I was in full throttle, in that relationship. I was not prepared for it to end when it did, like it did. So I can be forgiven for having some difficulty slamming on the brakes.
It hurts to let go of him, but it hurts almost as badly to let go of the idea that I had of him. I thought he was a better man than this. But the breakup, the fact that he can let me go like this, seriously calls the last ten months into question, ten months when I've been happier and more in love than I've ever been with anyone. It sends me over and over the relationship, playing it all back in slow motion, examining every frame in excrutiating detail, looking for the evidence that he was, all the while, someone who was capable of betraying me the way he did, at my birthday party of all places. I knew he had a self-destructive streak, but I thought he trusted me, and my judgment, and he assured me that he loved me so much that he would never do anything to hurt me. I took it for granted, after he came back in May, that he was around for the long haul, that any issues that came up we would deal with together, and above all, I took it on faith that I could trust him.
It hurts so bad, to think back through everything we did together with this new idea of him. It makes me no longer understand who he was, and what we had. When the one person you think you can trust in your life betrays you, who are you supposed to rely on? Clearly I can't rely on myself, since my judgment was clouded enough to let me get so involved with this person. There are my family and friends at home, of course, but they aren't here for the day-to-day. I have friends here, but no one who knew me before I moved here, and the two good friends I made here have since returned to New York. There are friendships currently under construction, but some are with people passing through Paris, which makes me reticent to get emotionally invested.
Who am I supposed to trust? What am I meant to have faith in, after this?
It doesn't matter, I suppose. I just have to get through the everyday. I move through the week, through the familiar spaces, the turnstiles, the stairwells. I see familiar faces, students, colleagues. I sleep a lot. I read a little. And I write. I pour myself into the creative process. That's the only thing that will always be there for me.
And somewhere above my head, the neighbors play "Don't You Forget About Me" on their stereo.