When the thunder rumbles,
Now the age of Gold is dead.
And the dreams we’ve clung to, trying to stay young,
Have left us parched and old instead.

When my courage crumbles,
When I feel confused and frail,
When my spirit falters, on decaying altars,
And my illusions fail.

I go on right then.
I go on again.
I go on to say, I will celebrate another day.
I go on…

If tomorrow tumbles,
And everything I love is gone,
I will face regret, all my days and yet,
I will still go on.

–Leonard Bernstein, Mass: “The Lord’s Prayer: Trope”

I thought I’d never have to write this. I thought love would find a way, a will to keep fighting. But there’s always a limit, an end to things.

In short, the now former Senorita Weaselo and I parted ways last week after 7 years together. 7 years that taught me so much about myself, and I’m sure taught her the same. I’m not going to say it was entirely out of left field. Over the last year and a half, two years, she was worried about herself, losing herself, not sure of her own identity anymore. In her mind and heart, did she still consider herself a violinist? A Classical violinist? Did she want to stay into that? What if she decided to pivot to traditional Chinese medicine and herbs, which she had gotten interested in in an attempt to alleviate her, well, several things. She had started listening to more folk and country and wondering if that was something that she could learn. All well and good, but the churn of someone who felt that they needed a change. Any change. Maybe every change.

She had talked at one point about breaking off all ties to everything, starting over from the beginning. Or at least trying to figure out how to get out of the house and into her own place. She’d been in the basement/side of her family’s house, which was great to get me there in the first months of our relationship without anyone knowing, and then once eventually her parents and family met me, because it was easier than going through the front, especially when I had multiple backpacks for work, and my violin. It just so happens that an apartment just potentially opened up for me if I so choose, to get out of Apartment Weaselo, which is swanky, and a great deal, but also Padre Weaselo’s been here since the heart attack, it’s never felt like home, and the drain that it’s had on my mental health since I got here was probably a catalyst for the fall of my relationship. I couldn’t bring my partner to my place and spend time with her. She didn’t feel comfortable being here, potentially being walked in on, when he didn’t live here but came over so he could use the gym. It was times where I knew he’d be away where I could have her here, or on COVID quarantine. And it was living. It felt like home. We’d have dinner, she’d normally make it but there were times where I wanted it. It was moments like that that told me, further ingrained in me, “I want to do this. I want to have a place with her, and even if I may work hard, at the end of the day I want to come Home, or if the roles reverse that day, I want to be Home.” To me, she became Home.

But her need to change, especially after the car accident, and her anxiety attack this summer, they changed her. To where she determined we were growing in divergent ways. I put my growth on the side at times, because I thought she needed me more. I would have given her everything I possibly could. I felt guilty for holding back my emotions, because I thought she couldn’t handle them while dealing with her own, which backfired and caused her to build walls, and walls that I couldn’t have realized I needed to break until it was too late in the game. I asked what I could do, and she honestly didn’t know. At the very least this last month or two, where she told me “I don’t know how much longer I can hold on,” I realized I couldn’t hold back, even if I wanted to. She deserved everything I could give her, and I needed to make sure that included my own emotional health. I think, I hope, she noticed that. I hoped that it would help her remember, “He’ll be there. He’s got my back. I can do this, whatever this may be, and if I fail, I’ll have his support.”

But no. It was too little, too late. It wasn’t in the stars, or the cards. Recently thanks to friends (good people though I’ll admit I got jealous in terms of being able to confide in her new gay best friend—not physically because yes, he is gay, he actually just started a new relationship and I’m happy for him) she’d gotten a little into basic astrology and tarot. Saw a psychic about us and everything. The psychic saw the potential of a happy ending if we got through it, but at the same time, she couldn’t sleep. Monday night when I held her, something hit that told her it was time to let go. And she finally decided to. And that same psychic said it’ll ultimately be the right call. And hell, even the card I cut from the tarot deck she had out before I left Tuesday was the 10 of cups, which in a breakup apparently means “the end of a long, emotional journey, where the rainbow and the dream have unfortunately left.” A definitive ending, according to the cards. A twist of the knife, according to me.

