this is for you
- By Kelly Diels
- 30 September, 2010
- 12 Comments
This is for you.
You, who I loved more intensely than any man, ever.
You, who fled a scary situation and flew tens of thousands of miles to stay with your family in Canada – the same week I did the same thing – and ended up in a house just a few blocks from mine, on a bus with me, on the phone with me, in a theatre with me, in love with me. Two weeks earlier we were on two different continents. Two weeks later we were each other’s world.
You, who a year later made me wonder, to myself and to others: who is this man? Did he change, did I not know him at all, was he always like this?
Your friend M – not C – answered me: He was always like this.
This did not give me peace.
You, who gave me diamond-and-aquamarine earrings and a ring – a ring I never wore and now hangs around my daughter’s neck – for my birthday months after we parted and months into your new love.
You, who I grieved like a death.
You, who when your friend – and mine – told you he wanted to be with me and asked for your blessing, said “Go ahead. She’s crazy. It won’t last.”
We had eight years and two children together just to spite you, you know.
You, who I hoped heard how pretty my baby was so you could regret she wasn’t yours.
I’m sure you didn’t regret it.
You, who did awful, unethical, exploitative shit after we split. I mourned those acts. I delighted in them. Confirmation was comfort. I worked hard at hating you.
I had to because I loved you.
I loved your ruthless hope, your Machiavellian understanding of love and war and daily life, your ability to save, sacrifice, leverage – no, catapult – yourself from social level to level, your success-at-any-costs striving. I loved your selfishness. I loved your selflessness. I loved how you offered me every single cent you’d saved so I could take a UN internship in Zambia. (I wish I had accepted both offers.) I loved how you told me you loved me – easily, sweetly, without hesitation, often – in three languages. I loved how you ripped my red skirt. I loved how we surrendered a year of weekends to sensuality. Our hours-and-hours of ease, passion, constant connection and touch is engraved in my mind as how it ought to be, how it was only once before you – and, in the ten years since, only once after you. Even now, that is what love looks like, to me.
And so I lovehated you. For a decade.
And then you e-mailed me and asked, Was I one among many or did I stand out as significant?
How could you not know?
You were significant.
You first flooded then drowned my heart. And, battling waves, I always wondered: Did he really love me at all?
And now I know, because as a grown man with nothing to gain (or lose), you told me: I really did love you but I wasn’t ready for you.
Really, ready, relief.
So I’m glad you called, and called, and called again. Now I no longer have to hate you.
But that’s also why I won’t see you, not even for a snack or a sandwich: because, for an old-fashioned girl, lunch is a gateway drug.
About the author
- More at
What? No….
See the man.
The real addiction is to tragedy and longing over the risk of following your heart.
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Wow.
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Beautiful. You wrote this for you–incredibly healthy & strong. You’ve shared this with all of us–profoundly giving, I thank you having been there.
Now, my suggestion for you is to hand-copy (yes, ink on paper) one copy for each of your children. Add loving words so the child knows it was written for her, put it in an envelope and put it away for the day when she will feel so alone in her desperate love for someone. When she will feel stupid and angry with herself, and will be absolutely sure no one ever felt this pain. The envelope and its contents will not be a “See, you aren’t so special.” It will be a “I’ve been in the hole of hell and was able to get back out–because I had you.”
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Wow…
This is beautifully written. And I understand exactly what you mean, lunch is a gateway drug for me, too, with a certain someone. Hell, a phone call is a gateway drug.
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This is so beautiful. I love that you’ve found some peace, such as it is, and such strength! The romantic in me wants you to have that lunch, to be strong, to be your fabulous you all in his face…..
because I know you are strong and fabulous enough to do it.
No point in following such advice when you also know yourself so well. We love you no matter what!
Hugs and butterflies,
~T~
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My heart hurts when I read your stuff. This is powerful shit that many more people than you realize need to read. There are many hearts in holes in our world…
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Oh, what gorgeous writing! You caught my breath and held it until the end, you reminded me of crazy, crazy, loco, mad love. Reading this piece felt like listening to a stunning piece of music.
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kelly – this is resoundingly effing-A brilliant. holy wow.
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I profoundly miss that kind of love. It has been many many years when I felt I could freely be…and love…without restraint.
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Out for Lunch
“No, I can’t have lunch,” I’ll say.
“Some other time.
I’m booked today.”
Too busy piecing up a heart.
After all these months,
it’s still apart.
“It’s not a good idea,” I’ll say.
You’re in my thoughts all through the day.
“We can’t be friends. Not now. Not yet.”
I dream you have not gone away.
“I’m really tied up now,” I’ll say.
“A lot is going on,” I lie.
Replacement parts are hard to find.
I would see your face and start to cry.
“No, I can’t have lunch,” I’ll say.
Feels like you left me yesterday.
To sit so close and not to touch—
It’s much too soon for us to lunch.
Dear Kelly -
This is a poem from my new book, “A Woman Without A Man” now on Amazon. Thought you’d relate to it.
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