Reclaiming the stories of the past

When My Beloved and I stopped speaking, it was because the woman who would later become his wife urged him to cut off communication.  We'd broken up over a year previously, and it didn't make sense to her that we were still so connected, still prone to ache over our separation and the strained conversations. And so he stopped. Just stopped. Stopped taking my calls and answering my emails. There was no explanation, no "Goodbye" communication. He just willed me out of his life, and ceased being a part of mine. Poof! Four miles away from me, and working for the same company, but he was gone. And knowing him as I did, and fearing further and more painful rejection, I did everything I could to respect his obvious desire to eliminate me from his life.  And here it where it gets interesting.

When we split up, he cut me out of his life, physically, but still carried me around in his pocket, as he says. He tells me that he mentioned me to others as a formative force in his life, etc. Though I was no longer physically a part of his life, I nevertheless remained a part of his life story.

But I dropped him from mine. I was aware of him physically, of where he lived and where he worked, and every time I crossed the street he lived on (almost daily) I wished him well. But I stopped speaking of him. Stopped thinking of him in personal terms. I told no stories of him. Carried nothing of him within me. His withdrawal was so sudden and so complete that there was nothing left behind--the memories of our seven years together were swept back from the shore of my life, carried off by the tide of emotion to waters that run very, very deep. The hordes of friends I made in Portland post-2000 never heard his name. They heard of MAR, who came before him, and SEK, who came after, and of my Dutchman and CAW, and MR in SF and even KR in Seattle. But never Him. Two close friends of mine have both told me how odd they think that is, that this man, My Beloved, has been missing from my personal narrative so completely that they'd no idea he'd even existed.

And when they each communicated this to me, I was reminded of something that Elie Wiesel once wrote in Gates of the Forest, something along the lines of "When a friend denies you it is worse than death; it is as if you never existed for him, or him for you." His denial of me seemed so complete to me, that it was as if he didn't exist, and neither did I -- In fact I re-created myself in the following years, even to the point of using different names: The one he knew me by was reserved for professional me, and I chose a new one for playful me, for the me I wanted to be.

In thinking about it, in thinking about him and me, I recognize that I wiped a very important person and several years from my life story, and it is time to write him back in. It is time to graft that branch back onto the trunk. The question is how? The difference in our ages (5+ years) means that I was more often the one imparting knowledge and lessons. I was the one who handed over books to read and confronted him with new experiences, who noticed his hubris and challenged his opinions. What did I learn from My Beloved? What did I take away from our relationship? I thought learned from him that I was lovable, that I was worthy of being loved--but the magnitude of his rejection obliterated that. I was left instead with a powerful need to apologize for being me. An apology he didn't have ears to hear. As I pick now over the jumble dotting the shore of my consciousness since he swept back into my life, I'm struggling to find a common thread, trying to find a way to string these random, disparate bits of memories and emotions into stories. Stories of us.

And I think I've found a way. He mentioned, after reading some of my erotic stories, that he thought some of them were about him/us. Nope. Not a single story. We lived together for 7 years, had sex every day, sometimes two and three times a day, and with all that material to work with, I never delved into those experiences, never drew from them. And I think... I think it is time to change that. It is time to open up to those memories and write some stories, naughty stories, about two people in their early twenties, exploring their sexuality with the exuberance that is born of love and adventure and acceptance.

Yes. I've some stories I can tell, and in the telling, return My Beloved to his rightful place in the story of my life -- and his.



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