Hey, You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away

“Stop moping,” M snapped for the umpteenth time today. “Preplanning a funeral–that’s what you look like you’re doing, not tying up the loose ends of a marriage.”

Loose ends? She must be mad for describing it so casually, and thinking it doesn’t deserve moping—a lot of moping. But I wasn’t feeling up to arguing so I let it go.

Yes, I am ending a marriage. Yes, it’s sad. Yes, I’ve wept about it. Yes, I’ve wallowed over it. But no, we are not currently duking it out, spilling blood wherever we can. This will surprise many but we talk–sometimes bitterly; most times kindly. We discuss the girls and how to break the news to them–we haven’t yet; we do not know how. I’m hopeful we’ll have it all figured out soon; the important thing is that we remain friends, and we talk. We’ve been best friends for far too long that it feels only natural and logical to remain friends despite the upset to the emotional landscape.

The sad (but also funny) thing here is that though we grew up islands apart, we practically raised each other. We met when I was 18 and got hitched a month before my 24th birthday. The longest time we spent apart was 40 days–the whole duration of a summer break. But even then, there were texts, calls, and letters written daily or every other day. He certainly kept our town postman busy.

Now, there’s this. I do not know what to call it yet. The end? Too generic. The dissolution of a long-standing relationship? Too pretentious. A failure? Too honest. But yes, it is a failure, and one that I have been taking very hard. I have not been dry-eyed for some time now. I cry in bed, in the toilet, in the kitchen, in the bathroom… I’m amazed I haven’t gotten dehydrated—it must be my lot in life to live forever.

I give myself until the end of July to get over this emotional meltdown. I can’t put my life on hold forever. But neither can I pretend to be alright when I’m not.

“I’m fine. Well, I’m not fine – I’m here.”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“Absolutely.”

Yes, there’s everything wrong about being here in sunlight-drenched Paris while nursing a heartbreak. How can the world around me burst with so much life when inside, I’m so banged up I can’t even tell whether my heart’s still breaking or has been completely broken? So I’ll leave you with this photo of a girl in a telephone booth. It’s odd–the sadder she gets, the chirpier she looks.

Inside Virgin Megastore, Champs-Élysées

Somewhere, someone is playing a Beatles song. That’s how it starts and ends: with a Beatles song and two kids who loved, and laughed, and fought, and now have to hide their love away. (Goodbye, yab. Thank you for the 11 years together.)