Time,

I loved and yet may have lost again; in tribute to an old writer that claimed the loss was worth the love. I do not doubt his accuracy, but rather the experience. I find myself, once again, writing on the aftermath of a chosen love. I wouldn’t even bother to express that the third time was supposed to be the charm. The differences are as great as the lifetime that separates my previous heartaches; yet they have all left me confused and emotional. A combination that drives home the reality that there is no strength that can ease the shame of a drowning man.

For the first time I could see clearly a future as an adult. We made grand plans, homes in Southern France, sailboat adventures, and vacations—even children. I had overcome most of my own issues, and was able to recognize the clear and debilitating effects of my past relationships. I fell in love. Slowly, deliberately, but in love non-the-less. Like her, I was open and accepting of the faults and flaws that are so easily found in others. I remained open to a future, no matter how difficult. I even fell in love with a small child. There is no control for such things, only faith, and at times, hope. Both were not enough for me. I required more; what more could there be when we were cast our separate ways and apart?

Time; I asked for time and she gave it to me—grudgingly. She took my lack of understanding that what we had was love as a red flag, and she was right. She took my ability to both plan for a future and yet hesitate at execution, as a red flag, yet she stayed. However, distance and time did to us what the great and enduring mountains must feel every day, worn. It was hard to keep the laughter alive in the face of daily difficulties. It was hard to keep the focus on us as our lives required enjoyments within reach.

If there were failures in this cross-cultured affair, it was an inability to validate and express ourselves appropriately. Too slow to present my issues, and too quick for her to push people away. I found that I had no place to put my thoughts to paper, and no place for me to send them once written. So I suffered my doubts, my heart grew heavy with guilt without resentment. Like water, time and distance slipped into these cracks widening the gulf and eroding the foundation.

It was only time before I dreaded the calls; yet they were made. Did not want to travel; yet, I found myself adrift in bliss when she would greet me at the airport. These feelings further complicated the flawed mind that desperately rested on logic in searching for love. I was a castaway on an island with one foot on a moving vessel and the other on the rocky shore. To me, it was only a matter of time before I would be alone in the water. A self-fulfilling prophecy fully realized over the course of the year.

For her it was different, or so it would seem. A simple choice, made one day in Algiers, and the future was set. The only commentary was a declaration of faith and hope. In the face of valid concerns, she gave me platitudes; leaving me alone with the growing chasm. Her doubts hidden behind a mask and only evident in her actions to push me away. There are nuances, a child, and exs that all played a role in the infirm ground we rested our future upon. For weeks, passive notes highlighted a growing distance between our vessel and the deserted island; I was destined for the water.

In the past, others have said that I was incapable of love; something echoed by her in the last of our conversations. That I did not have the heart for marriage. In the past, I believed this sentiment. I now know that it is something quite different. I have found that I have always lacked a specific type of courage—the courage of the heart. That small part of us that creates the hopeless romantic, the stand outside your window with a boombox type of moment, the grand gesture. All of my grand gestures have been years too late or never at all.

The ubiquitous nature of heartbreaks is what I railed against a decade ago. Today it is the shame. Today it is the shame that I am angry, hurt, and sad. The shame that I cannot cry; yet, i cannot let go either. The shame that much like in the relationship my response is once again conflicted and muted by my lack of courage. I am left with the question of whether my next choice is selfish or a necessary grand gesture. To win her back, to once again reestablish the bonds that will tie us, only to find that the damage is already done.

Is this selfish? It would give me a reprieve from the pain that I feel now and maybe her as well. Yet if it does not work, was it purely selfish or a failed grand gesture in the name of love. A drowning man will clutch at a straw—or try to bring someone down with him. Is the stronger, more courageous thing to do is just to walk away? To stop talking. To absorb the pain and hurt as if somehow this can absolve her of some unknown guilt or pain? Is the denial of love the champion of strength; or is it a continuation of the life-long rationalization of my own weakness in the face of my heart.

I am tired, and shamed. My chest remains clutched throughout the days as my displeasure permeates throughout my office and home. I am angry, sad, and all of things that one can be when drowning. I am once again lost among the tall grasses without a direction, like refuse and junk swirling in the ocean waiting for a strong wind or wave to move them onwards. The rejection of what I wanted exposed my works as the waste of some adventure. I have loved. I am in love. Right now, I cannot imagine that I will ever love again. The absurdity of my juxtaposition is so evident as to require the most simplest of response: give it time.