Boats

Why is it that divers and snorkellers go into the water backwards?

Because if they went forwards they would end up back in the boat.

Much love, Grandad.


I woke up this morning and realised – and I don`t know why I was remotely surprised – that my grandad is right, and I was wrong. I`m not healing in the wrong direction at all; I`m going exactly the way I should be going. Which is back to the beginning.

I`m not falling in love with The Boy again. I thought that`s what it was – because I was remembering the good things, and the kind things, and the things that made it hurt less - but I was wrong. As the pain slowly eases and the dry and burnt up black bits on the surface fall away, what`s left is not love: it is a belief in love. What`s leaving is the hate, and the bitterness, and the anger, and the pain, and what`s coming back is my belief in something good, and something beautiful. Not for him, but for life; not for his love, but for any. And the pink, bright skin showing up underneath is not my feelings for him, renewed: it is myself, as I was before I got hurt.

In truth, I sent him the link to that blog; I wanted him to see it. I wanted him to know that – after everything - he was still loved; for no other reason at all than that it is wonderful to be truly loved, no matter how unreturned the feelings are. And, naive though it obviously was, it was a genuine gesture: a gesture that came from a good part of me – a compassionate part - and a part of me I thought had gone. I wanted him to know he was still adored, and forgiven, and loved - that I thought of him fondly, and not with hatred - and that was all: I wanted no reply from him. In fact, I specifically begged him - with my whole heart - not to say anything back.

When his response came – so cruel, so flippant, so bitter and full of inexplicable hatred towards me and the love he singlehandedly destroyed and the other girl he hurt too because she didn`t know about me either – it almost shattered me again; to hurt me again when I had asked him not to, and to respond to my gesture of love with nastiness, was so incredibly unnecessary that it very nearly managed it. To lose in the game of love is bad enough – to love somebody who has hurt you and no longer feels the same way is hard enough anyway – without being needlessly trampled on by the victor afterwards. And, in sending that message, that was all he was doing: intentionally hurting me all over again with his indifference, and slamming his feet on the bits I was trying so desperately hard to heal. For no reason but his own satisfaction.

I did not lose, though. Waking up this morning, I suddenly realised that I did not lose at all. In this game of love, in fact, I won. My love - once returned by him so wholeheartedly and so unreservedly - is now totally unreciprocated, yes, but it is still love; I am still able to feel good things, and bright things, and believe in the things I thought I had lost for good. I am able to love somebody who does not love me without bitterness; to accept their nastiness without prolonged anger. I am beginning to let go of the bitterness and hatred, instead of letting it fester inside me and make me rotten: I am hoping for future happiness for both of us, and refusing to allow the pain to change me for good.

And he is not. He has turned it all outwards towards other people instead of at himself, and – in attacking me for telling him I loved him, and hurting me again for no reason other than malice – he has lost. Because the "poison" he speaks of is of his own making - was always of his own making - and clinging to it is a justice that comes from himself, and not from me. And that "torture" was created by him, and is now turned upon himself with every further unecessary cruelty he inflicts towards others. For if he has not learned anything from the past year - if he has not learned the importance of honesty, and compassion, and kindness, and integrity, and not hurting somebody for the sake of it, willynilly, just because you can - then he never will, and he has lost more than he can possibly know. He has lost much, much more than my love, and his feelings for me. He has lost himself.

If I can hope for anything from the past year – which has been without exception the most painful and soul destroying year of my life – it is that I have learnt nothing but belief in compassion: that I can be the same person, with the same hope, and the same belief in love and in goodness and in life and in other people, that I was before I was hurt so incredibly badly. And – as the burnt bits fall away, and the pinkness starts to shine through again – I think I am finally returning to that person when I didn`t think I could.

In loving, and in believing in love again, I am healing in the right direction; and the man who broke my heart is not. So I am now going to let him and his unecessary nastiness go, permanently and forever - both publicly and privately - and I am wasting no more of my heart on him. It is worth far too much.

To go forwards in love, you can only ever hope to go backwards. And I am going to go far enough back to let me start again as if it never happened at all. To go back to the beginning.

And, in doing so, I hope that I will never end up back in this boat again.