to even mention it – the disapproving voice of another loudly chattering in my mind.

Do I dare risk putting my heart in that position again?

But also, what did I have to lose?

I was never going to see this person again (or so I thought…).

“Tell me about it,” was his response – laced with intrigue and excitement.

So, I did.

And so, he continued to ask questions the more I spoke.

Each one answered with in depth details and desires of the heart that nobody else had yet to hear…and still have not.

I was in very different company…this I knew right away.

And I was not going to let that gift go wasted.

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You do not get these kinds of people but once or twice in a lifetime – the ones offering you the space to simply be.

Their presence welcoming you home to yourself.

An unexplainable feeling…

It is why I cry at the aching of wanting to have the opportunity to meet that person again for the first time.

To feel THAT again for the first time…

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No, Italy did not happen.

No, the proposal did not happen.

But those nos were the catalyst for the best yes I ever spoke.

The one that gained me my life back…