Crossroads

"Karen, you have no idea what a relief it is to finally know that I've met the person I'm suppose to be with," he says to me enthusiastically.

The sun reflects off of his blue blue eyes. It's a gorgeous day. A little cooler than I would like; but sunny and beautiful none-the-less. The beach is empty. Miles of white Chilean sand are ours for the taking. He's chosen this moment to profess how he feels.

And I can't respond.

I can't respond, because I am currently hating him. I flew down here to visit with him and his family. He was settling up loose ends in his home country before moving back to Canada. We were going to start our life together...

But after spending a few days with him; on his home turf -- I had lost the ability to see a future with him. In the moment, I smiled and turned away. I don't know if he picked up on it or not. He definitely picked up on the tears and arguing from my overwhelming misery. This visit was not going well.

I was under the impression that I was going to be wined and dined by him. After all, that's what he promised me. "Come down!" he said. "I want to take you here and there and show you my country". So, I scrambled together some vacation time and took the 15 hour flight down to Santiago, Chile to meet his family and see South America for the first time.

His family was lovely. The problem wasn't his family, or that he was from another country. It all seemed so perfect on paper; or in theory...

When I arrived I was confronted with a different reality: a host who didn't have a penny to his name, and three weeks of vacation time to fill. All we had was my meager spending/shopping allowance to fill it with.

I was livid.

Piecing two and two together I started to realize just how much of a liar he was. He was completely incapable of actually following through with anything -- vacation plans included. At dinners he scammed his friends out of amounts he owed by fast talking them.

I was mortified. Mortified because I was in love with him -- and I felt like I had been shammed. Swindled. Duped. And for that, I hated him.

It was on that visit that I saw his true colours: bipolar, possibly deluded, potential secret drug habit, potential secret girlfriend on the side that kept calling, potential money pit...

So, no -- when he professed his love (and not his remorse for ruining my vacation), I couldn't profess it back. I was in conflict. The rationale of the situation was starting to slowly seep into my emotions and poison my previously untarnished view of him. He was beginning to melt in front of me. He was turning into a molten mess of gob and goo. He was no longer attractive to me. His true self was rather ugly.

But, because I was so madly in love with him; the psychological conflict in my mind turned into a war zone. I couldn't reconcile the rationale of the situation because the guilt associated with my love had begun to take over. How could I have such a negative viewpoint towards someone I loved?

When his true self started to poison my previous image of who I thought he was, I absorbed the responsibility by taking the blame. I was to blame for not loving him enough. If I really loved him; then I wouldn't be bothered by these trivial occurrences...

It was painful. Torturous.

I didn't want to admit to my heart that it would have to let him go. More accurately, I didn't want to lose the best part of myself -- the part that loved him unconditionally; the truth of who I thought I was in terms of real human potential. A spiritual connection with God or the Universe that makes you feel completely alive.

I was wrapped up in him. And I didn't want to walk away from it.

So, as we sat there on that white sand beach one cool afternoon, I started a downward parable of self-doubt and shame. I couldn't admit to myself the simple truth that loving someone and tolerating their bad behaviour are two very different things.

It was my hard lesson to learn. I felt that if I walked away from him that I would have misrepresented who I was. That my love would have been invalid. That the best part of me would cease to exist.

So, I stayed. I stayed a lot longer than I ever should have -- to the point where it almost (at one point) mentally destroyed me. I stayed because I wanted the love that I felt for him to matter. To be valid.

I wanted to matter.

It took me years to realize that I did matter. That the love that I had for myself would trump anyone else that came along. That others don't define you. Only you have that power. To love someone is a choice. A priveledge; one that is consistently earned and respected.

So, at those crossroads, I chose the longer more dangerous path. I suppose I chose it to alleviate whatever guilt I was feeling for starting to not love him anymore. The shorter path would have been a lot safer -- but I didn't trust myself enough at the time to take it with confidence. So, I took the longer one. The one filled with booby-traps. The one that caused the bottoms of my feet to bleed.

Regardless of whatever path I chose; the end result would have been the same. I would survive without him. The love I felt for him didn't define me. I do matter. And, I would love again.

I guess there was a kinesthetic calling on my spirit. I needed to see and feel a lot of blood and tears in order to really understand the lesson. To look back without guilt or remorse. To know that I did love with a pure heart -- and it was unfortunate that it wasn't reciprocated the way it should have been.

I suppose, even to this day, I need to glance at all the scars on the bottoms of my feet to remind me that it's ok to take the shorter path. The end result is always the same.