It Doesn’t Matter

It doesn’t matter how well it ends… or rather how well it appears to end.  There are always hurt feelings to sort through.

I like to think of myself as enlightened and self aware.  I like believing that I am above hard feelings and being hurt.  I like to think that knowing the truth is better than believing a lie.  And I know it is better to be single than be in a relationship with someone who isn’t there, who you have doubts about, who has stopped pursuing and connecting with me.  But none of that matters because when a relationship ends, even when it ends well, there is no way to not hurt, question, or wonder.

Women and men are different in how they deal with things.  Men’s hearts are like long unending hallways with rooms on either side.  With men, problems are put in a room.  If the problem is dealt with the door is closed, locked, and not revisited.  If the problem is not dealt with the door is open to the hallway and whatever garbage is in that room festers and stinks up the hallway until it is taken care of and closed off from the rest of his world.  Simple.  Women are nothing like that.

Women’s hearts are like warehouses with endless rows of shelves.  Problems, hurts, fears, events, feelings… These aren’t locked up and closed away, they’re put into boxes that are meticulously labeled, cross referenced, and organized on those shelves.  Only a thin piece of cardboard lies between those things and woman.  That which is undealt with litters the floors so she trips, slips, falls, fusses over it until she resolves it and stacks it away with the rest.  But even when everything from this event is resolved, that trip to the shelves is a trip down memory lane.  Every other hurt received at the end of every other relationship, even if this relationship has not brought any hurts, are revisited once that new box is brought to the shelf.  Every doubt, fear, insecurity, angry word, betrayal is revisited simply by proximity in the warehouses of our hearts.

I am no different than every other woman.  It makes no difference that this last relationship ended in the friendship from which it began.  It doesn’t matter that I know he wasn’t investing in the relationship because his hallway had some royal stink from a couple rooms full of issues that hadn’t been dealt with.  I was still hurt because my warehouse was clean, organized, put away.  My warehouse was spotless but the smells from his hallway penetrated it anyway.  And cleaning up after our unhappy ending left me revisiting that awful corner of my own heart filled with the pains left behind every time I haven’t been the one that was chosen.

That’s what the matter is right now: I know that I wasn’t chosen.  And no matter how well this relationship ended, not being chosen always hurts because it means a trip to that corner of my warehouse.

© Dulcinea 2010. All rights reserved.


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