Unbound

 Last night I had a dinner with an old lover.

I hadn't seen him in a bit under five years.  Technically I hadn't talked to him in over five years either since he is terrible on the phone, though great over text, and we had texted a few times a year just to say hello even while I was with my ex.

Technically I don't think my ex knew this. See, early on in our relationship, my ex had a kind of meltdown involving a ridiculously long text message, a subsequent phone call,  and a weird kind of compromise because of his belief he was not on a level playing field with other men I had in my life. (He was completely wrong about this, as I already had feelings for him that made the others, including the old lover, not even on the field.) The text and conversation happened at like 3am on April 1st 2017.  I remember it because I laughed that is was April's Fools Day,  but having made another type of obligation for my three days off just after that, I rolled with it, hoping I wasn't being punked.  But the conversation also meant that while he was becoming the primary person I would commit to, I legit could not tell him I was not willing to let myself be swallowed into that confinement.  I was pretty sure, even then, that he would only feel safe inside of what he could control, and he would ignore or avoid the rest. The very very brief conversation we had when I got back was about the commitment I was making to him in the way he understood it and I would honor.  I never strayed from that. Bound to those commitments in a truly willing way. Attached.

I had done that kind of dedicated oneness before. My ex husband, my children's father, several boyfriends and a girlfriend along the way.  All became my entire world and I was lost inside of it.  I relied heavily on their love and company to fill my affection and physical needs, and often they were the only ones there.  I didn't talk to seriously, or go out for any activities with anyone but them. My therapist called this codependency. He was right.

So during that three days in April 2017, I went on a roadtrip at the suggestion (more like a command, but that is a different blog) of someone I had complete trust in, and had it suggested (again, told, but more about that part of my life some other time) that if my feelings for this man who would become my ex were legit, I better figure out what the other people in my life's roles were, and just how much or how little I wanted to keep, and what that looked like.

So I went.  I all but ignored my now-ex for those three days.  A couple texts and maybe a photo, but this was about me, and how I wanted, or didn't want to connect with others. I ended up seeing several people.  Old lovers, friends I rarely connected with, a couple people I barely knew, all in a whirl wind of drinks, and meals, and activities, and sex, and driving a total of about 1500 miles over several parts of the state with almost no sleep.  I made choices, and welcomed connections, and said good bye.  It may have been the most adult thing I have ever done.  And I own every minute.

The lover I met last night was one of the people I saw during that time (the last time as a matter of fact before last night)  He was always good for my body, never judgey or preachy, or in anyway demeaning to my choices.  I could tell him what was going on, but in the way you might write in a journal, or tell in a confessional, without having him try to fix it.  And the sex was always good, with him being more giving than I was most of the time, and I was satisfied physically without any of the emotional baggage that sometimes comes with that.  He was one of the people I did not say goodbye to even with the parameters changing.  He didn't have to know my heart; he never really had, and we both liked it that way.  His heart was often elsewhere as well. We had an understanding that we could, and would, always know the difference between sex and love, and sex could be what we did when it was uncomplicated by our own commitments. I always knew what that meant.

So when I came back from the three days of self service (and it truly was all about me), I made some decisions.  I was heading towards making an exclusive emotional and physical commitment with James, if he and I could get through some other obstacles I was sure we could figure out.  I have never cheated on a relationship. I am not built that way. I know the boundaries. And like I said before, I completely honored them with my ex, verbally, emotionally, physically,  But I also know, having done a lot of self discovery and healing my own trauma since my relationship with my children's father ended, that I could never stop having other things in my life.  People, experiences, thoughts of my own. Values and excitement, and new adventures, even if they slowed to meet a partner's pace.  I didn't want to get lost, again, to the expectations and needs of someone who did not want to go there. 

And to be fair, for the last five years, I truly thought my ex was heading there with me. I wrote in another blog about how I had lost myself into him in some ways, but also recognize that a person can only give to the level of love they give themselves. He did not love himself very much, measuring his worth by money and titles mostly, neglecting his body, heart, and mind needs almost completely, and having that spill over into our sex life, or activities, and most prevalently into him dodging any talk of emotions, including love.  His go to emotion was anger, an easy enough emotion to live in if you have no other skills. I pushed, and tried patience, and even did some ignoring, all for the sake of the love I was giving by choice. And I did love him, do love him, I am just not sure he knew, or knew how to understand it.

But, I didn't completely lose myself this time.  I know exactly where I need to go to heal the grief I still feel, and be okay with others playing their roles. Friends. Lovers. Confidants. I am not alone. I am sad he never knew that, either.

