Quality Love

On an unassuming prescription medication, ignorant of the side effects and numb, the worst thing I ever said was, “I can’t love you. I don’t think I can feel love.”

In retelling I want to say “right now” but at the time, I couldn’t see beyond the depression. Couldn’t give that sort of comfort or I probably wouldn’t have said it at all. I had only hopelessness in great waves that kept dragging me down.

I remember it perfectly, sobbing next to the towel rack in our duplex’s only bathroom, unsure how I could cry so much while feeling so little. “I’ll understand if you leave.” And I would have. Truly.

Just the memory makes it hard to breath, like a panic attack mixed with that feeling you get watching a movie where the dog dies.

“Do you love someone else?” he asks. “Do you want me to leave?” I didn’t, no, of course not. I’m devoid of love and want. I shake my head no on both points.

“Well, then I’ll be here for you.” That’s it, case closed, his tone clear and certain. He hugs me while I cry myself out. Waiting for me to let go first. He moves about his day.

Years later I try to tell him what that day meant to me, means to me, but he doesn’t remember it like I do. Not only was his love enough to carry us both, but it barely registered the burden.