When I was 17, I met the girl I was convinced would be the love of my life. We never went together long at that time, as we were young, and there were horrific circumstances surrounding us.
I'd see her again on and off for the next seven years, but always in passing. Still, that flame was still there, and I was afraid to do anything.
In the meantime, I was manipulated into my first marriage, which eventually failed, and rebounded into another one, which likewise failed (though I am still friends with both).
Then, nineteen years after I lost track of her, we found each other again.
And we got involved, and we moved in together, along with her young daughter.
But there were extremely difficult factors still at play. Her husband never granted her divorce, and she remained married to him. She and I split up for a few months, because her mood swings were horrific.
This was before my full diagnosis, though I was diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety disorder, and was told I might want to consider disability due to their severity.
I began to suspect that she had BPD. She had been molested as a child and teen, and eventually ran away. Her swings in temperament were classic.
Once we reconciled after that one breakup, things were good for the next two and a half years. In fact, I'd say great.
But then came problems.
Her estranged husband had a series of strokes, and was left incapacitated. She decided to move us all back into his house. Her house. Her enormous, beautiful, mid-century ranch.
I told her this was a bad idea, but she said there was nothing else to do.
We did, and in the meantime I finally hit the wall. I sank into extreme depression, and left the workforce, as the condition was making it impossible to do anything (remember, I was still undiagnosed with ASD, though it was suspected).
Finally, a year and a couple of months later, I left. The fights became unbearable. She was drinking more, hanging out at a local bar. Men were mysteriously asking sexual favors from her. And I could no longer handle it.
I moved away, though we remained in contact, though there were still breaks. And we still professed love for one another.
We tried to date one last time, but she wanted all-or-nothing, and I was afraid to commit. That ended it.
That was five years ago.
A few months later, I heard from her. She called, ostensibly to let me know the status of what belongings were left there, which she refused to allow me to get. I was cold with her over the phone. I was hurt. She started to cry at the end of the call, but said goodbye.
And that was it.
Between this past November and January, I found myself thinking about writing her, to once more explain my case, why I had to leave, and that I never stopped loving her. I never did.
She died on the 10th of January from heart problems.
And I am hurting more than I ever have. The past twelve months have seen me lose my father, a cousin, a friend to suicide, another friend to heart disease.
And now the love of my life.
I'm gutted.
18 Jan 2020, 12:41 pm
