I thought about M today and cried, violently, for the first time in weeks. Dipped into the part of my canned heart that remembers the way his skin smells after he showers, before he sprays cologne and charges quickly through it.

He is deliberate like that—folds his towels the same way every time, ribbon facing out, creating a pattern in the stack. He is concerned with proportion and aesthetics and giggles. (Or he used to be concerned with giggles, before MIT raped him of his bliss and he could only giggle 3/5ths of the way into a bottle of Jamison).

Giggles or no giggles, it is Thanksgiving week and I miss the familiarity of M. I could almost imagine him walking through my front door, a door he has never seen, and sitting with me on the couch. And I would smile… and feel LOVE. The deep-fried kind—juices reserved, marinated. God, I loved that man. I loved him more than anyone, anything, ever. So much of our relationship was poison. But I would have made him my life… if he had let me.

So what if his mother thought I was deserving of Hell. (Cuz the Bible told her so-ho-ho).

So what if he wanted to live in London, or New York, or Basel. I could MAKE myself happy in a city that is far too large and far too far away from my family. For him.

So what if talking through things with me was “exhausting.”

So what if he never understood the concept of “teamwork.”

So what that he let other (strange) men put their hands on me in public—without saying a word of protest.

So what that he essentially has three mothers and expected that I cared for him, support his every wish, love him, appreciate him, with zero expectation of return anything. Just. Like. A. Mama. Would.

So what that he took credit for the work, contributions, and value that I added to his life.

So what if his career came before me when it counted the most.

So what if he never understood who I am as a spiritual person and how that shapes my life, love, and choices.

So what….?

So everything. (It hurts!) But so everything.

I guess this is part of being a grown-up… choosing what’s healthy(er), responsible(er), forever(er). It comes down to this. I love(d) him. Obviously. In spite of and because of his flaws. I forgave him for hurting me countless times and began again. Anew. Virgin. Fresh. I saw through incompatibilities and red-flags. I imagined and dreamed and worked toward a shared and beautiful life with him. I molded and remolded me for him. Out of love, out of commitment. And out of necessity. But the unfortunate price I paid for having the love of my life in my life was my own happiness. And I am a grown-up. (Or at least aspiring to be). And I have a choice, in all ways and always. And since happiness and love seem mutually exclusive when it comes to M… I choose happiness.

I choose happiness.