“I’m a mess!” I eeked out through my tears. “And I am so sorry to have brought you through this.” My chest heaved with sadness as I came to realize I could no longer stay with the second great love of my life. I could hardly believe it, and yet, here we were, five years after my first great love died and after years of joyful togetherness, a full realization had hit: I wasn’t healed. I wasn’t whole. Despite my love, I couldn’t be the healthy person my second love wanted, desired, and deserved. The time had come that we needed to say goodbye.
Weeks later, I still look at pictures of Charlotte, my second great love, and cry. I miss her dearly. I miss the joyful times, the travels and adventures, the cooking, and the love making. I miss our friends, mountain biking, and sailing together. But as fun as those were, I was never able to be fully myself, fully clear, and fully direct with her. This was not her problem, it was mine. Shell shocked from what happened long before I met Charlotte, I was too scared to lose her. Afraid of abandonment. Afraid of getting trapped. Afraid of not being able to be honest and clear, yet not being honest and clear with her largely because I couldn’t be honest and clear with myself. I was so deeply wounded that I clung to her, sometimes almost as a small boy to mother’s breast. I could sink into her that way. Almost vanish in her comfort. The child within a 61 year old man.
As comforting, fun, and beautiful as that relationship was, I came to realize I was in a dangerous position. What happened with my first love, Lynn, gnawed at me. I loved her deeply and completely, but when life served up events that led to profound mental illness, cancer, chemotherapy, and even worse mental illness as a result of the chemo, I suffered wound after wound, yet never knew it. The last few years of her life were an awful tragedy, and with those tragic years went my own tragedy. It wasn’t just the grief; it was also the trauma of the mental illness, the codependency, the tragic loss of financial well-being I had earned with sacrifice for my children, the terrible rupture in my relationship with my children, the loss of community through the process, and then my horrible aloneness. No wonder I found Charlotte. She was a godsend. She relieved so much pain. But she could not heal my wounds. That was my job, and I could not do it. It made me into a poor partner. There comes a time when you realize you are not helping the other person, and you need to let go. For the sake of both of you. We had come to that time.
Why were we there? Because I had not healed and we had taken the healing we could do together as far as it could go. There was nothing else we could do. She couldn’t help me within the boundaries of relationship that work for her, and I certainly was not helping her grow into her own being through my sullen melancholy. I sensed that some new journey awaited, though I had no idea what it was.
I don’t believe my journey can go constructively forward without healing. I am a writer, poet, and author. I experience the world through writing for it is the only way I can move forward. Without writing, I spin on things. My mind goes in circles as I rehearse, over and over again, a thought, a thing to say, an idea of what to do. No resolutions occur. It’s like riding a merry-go-round—just the same images over and over again. But when I write, things move. Discovery happens. I get off the merry-go-round and begin to walk. New ideas emerge. Images, perceptions, understandings. And feelings—deep, abiding feelings and emotions. Through writing, I bring things into awareness and consciousness. It is my sav, my cure, my way of life.
And so I write here of my healing journey. Loss, fear, trauma, and grief are all part of it. So is my perspective as a man. So are the specifics of my story. And so is my terribly agonizing pain. Yet I trust in the universe that healing lies ahead, too; that there are ways to come to terms with unspeakable loss. I believe that joy remains a birthright, and I believe there is a path to finding that again. Not just recovery, but entering into the deeper self, a deeper experience of life, and a truth I could only partially imagine before. That dawning, that healing, that new light is exactly why I write, why I heal, why I do the work and live the great suffering. Indeed, I have experienced some of that healing and light. In writing and publishing, I hope to also provide meaningful experience and guidance to you.
I enter this journey with tools, experiences, and joys. Yes, my own writing is one. But so is the poetry of the ages. So are the stories and myths that have guided men and women for eons. So is the art and so is the music. I hold to the memories and the photos of these two women, of my daughters, and of my life. There is also the soothing fullness of nature, Earth, and water. I live near that great inland sea of Lake Superior and spend time there, as well as deep in the forest, my little cabin in the woods. I draw from them all. I trust that all of these and more will fulfill this journey. If you read along, we will explore and discover together.
The effort is to find, speak, and share the truth of my experience, and in so doing, heal myself and provide a light and guide for others.
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