Post-monogamy: to date

In an extended fit of nostalgia, was looking through almost every single one of my my blog entries all the way to the entry of 8 February, which was less than a day before I opened my mouth and unexpectedly kicked off the beginning of the end. And I remembered the pain and the sleeplessness.

But the pain comes only as a memory.

Just the other day, I was asked by a new acquaintance about the end of the relationship, and when I started trying to explain, I realised the way I tell it has completely morphed. Even as I was telling this new, highly abridged version of things, what went through my mind was Exquisite Pain.

Exquisite Pain was this British production I saw earlier this year. In it was a woman who was telling the story of the greatest pain she experienced, which was that of a failed relationship. She retells and retells and retells her story over a period of time, her story morphing and evolving with each retelling, until her very last time, when all she says is, "Enough."

Even the one-liner I used to tell that new friend about the breakup seemed excessive. There would be a lot to tell, of course, given the right circumstance, but as a news-in-brief to someone who barely knew me, there was little worth telling. Except that it's over.

And that I've moved on. I find myself thinking about how much things have changed for me over the past half year since the night of 17 February. From "I'm broken" to:

- My left forefinger no longer feels empty. It has forgotten it has ever had a band of oxidised silver.

- I'm sleeping well again, even if I don't quite sleep enough.

- I'm no longer depressed.

- No more bouts of panic.

- No more fear...well, not as much, and not the same way.

- Things matter again, even though there's no one there to share them with at the same level I used to share things with Kelvin.

- I don't miss the intimacy as much anymore.

- No more turning my head to look back.

This almost feels like a clean slate, which makes this summer trip the most important thing I'd done for myself this year, in spite of the sacrifices.

I've gotten used to being single again. I'm enjoying life again and looking forward to things and excited by possibilities. Flattery is easier to accept and I'm enjoying the freedom to do and feel and experience.

Doesn't mean I don't crave intimacy - I do crave it tremendously. It's like chocolate now - I crave it but I won't die without it (yet). These days, thinking about it makes me feel like a born-again teenager - dreaming of it gives an adolescent rush that's probably even greater than a real occurrence might give, not least because dreaming is my only option now. I want so much to experience the rush of a new involvement again, but since I'm not quite a hopeless hedonist, am still perfectly happy to stay back.

Another interesting realisation: there's still a romantic somewhere in that part of me that dreams.

I dream of fingers gliding along jaw lines. Warm breath and soft voice on the ear. Long meaningful looks. Heart-thumping anticipation while inches apart, close enough to feel heat, breath and energy.

Alone in my room, I listen to The Blower's Daughter in the darkest hours of night and let it sap me away.

Yes, I'm still generally a cynical bitch. But I guess I never lost the little girl I once was. She's in there, and peeking out more each day, in spite of all the cumulative baggage I carry over years of disappointments.

My heart is alive and well. Must keep reminding myself that.