On Losing my Second Love

I never wanted anything so much, than to drown in your love, and not feel your rain.
– Sara Bareilles, Gravity

The first time I fell in love, it was hard. I loved him hard. I was naive and free falling for nearly two years, and ten years spent on crushing on him prior to that. And when it ended, I was devastated. Curl-up-on-the-floor-in-the-fetal-position kind of devastated. I was a walking – or lying, in this case – movie cliche. You could have cut scenes of my life playing some sappy, violin tune – me sitting at the dinner table, my right palm holding my cheek up, me curled up in bed letting the day pass, stirring the peas around on my plate but never actually eating one – like I said, cliches all the way. I did not eat, did not sleep, I cried. And then cried some more. And then I fell asleep crying. It was bad, but I think losing your first love is always bad. Right?

And then when I thought I would never find love again (because don’t we all feel that way when we lose our first love?), I wound up falling in love a second time with a man that was far and above anything that I ever thought I could find or deserve. Within the first six months, I knew I was head over heels for him, and I knew that, this is what love is supposed to feel like. It was another movie cliche – but think all of those good kind of cliches. The happy music and hearts floating from our eyes kind of cliche. And like all good cliches, you know it was up to one of us to royally screw it up. And hey, guess who’s wearing that crown? In case it wasn’t obvious enough, it is me. My demons haunted us for a bit too long, and by the time I started to chase them away, I had chased him away, too.

So now I am here once again, love lost. A hungover heart that is sunburned from the heat of whiskey and rum and shattered shot glasses. Initially, when I found my second love, I did the completely natural thing to do, which is to compare him to my first love. But as time went on, I realized that there was no comparison. I had an apples and oranges kind of situation on my hands. And you know what? I was happy that I didn’t have anything to compare this love to. It happened over a plate of tiramisu, and suddenly, there was no looking back. Until now. Because now that is all I can do – look back and recall. Remember. Reminisce.

In some ways, losing my second love has been far more devastating than losing my first love. Because I felt like he and I fit so much more. And because I had already known what true heartbreak feels like, and I never expected to feel it again. I had let myself be completely vulnerable, and because I had made so many plans for the future with him, expectations were set. Basically, I was just unprepared.

And the logical thing to think would be that I am equipped to handle this time around far better than before purely because I have already had the experience. Maybe that’s how it looks to the outside world, but let me tell you, I thought I cried a lot when I lost my first love. It is nothing compared to the second time. I have just gotten much better at hiding it. Tearing up at my desk – oh, don’t worry about me, boss, it’s just allergies. And the commute to and from work/class, I have a playlist dedicated to feeding my sadness. Now I know what some of you will probably say – Sam, you need to do things to make yourself feel better. To which I will respond that I have continued with my life. Compared to the loss of my first love, I am still working out, still attending class (on most days), getting up and going to work every day. I am not bed stricken, but the one thing that is truly different is that no matter where I go, no matter what I am doing, I feel this dull ache in the pit of my stomach. And that may be the worst of all. This constant weight – it is incredibly ironic to feel so heavy when something is missing. With my second love, it was the hope that kept me going. The hope for a future. And all of a sudden, I have no freakin’ idea what the future holds for me. And I am terrified.


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