Love, etc.

It's funny that Peter almost never came over to my apartment, although we were at his place often: Cambridge is a beautiful place to live, not that my residence was not. With Henry, later, it would be different. He lived at his parents' house in Oakland, near Lake Merrit, where we would play Scrabble and play a game he had created, kind of like twenty questions. I had a lot of questions, but those came later; phone calls and conversations that ended with other, better young women.

I realized I was in love when Peter talked about McLean at the first bar we visited, on our first date, when I was so nervous I almost fell of my bar stool in fright. He worked in the adult psychiatric unit, and somehow, we hadn't crossed paths, although just two months prior I had been a patient there. My anxiety was a complex emotional cocktail of damage left over from my ex-boyfriend, and drinking made it worse. I stuck to one drink, and we played shuffle board, and his soft demeanor left me dreaming.

Later, we would cook at his apartment in a snow storm, making something, perhaps with lentils. He had to do a night shift at McLean and drive through the storm to get there. I was in love, enough to want his job, his arms, and a relationship.

An awkward phone call two months after I met him resulted in him hesitating to invite me out to a music event at a bar. I ignored his hesitation, and when I sat again on a bar stool next to him, it was like a reflection of our first time meeting, although I was falsely confident this time. I didn't want to tell you this over the phone, he said. But I've met someone else.

Another slap in the face was to come later, in California, with Henry. I'd come to really, really like him. Perhaps in love, perhaps not, but he was like a dear friend. I didn't want to tell you this over the phone, he said. But I've met someone else. It had been two months of passion, ending with me perhaps looking like I'd been slapped hard across the face. I stared at him, and when he realized I wasn't going to take it well, he look bewildered. I was making him uncomfortable. I got up and left. With Peter, I had merely sat there, waiting for something incredible to happen, a retraction of disbelief and reality. But with Henry, having already experienced this parting of ways, I decided to give up on myself. I cried all the way home. With Peter, I had merely hailed a cab in stunned silence, willing myself to not replay the conversation, to not fall apart.

Being in love is a complex range of emotions, not unlike diving underwater, meaning to touch the bottom but only hitting slime. Perhaps you can keep going, but you'll drown. Simiarly, I needed to just let go of my relationships with Peter and Henry - it was sink or swim, go under or survive.

It's hard to be so committed, only to be told there's someone better.

Demoralized, I had no choice but to move on. It dawned on me that perhaps this is how things are supposed to be.

Perhaps this is how love is.