The Separation

Summer was over and so were we. The problem was that you didn’t know it. And that I couldn’t find the words to tell you. Or maybe ―surely ― I was afraid to tell you. Afraid of how you would react. Terrified even that you wouldn’t let me go. It was a decision I had to make if I was ever going to be happy again. But I was dreading the conversation with you. Yet I knew ― no matter how much we loved each other and how much we would suffer, it had to happen.

But who was I kidding ― you would not suffer, Al. This has become painfully transparent to me in all these years. As it has become so difficult to ignore the destruction in our relationship, the depression of it, the desperation. It was ridiculous to try and excuse our daily fights that shook the living room. And dangerous to ignore my crying fits. And what about the vomiting, the bruises? What would my friends and family say if I told them about those?

See, I had met Al when I was only fifteen. He was much older than me, but insanely attractive, even now, damned. Al was so insanely gorgeous that when we met all girls were hanging on his lips. And even the boys, too! Because Al had something no one else had. He was like our teacher, our guru. He could make you feel at ease with yourself. He would make you accept yourself with all your flaws and uncertainties. So quickly, it was insane. He would even make you grow to like them, to understand that they made you special. And do that with teenagers?! Was it then so unimaginable that everyone fell for Al, even with the age gap? He was the therapist we never had to pay.

And of all people, Al chose me.

He chose me. Al never stopped being coveted by everyone, but he loved me deeply. Our relationship was so special because at that time he seemed to bring out the best in me and I liked to think that I brought out the best in him. It was always such fun to be around him. Al was hilarious. He would make you cry with laughter, double over, scream. On top of that, he was an incredible dancer. He knew the moves of all the cool styles, whether it was salsa, hip-hop, rock, you name it. He would sweep everyone off their feet. I was funny too, but in his presence I became a comedy star. I was beautiful, but in his presence I became Miss Universe. I could carry a tune, but in his presence I became Adele. Before long, Al had infiltrated every aspect of my being.

Is it so unimaginable then, that now my whole being was turning cold at the thought of separation? And even though I clearly understood that this relationship was costing me my life, it seemed impossible that we should part ways after all this time. I was fifty-one now. It seemed that if I left him, all the joy would disappear from my life. Along with my self-worth.

I was trying― and failing ― to even imagine a life without him. Despite the terrible price I was paying for loving Al. Also, at my age, who would ever love me like that again? It was not about the platonic aspect of it, not at all. With Al it was insanely physical. I didn’t even tell you about our love life. Let me do that so you understand me better. It might be all I had left, the memories of our insane lovemaking.

Al was insatiable. And very, very potent. He would make love to me twice, thrice, four times, five, six ― and for decades. We spent days in bed, whole summers and winters. Oftentimes our life would look like a mere pause between fucking. Unimportant, sterile, tedious ― until we could fall back in bed. Al was full of heat and his passion ignited mine. I became a goddess, an erotic master to rival an elite courtesan. And soon I could prove it publicly ― we started including other people in our love life. Mostly boys, because we both liked them so. But also, girls, at least while I was still discovering how much I was attracted to them.

Oh, we did get jealous. Why do you think we fought like crazy? First I was stung that he would offer me even to his best friends, without even thinking of treating me as precious. And Al would start feeling excluded if I had too much fun with the boys. Never with the girls, he never got jealous of the girls. In Al’s opinion they were no match for his stamina. In my turn, I would seldom get jealous of the boys as they were no match for my beauty. Or so I thought― because Al made me feel this way without fail. He would often fall at my feet worshipping me for the woman I was, The Woman.

So yes, our relationship was open to the point of debauchery. Maybe this was a huge reason for the uncertainty and the self-hate I started experiencing. This was where the vomiting started, I am sure. It was deliberate, but it went down so easy, because I was getting sick of Al. Of his insistence on threesomes and orgies with people by then much younger than us. Just to make us feel on top. Just to feed our egos. I couldn’t afford to carry even a single extra gram of fat. It would give Al an excuse to disappear with the next young skunk who joined our bedroom.

Yes, gradually, I would grow to detest the girls. The uncool girls who wanted to separate us, the ones who pretended to be my friends. As soon as I saw a bitch looking at him with half-closed eyelids, plotting to come between us, I was ready to thrash her. Once or twice, it even came to that. I would start insulting her and the cleverer ones would shut up and retreat. But not all bitches were clever. If they dared to talk back, I would turn completely insane and eventually, hit her. Al enjoyed it immensely, egging us on, if anything. Just as the bitch and I had started crying from the pain of having our hair pulled, our bloodied scratches, sometimes across the face, or even our fists, Al would circle us like a vulture, shouting encouragement to both, laughing his ass off.

Yet, I couldn’t leave him. It was impossible.

Other people had succeeded in escaping his sickening control, but not me. The boys and girls who had met him in the beginning were grown-ups now, middle-aged people like me. Many had families, all had serious jobs and had become immune to Al’s pull. And he, he was old, but he didn’t look it and didn’t feel it. For me, after all he had done to me, after all the destruction and humiliation, he was the same hot stuff.

Yet his whispered compliments had started sounding crushingly hollow; his feigned support for me was becoming increasingly transparent and the lust for life he supposedly inspired had begun to consume me. In reality, Al was chipping away at everything that made life worth living.

One morning after the umpteenth violent argument, after the hundredth vomiting fit and the usual crying, it became undeniable: I was done crying and suffering. I was done begging and praying. I was done hoping for the better. I was done with Al.

So, this is where I am now, Al. I walked away without warning, and you for weeks I couldn’t shake you. You shouted in my head, inhabited my thoughts and consumed so many of my waking moments. But simultaneously, there was this undeniable sense of freedom, of sanity and health. As the weeks slipped by, I felt lighter and happier. So much happier.

Without you, the world seemed so much brighter, Al. As if someone has finally opened the curtains to let the sunshine in. So, this is a proper goodbye. And I know, never say never, so I won’t. But I am done with you, Al. And to make it official, I’ll use your real name. Good -bye. Alcohol.