So last night I had dinner with an old lover, and all the euphemisms that implies.  And our rules had stayed the same. I didn't lose myself to him in anyway I didn't want to.  I am pretty sure I never will,  even as I open up all the possibilities. I am going to be okay with the strings untied.

Scarred

Did you know that you can Google "how to get rid of a wedding ring indent?" and there will be dozens of articles and advice tips in less than a nanosecond.  I learned that today.

I was sitting on my porch, sipping tea, reading, sun just high enough to not be in my eyes, but still warm on my legs. and I look down at my left hand to see the dent on my third finger.  To be honest, it took me a second to realize what it was, then another second to be mad, then sad, then frustrated that it was there.

I wore a ring there for a little over four and a half years. I took it off to shower sometimes, or to sleep if it was hot.  I would take it off when my hands would swell if I was walking, or had eaten too much salt the day before. But for the most part, I wore it daily since the day in June it was given to me.

It was his grandmother's ring. A lovely wedding band type, set with channel diamonds in antique cushion cut.  Not expensive; the engagement ring to the set would have cost more.  He didn't have the engagement ring, he said, because the jewelry had been divided up when the grandmother died, and this was what he got.  He had never let anyone else wear the ring before, and had pulled it from a plastic film container he had retrieved from his junk drawer.

It never came with a question, and I liked it that way.  He had been married before, and so had I, and while we planned a future, the idea of matrimony never came up for longer than to work out if a certificate once we retired would make finances better.  It would be a transaction.

But as I looked at the dent on my finger today, and thought about the memory of the day he gifted it to me, all I could think was that the word transactional was actually the best word for most of our relationship.  

I gave him a ring later that year, just before Christmas.  At first he didn't want to wear it.  I asked him about jewelry, and he said that was not the issue, he had worn rings before.  I ask him about comfort, and he said that he was okay with wearing rings that fit him.  So I asked the elephant in the room question, and wondered how he felt about outward physical signs that our relationship was more than casual. 

This is where he balked. He wanted me to wear a ring, but he didn't want to.  He wanted the casual freedom of not having to be asked about his "wife" (the reason men wear rings on their third finger on their left hand) and then either have to explain that I was his girlfriend (that got some looks a few times), or cringe at the word. It was okay for me to have to explain, but he didn't want that. Because almost invariably the questions would become about why we weren't married, when we would get married, how long had we been married if we chose not to talk about girlfriend status.  Fielding them when we were together was easy, I had more language for the ways to answer.  And after a couple times when he had just rolled his eyes, or said something truly vile like "Oh God no she's not my wife!" my responsibility was clear. If he was going to wear a ring, I was to protect him from looking like a flake.  Men whose opinion he valued, and women whose attention he desired, needed to think he was shiny.

So on the day I gave him his ring, and he didn't wear it, I put mine in a bowl on the nightstand and didn't wear mine either.  This bothered him.  He didn't have my undivided adoration right then. Manipulative, maybe, but more than anything, I wanted us to be equal.  Partners without the paper.  If rings meant something to him if I wore one, I needed for him to have that same kind of faith.

He broke the first ring.  It was black hematite and shattered completely one day, without a good reason.  The next ring I got him was titanium. 

The day we ended, we had been out for a walk.  As I said before, my hands swell and, like had dozens of times before, I took the ring off and put it in the inside zipper pocket with my wallet of the jacket I was wearing.  It was his jacket, and I loved it almost specifically for the pocket that held my wallet and ring so perfectly.  When I left that night, I took my wallet, but not the jacket, and hadn't put the ring back on after coming home. When I left that night, I didn't take the ring with me.  When I left that night, he still had his ring on.

He told me two days later that he wanted the ring back. Another day went by before I told him he already had the ring, and where to look.  He informed me it wasn't there.  The ring is gone.  Maybe still in the lining of the jacket. Maybe on his floor near his dining table from it coming out of the pocket when I took my wallet.  Maybe on Market Street somewhere. I don't know.  I only slightly care.

When I returned his keys, dropping them with his concierge without seeing him, he texted later and asked about the ring again. I told him again that I didn't have it, but asked if he was willing to talk about something other than possessions.  He wasn't willing, and honestly, I am glad he was just as transactional this time as he had been with most everything else. He didn't give back his ring, so maybe it lives in the film canister now. No matter, I didn't ask for it or want it back. 

But what I have is this dent where the ring used to be. I took a photo to see if it was truly noticeable to anyone but me. It is, but barely.  Google says the only thing that truly gets rid of it is time.  I added lotion just in case.  I am hoping it just stops being there, and I don't notice when. Apparently, not yet.

I semi-wonder how long his dent will be there, but not really.