Revisiting The Lover’s Dictionary

I was just now packing up my books when I pulled out “The Lover’s Dictionary” that SH gave me in 2012. For a minute, I went down memory lane, rereading the things that we had both highlighted and wondering about their significance to each of us. I remember after we had both read it and underlined what stood out to us, how we curled up on the couch explaining what it meant to each of us…and just how nice that was. Even though I’m happy with this new person (NW), I found myself thinking, “No one will ever be her. No one gets me like she did.” And I started mentally ticking things off against NW. While I hate the way that SH treated me toward the end of our relationship, when things were good, they were REALLY good. I miss that understanding, our conversations, her love for me. I miss how organic everything was. There have been times in this new relationship, where I find myself unintentionally trying to recreate aspects of my relationship with SH. As selfish as she was, there was a part of her that was truly selfless when it came to me – at least for the first couple of years.

It has me second-guessing this move that NW and I have been talking about. I do feel like it’s too soon, but more than that, I don’t feel that she knows me well enough. I know plenty about her and I know that she really wants to be with me, but I don’t feel known. I find myself having to explain things to her that I wish she would just ask about. Maybe it’s an age thing. I know I’m going to have that conversation with her today (about the move), but I’m concerned that she’ll be upset. That could just be me catastrophizing, but I’ll find out soon enough.

SH text me the other day to follow up on some things she had dropped the ball on over the past 5 months. I was glad to hear from her, even though I didn’t say that, and even though it wasn’t an actual conversation. I do miss her sometimes – not as often lately, though. I felt like I had resolution, but then I opened up an old wound all over again by leafing through that book. It’s absurd to me how something so simple, so seemingly insignificant, has the capacity to hold some of the deepest, most intimate parts of me. The part that’s bothersome, though, is that when I close the pages of that book, I can’t simultaneously “close” the emotions that surfaced as I began to reread.


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