Anyone who’s known me, anyone who’s read me over the years, knows I was over the moon for her. I came up with the idea of my 30 for 30 and posted it… eventually. The last one was for her, and if you remember what I did for that Jets at the bye, you’ll know what to do for the blank paragraph. Otherwise, highlight it.

From 2019 when she was dog-sitting for a woman in rehab, I had that “I want to do this, I could see myself doing this” feeling. The place wasn’t amazing, a bit dilapidated from the woman’s life deteriorating, but the dog was a sweetheart and the place was a brief nest for the two of us, where we could be away from our respective houses. And that was the first time when I thought to myself that I could do this forever. When I seriously thought “I think I could marry this girl someday.” Eventually to “I want to marry this girl someday” sometime around 2021. And even over the last couple years if the way got murky, that thought was the beacon. That was the lighthouse. That was my North Star. And maybe it blinded me to the day-to-day issues as I worked more and more like a dog because I was busy thinking about The Future. I got lost in visions of my utopia, and I didn’t think about the path until it was getting darker and murkier and we were stagnant alongside it rather than moving forward together, and she, who also had thought of the same ideas, could scarcely see it anymore. The light was fading to her, and she decided to let go while there was still love for me in her heart, as opposed to contempt, like with her previous ex. I was willing to wait for it and for her and fight through our issues together, but now I’m left with a tattered heart.

Mornings have been a struggle. Waking back up at Apartment Weaselo, knowing it’s a colder place and there’s no impending trip to look forward to see the person I’ve wanted to see over the last seven years. No Christmas or New Year’s to celebrate at her place. I’ve recorded, realized much over the week, of what I could have done, of yellow and red flags, both mine and hers, that I could have pointed out or called out, or worked on. Of realizing there were absolutely times I enabled when I should have been firm but encouraging, both with myself and with my personal limits, and with her. I’ve worked afternoons and evenings, so it’s given me or forced me into a kind of diversion. The next few days, with Christmas and a couple days off, actually worry me for that reason. I might go bedding shopping if Hermana Weaselo’s around (as, funnily, if we were thriving, this could have been our time to move in together as Hermana Weaselo’s new bf had to move from his apartment in Queens up to Connecticut and it’s open and he’s still paying for it so I’d be able to sublet from him… which means we could have had a place, at long last, if only), but… I’m alone. And I’m 34, and now I worry that I’ll never get that happy ending I sought. That happy ending I thought would be with her.

Sorry that this is the Christmas Eve open thread. It would have been last week, but everything hurt too much, was too raw. I still wasn’t sure how to tell the parentals. It was originally going to be a “Nocturnes clinched the division” post, until last Tuesday came.

Because until last Tuesday, if you asked me… I wanted to marry her someday. Now, as much as Hermana Weaselo would flay me alive for it… I’d pray for a Christmas miracle, a change of heart. One that admits that we have issues, one where I admit we had issues, and the road and the world is dark and wild, but… it was still a future I would’ve been willing to work for. And even more, be willing to be a little less blind to the present for. It won’t come. She said she wouldn’t contact me until I was ready, and I certainly am not. But, whatever deity will listen, whatever extra or supernatural force there is in the world… I know when we started I said that if and when the time came I’d leave her in a better place than I found her, and I certainly did that. But… why don’t we get a happy ending? I didn’t want the best 7 years of her life according to her letter. I wanted 70. Or 65, living to 97 might be pushing it for me. I wanted forever. And if not her, then who?

If you can… hug your loved ones this holiday. Hug your partners this holiday. Enjoy your family, the one you’re born into, the ones you’ve chosen, the ones you’ve built with. Your Home. I know I have my people who love and care for me, but may they give me the grace that I’m finally trying to show myself. It’s a blue Christmas for me.