Beautifully Damaged Memories

I used to write when I felt depressed or angry. I hardly ever wrote about our happy moments. I would write dark poetry. It may not make sense to everyone, but it made sense to me. I never took any creative writing classes, so I have no idea if any of what I wrote was technically correct. I just know it expelled the emotions trapped in my heart. Today, I write for the same reason. I wouldn’t describe myself as depressed in this very moment, but melancholy woke with me this morning.

I am remembering the laughter we shared when things were good. The days he told me he loved me, unprovoked. Toward the end, he showed me less and less that I was the center of his world anymore, but I always craved the times that he did. The memories of the humor we shared, the way he knew my body, the way I rested on his chest listening to his steady breath and the rhythm of his heartbeat haunt me today. The thing I knew I would miss the most was his eyes—the way he used to trace my face with them. I was always turned on by, and envious of, his effortless muscular structure—even in the end.

I loved how he cared for me when I was pregnant with our children. I still am in awe of how he wasn’t afraid to watch me give birth. He was fascinated and so deeply involved, it was like he wanted to push for me. He cried at every birth. Our last two children were water births, and he was in the water with me when they were born.

I miss his boyish curiosity when he was carefree. I admire his persistence. He never took no for an answer. I used to laugh at his boldness—how he didn’t care what others thought, at least what he showed on the surface—and I was dumbfounded by how people gravitated toward him without him even trying. He didn’t even like half the people he talked to. I miss how our skin blended and the deep connection we shared. I loved how we met and how we grew together in the beginning. At times, what he allowed me to know felt like a secret only he and I shared. His habits, the ones I could see, belonged to me and only me… or so I thought.

All these things, I wanted forever. I wanted them to be the only thing. Not the disappointment. Not the continuous heartbreak. Not the tears born of frustration and defeat. Not the craving for his attention. Not the ice-cold rip of his love.

There were a couple of occasions when he made me feel special on my birthday. On those days, I didn’t care that I was in a constant state of withdrawal. On those days, I felt like we were on top of the world.

My memory of the first time he put effort into a gift for my birthday—we were about 2.5 years into our marriage. He bought me a Nine West purse. That was a big deal because we didn’t have much money. I don’t remember how much the purse cost, but I knew we were eventually going to sacrifice somewhere to make up for the money he spent. Still, I felt special because he was willing to make that sacrifice for me.

The second time he made me feel on top of the world, he planned an entire weekend at Spa Castle in Lewisville, TX. It was a surprise. I think we were living near the Bishop Arts District in Dallas at the time. I remember it being about a 45-minute to an hour’s drive away, and it felt like a road trip—which made it even more special because I didn’t know where we were going. At the time, it was brand new—just built. I had been once before and raved about it when I told him about my experience. I didn’t stay overnight, but I mentioned the hotel above the spa. For my birthday that year, he booked us a suite for one night.

During the day, before we could check in, we decided to take advantage of as many saunas and plunge pools as we could—especially the swim-up bar. We had a few drinks. A lotta few. We were young and didn’t know that heat makes alcohol expand in your bloodstream, making one drink feel like three or four shots. After our first or second drink, we went on a tour of the free hot saunas—there was a wooden one, a gold one, and a few others, all different temperatures. Even a cold one. After each one, we kept thinking, man, those drinks are stronger than we thought.

A random older man with gray hair saw us—we must have looked drunk, or maybe he was—and came up to us and said, “You know, the heat can make one drink feel like five…” He said something else, but I’m sure the look on our faces said, please walk away, sir. And he did. As soon as he walked away, we looked at each other and, at the same time, said, “Oooohhhhh—that’s why we’re drunk!” We laughed so hard and then decided to make another trip to the bar.

We were young and didn’t really know our limits then. We hadn’t even checked into the hotel yet, but night was approaching. We didn’t really have money to get my nails done, let alone his, but we both got pedicures. I remember it being odd because his philosophy was that only women get their nails done, and a man (beats chest) doesn’t indulge in such things. I just remember sharing something I loved with him. I didn’t want the night to end. So far, it had been the best birthday I’d ever had while we were together.

A few months later, I found out he was cheating on me with a woman from his job. I won’t share her name, but just think old grandma from the ’60s. I also found out that the plans for my birthday were her idea—even the Nine West purse. My stomach twisted so much I could feel the bile crawling up, pushing its way out of my mouth. It was a piercing, guttural pain.

I felt betrayed, of course. All I could think was, he didn’t plan that birthday for me—it was a fantasy he wanted to live out with her. That birthday, and many others, ended with me feeling alone, stupid, and unworthy of love.

When we lived in Taiwan, he took me to a beach about an hour away from Taichung. I don’t remember the name of the city, but I remember there was no smog, and the beach we went to was the same beach where they shot the movie Life of Pi—one of my favorite movies. We argued about something stupid, and like I said—I felt alone, stupid, and unworthy of love—again.

My birthdays were the shit-wrapped-in-ice-cream moments I talked about in one of my other posts.

That was the theme of our marriage: good times, blissful times, and chaos with an expanded shelf life. I mourn a relationship that was never a friendship. I mourn the lust we had in the beginning, the fight for our souls. The trauma bond we shared was thick, like hardened sap on a tree. That sap expanded the hotter our arguments and disheveled thoughts became, and it exploded any reminisce of the rooted tree we thought we had.

Grief is not linear, they say—and I confirm the truth in that cliché. I remember the beautiful moments with a feeling of loss, but I regain my strength in the decision I made when I remember the deadly consequence afterward. I was dying on that rollercoaster. My body showed it. My life reeked of despair. The thing that kept me alive was the fight I had for myself—the fight I saw in my mother—the fight that was forced on me through the requirement of resourcefulness. I used to tell myself that I loved myself. It wasn’t until I made the decision to leave and stay gone that I lived out that promise.

What I know for a fact is that pushing down the happy memories doesn’t do me any good, even if they make me cry or feel melancholic. I welcome the feelings, the thoughts. I’m grateful. It just means that I’m human. It doesn’t mean that I need or want to go back. It’s just a reminder that I can keep those happy memories and love him within them. I will never hate him. I may never love anyone the same way. I kind of hope I don’t. He was the love of my life—and the cancer that was killing me.

Writing has always been therapeutic. I needed to write this today. This is how I heal. The trauma and the decisions I made are my own. I am ashamed of them, and I am proud of them. I am proud of myself for never giving up on myself. Love is what kept me there—and ultimately, the thing that birthed this new life. I am becoming whole again.