Finally it happened. I wrote before about choosing love, and not being afraid. So I walked that walk and let myself be carried along with a feeling that years ago would have terrified me. It turns out that when you open up your whole heart, sometimes it gets broken.
After J, I started a relationship with a woman called S. She is married and has a little girl called E. My own daughter and E are such good friends, it’s amazing to watch how much they like each other.
S and I met at our childrens’ Kita. We started with playdates, ‘Mom dates’, and wine. But something began for us, something totally unexpected and way out of left field. One night at dinner she touched my arm, and the attraction that flared up was something I hadn’t felt in a long time. I felt my heart leap while this dread sunk into my bones: “Don’t get a crush on her. Don’t fall for her. She just wants to be friends. Fuck.” I tried to be nice, friendly, caring, without letting myself get in too deep. I didn’t want to be outed as queer, I didn’t want to mess up our friendship. So I kept quiet. For months we would hug outside Kita when we picked up our children, and I’d breathe in and not want to let go. I’d bury my face in her hair and my whole chest would turn to butterflies.
I found out months later that the spark had not just been me. She had panicked and messaged her best friend, scared about what she was feeling, uncertain about what to do about it, unsure about having this feeling for a woman for the first time in her life. Afraid of ruining her relationship with her husband, S went back and forth about what to do; should she pursue something, stay silent, ignore it? She gave me small and quiet hints; a comment about loving my hugs; a text about wanting to feel that uncertainty of not knowing if someone likes you back or not. Over time these hints became louder, and I began to feel like she wanted it, she wanted me. Every time we hugged it felt like I was going to burst, the attraction was obvious and urgent and clear. My husband M was already cool with what I wanted; smiling, he encouraged me to go for it. S decided to take the risk, and asked her husband if it was okay if she and I pursued something. He, wonderful man that he is, said yes.
She asked me out for drinks and told me that we could do what we liked. I drank the rest of my wine so fast, from that moment my brain had turned to static. We walked out the door of the bar and I couldn’t do anything but kiss her. We made out on the street, reaching into each other’s clothes with a rushing intensity that only comes with tension that has been denied for too long. She ran her hands over my body, dragging her nails over my skin, kissing me with a feverish desire for more; when she pushed up my dress and put her mouth on my nipple, my heart and blood and body dissolved. People were watching. I didn’t care.
We continued as we began, frantic, desperate. She called me her girlfriend, our families began to spend more and more time together, I got to know her husband, I began to love her daughter.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Suddenly, out of the blue, it was gone. She was too tired, too exhausted by motherhood and life and everything that made demands of her, she had nothing left for me. I’m the kind of person that takes a lot of energy to get to know. I’m complicated and anxious, intense and moody, and sometimes so sex-driven that I can’t focus on anything else. It was all too much for her, and she and I kept saying things that hurt each other. I saw it happen like a drip of water falling from a tap not quite shut, dripping and dripping over the course of a week and then the faucet was suddenly on, extinguishing everything.
We met up for a sleepover, and it felt as if her body had turned to stone. She told me she didn’t know how to say it, but I already knew what she would tell me. It was gone. We had lost it. I hugged her and I felt her face twist into this painful disappointment. I didn’t understand it but this horrible feeling was too obvious to ignore. We cried at what had happened.
I grabbed my things and she drove me home. Her husband was confused; he had been so supportive of the whole thing from the beginning. He liked me, he cared about me, he wanted “our thing” to work. She was sad. I was sad.
The morning brought this strange pain into my chest, like something was raw inside. She didn’t want it anymore. Somehow, this thing, this beautiful and special thing, was over. She sent me a text saying “I love you”.
She said that most people feel too proud to want to carry on a relationship after they get dumped. I felt the opposite; I felt so happy that I had let myself be open and curious and ultimately, hurt. Life goes on. I downloaded Tinder and got a ton of matches within the space of two days, and I have a date tonight with a beautiful woman who seems intelligent, kind, and interesting. My husband still adores me, I love my kids, I’m enjoying my study and my life and all that lies before me. Getting hurt and letting someone else be in control was a big thing for me. But somehow I felt good. I felt strong. For the first time in a long time I felt powerful and confident and secure.
Now when I hug her and breathe in, I smell her perfume and feel my heart skip a beat. I just let it beat this way, this shuddering, gasping beat. I saw the joy in her smile when she was with me. I saw the love in her eyes and felt it in her kiss. I saw the pain in her heart when it was over. I don’t ever want to be afraid of loving anyone ever again, because the joy, the passion, the desire, her smile and excitement when she looked at me … it was all worth it. In the end it was gone too soon, and in the end we both got hurt. But if I had to go back and make a choice of whether or not to have it, even knowing that it ended this way, there’s absolutely no doubt in my mind that I would do it again. I’d let my heart beat again, and again, and gasp “yes”, a thousand times over.