Stuff and nonsense (the pain of unrequited love)

‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. — Lord Alfred Tennyson

If there‘s anything good about having your heart broken, it‘s learning that you still have one.

Such an experience is especially poignant for a dedicated commitment-phobe, such as myself, who likes to keep a guarded heart and a full dance-card.

I had an affair with a married friend. (If you’re the judgmental type, let me skip to end and reassure you that they went back to their spouse, leaving me to forever wallow in self-loathing and shame.)

It was all of those things one solemnly swears never to fall prey to: lustful, destructive and full of sordid, stolen moments. It was angst-ridden, guilt-laden and heart-breaking.

My (ex)friend is in a straight marriage, so the likelihood of us falling for one another was low. Perhaps that assumed safety fuelled our situation by allowing us to let our guard down more than we otherwise might have. Our level of mutual understanding (that elusive ’click’ for which we all yearn) was immediate and intense. We began finishing one another’s sentences and speaking on behalf of the other right away. On the surface, our shared geeky-tendencies and cultural references forged an instant camaraderie. More deeply, our like-minded political convictions, intellectual interests and philosophical bent strengthened the bond. Instinctively, we saw through one another’s defences, confronted one another’s weaknesses and acknowledged one another’s needs. We fit together. Effortlessly. She got along famously with my kids (no small achievement!) who still want to adopt her.

This being a tragedy, let us call her Othello; one that I loved not too wisely, but too well. I fell fast. I fell hard. Alas, my depth of feeling was not reciprocated (how could it be, when her heart and hand rightfully belong to another?). Still, the connection was undeniable. And so began the emotional affair. As the Other Woman, I was completely dispensable of course, a mere understudy for her spouse; who failed (fails!) to meet her emotional needs. My propensity to uplift and support her was no-doubt incredibly useful to her (still she acknowledges my belief in her as being “greatly appreciated”– OUCH!); a great boon to her flailing self-confidence. Sexually too we were intensely compatible – electric! spine-tingling! – but I won’t bore you with that!

The real challenge, for me at least, is moving on. Othello, not really caring for me at all, ultimately had to put an end to it (thus returning to the ruse of being in a fulfilling marriage – until next time). As tiresome as I usually find dating, this was not a game for me. I wanted happily ever after. I wanted the white picket fence. Instead, I found myself cut adrift on the cold stagnant waters of the platonic ocean. That too was short-lived, the awkwardness of our situation out-weighing my serviceability as a confidant and emotional substratum.

I remain in awe of her. I long for her with every fibre of my being; and I fight — all day, each day c to pretend not to give a damn that she doesn’t want me.

To have every aspect of one’s psyche and soul be completely, utterly, unfathomably understood (all of one’s complexities, inconsistencies, foibles and failures) by another human being is a beautiful, rapturous, uplifting experience. It’s no surprise then, that to be so understood, so soulfully naked in front of another, and then rejected out-of-hand, hurts unspeakably. Each little reference that no-one else gets (yet she seems to comprehend telepathically) serves as a reminder that no-one else will understand me with the same effortless osmosis as she. Every calamitous anecdote of dating miscommunication, a terrifying reminder that no-one sees through me, knows what’s important to me, the way she does.

Haunting stuff. Desperately romantic, and yet – ultimately – pointless, as she cares not a jolt for me.

All this is compounded, as is the Shakespearean irony of such affairs (A Midsummer Night’s Dream comes to mind) by each misplaced romantic gesture, every woefully inadequate flirtatious interaction with any one of the long line of incomparable, incompatible, inconsequential others I have since buried myself in to dull the pain.

It sucks.

And so, to the point… How does one get over the break-up of a relationship one was never in? How to fill the gaping wound left in one’s life by an extraordinary person who was never really in it?

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