Seperating

 

When we went to Bert for the second time on Tuesday, I already knew the chances of me and him really talking about my emotions were about as likely as him pulling a rabbit out of his cap. It felt like grasping at straws in the wind.

Someone once told me something that stuck with me:
There are always three in a relationship—you, me, and the relationship itself.

That day, going to Bert felt like taking Troy to the vet.
We were taking our relationship to the vet.
And I think we both knew.
And it’s okay.
Sometimes, when something gets old, it dies.
And when it dies, it doesn’t mean it wasn’t good.
It was just… old. Maybe older than most.
So then it dies.

Honestly, in the days leading up to it, I thought I should let you drive.
Because I didn’t know if my emotions would get the better of me.

I want to tell you—this is very hard.
Not to blame you. Not to blame anyone.
It’s just hard.

Fortunately, there is a God, and in times like these, He sprinkles a bit of manna on my YouTube feed. This is me trying to deal with it. And what I’ve realized is… we’re not breaking up.
We’re separating.

And separating doesn’t only happen when people fight or leave.
It starts when they stop really talking.
Not about the practical stuff.
I mean really talking.

That’s when the relationship begins to die.
And it’s okay.
Things die.

Like Troy.

We let him go.

And now, we have to let this go.

I want to tell you something—not so you’ll “know” it, but because it’s from my heart.

In the 20-something years we’ve shared this relationship, I gave it everything.
Everything.
And I never once regretted it.

If I could go back, I’d do it all again. A million times.

I gave with all my heart.
And I loved every moment.

It was tough, yes.
Maybe we weathered the relationship too much.
Like Billie Holiday—maybe we should have been gentler.
Or maybe not.
Either way, this is where we are now.

And the relationship is dying.
Separating.
And it’s okay.

It’s not your fault.
It’s not mine.
It’s just dying now.

Like that day with Troy.
You knew it long before.
And now, I see it too.

I hope you can still keep something beautiful from it—
Like the bracelets we made with Troy and Maya’s hair in it.
Something sacred.

I remember, on the way back from Bert, I told you again:
“With you in my life, I can go out into the world and conquer anything!”

And you asked if it was still the same.
And I said, “Yes—but less.”

And I know now—it wasn’t you. It never was.
It was the relationship.

It was already dying.

And it’s okay.

Things die.

It’s not your fault.
It’s not mine.
It’s just time.

And it’s okay.
You can go now.

You’ve done so much.
More than anyone could have.

So you can go.

I’ll stay here with the relationship, until it dies where it belongs—in my heart.
Maybe I’ll put a little plaque on a bench in my heart for it.
Maybe someday, you can come visit the memory.

But don’t hold me to it.

Now… go!

I’m sorry I’ve kept you so long.

Go. Sleep.

Tomorrow you’ll be sad—and that’s okay.

And when you wake up, I hope you have a wonderful day, and a wonderful life.

I really do.

I always have.

You know that.