A few days ago, I posted a short poem titled Aftermath. It has a background in my life; I wrote it the day after I broke up with my partner.
While the quiet tone of it might seem odd for the topic of breaking up relationships, it does convey exactly what I was feeling, and still am feeling. There was no cataclysmic Big Bang that ended the world. My partner came to my place, we had dinner together, we sat on the sofa and we talked. My partner was the one who brought it up. We agreed that this relationship wasn’t going to work. We ended it. The end.
There was no shock, no surprise, no rage, no indignation. And in part, I have Loki to thank for that.
I had known for a while that my relationship wasn’t going well. I had realised a while ago that not only was it not going well, but that it wasn’t anything I, or my partner or the two of us together, could fix. The slightly simplified fact of the matter was that I did not want to be in a relationship.
What makes matters worse is that I did not even want to be in one when I entered into it. I was perfectly happy being on my own. I had been single and celibate for more than a year for vague spiritual reasons, and I was absolutely enjoying it. The beginning of the relationship coincided with other, more fundamental changes in my life; my then partner-to-be was a witness, obstetrician and support throughout the beginning of those changes.
Things got more complicated soon after that, with priorities being set, and being set all wrong to support a committed relationship between me and my partner. Slowly, I became aware that I had become attached to an idea rather than the person with whom I was in a relationship. It was an idea that I projected onto my partner, but one that wasn’t actually manifest in the relationship between us. It could not have been, really, but that was due to the nature of the idea—something I only gradually recognised. It wasn’t that our relationship was bad. I was content with it, if not happy. But when I realised I was idealising it, it also became clear that we were living a mere appearance for the most part.
That was a flag-raiser for me as a Lokean. I knew I had to work it out, not so much because I was afraid to anger Him—which is a scary thought and frankly I am—but because that’s not how I want to be: unaware and caught up building castles in the air. In a way, it is a Lokean’s job to be aware, and especially be aware of the truth of one’s own heart. Loki teaches this, and if you don’t believe me, then believe Elizabeth V. since she’s been around a while and knows things.
The part that I didn’t expect was this: sometimes, it doesn’t matter so much whether or not you act on your realisation. I sure didn’t—at least not before my partner did. What matters is that you do realise what is going on, even if you do not admit it to anyone but yourself; what exactly you do beyond that initial realisation is not always that important.
If something is bad or dysfunctional, then that is exactly what one needs to call it. If it’s dysfunctional, it’s dysfunctional and not maybe-if-I-try-harder-it’s-not-so-bad-after-all. This isn’t about laziness or unwillingness to make an effort. By all means, if a thing is salvageable, then do. This is about recognising when it isn’t.
So, when we sat down and talked, there simply was no need for drama. When my partner said, “I think we do not work as an ‘us'”, there was nothing really to do but to agree. It was nothing but truth after all.
As far as breakups go, this one was way on the anti-climactic side. If something says “Lokean breaking up” on the tin, you expect smoke and ashes, and at least a dozen minor explosions (admit it, you do). But sometimes change doesn’t happen with a bang. Sometimes it happens with a barely audible click as things slide into place.
What I took from the experience is this: awareness goes a long way to save you from rude awakenings.