by Paul H. Thompson

Created on: August 07, 2008   Last Updated: August 20, 2008

Our relationship ended with those fateful words: "I don't love you anymore." Bam! That was that. After eight years, the woman with whom I'd hoped to share the rest of my life called it quits. There would be no more talking, no effort to repair damage, only a few briefs days of utter despair as I prepared to move out.

We'd been drifting for a while, withholding pieces of ourselves, spending time apart. Our conversations lost their former luster. Emotions we kept tightly packed. Sex was rare. We coexisted but neither was happy.

It took me a long time to unravel the knotty questions about our failed love. My faults were many: inattention to practical matters, squandering money, letting things slide too long. I don't absolve myself. My foibles, failings and flaws did damage. My inward-turning bouts of clinical depression dragged us down. But she, not I, initiated the break-up. My dumb-ass optimism blinded me to the immanent split.

At first grief overwhelmed me. In time sadness turned to anger, anger to resignation and resignation to acceptance. With acceptance came understanding. I realized the weight of her unhealthy attitudes counterbalanced my own baggage. Responsibility was not mine alone. Foremost among her faults prevailed negativity. Not just snippy comments or cutting words spoken in anger. No, Mary (not her real name) was saddled with a burden not mine to bear.

She called it realism. She spoke bluntly. But that pragmatism masked the truth: Mary's fundamental outlook had grown grim. The negative vibe seeped in to poison everything. Worst was her hopeless vision of the future. Like an IV bag's slow infusion, her negativity subtly dripped into our shared life. When it reached our hearts, it was too late. Love expired.

I passively tolerated her negativity and hoped it would pass. She collected resentments. I was the obstacle keeping her stuck in a dead-end job she refused to leave. I suggested how we might realize our dreams (mine of teaching college, hers of opening a resort). I'd get a nine-month university job, free to help run the resort in summer, supporting us as her fledgling business grew. She outright rejected the possibility though it seemed ideal.

Her resentment list was long. She falsely accused that I dumped my problems on her, never recognizing her pain or helping ease her struggles. My family loved her but she felt rejection. After I battled near-fatal colorectal cancer while remaining a loving contributor to our household, she unfairly said: "You slept three years." When our sex life waned, she laid blame solely on my snoring, never acknowledging her lost interest. "You stole the best years of my womanhood," she said. She refused to marry me but fumed if I didn't introduce her as my wife. She rarely apologized; me she faulted.

Her negativity colored our lives. It armored her against the vulnerability so vital to trust. Clumsily, I sought positive change; numbly, she clung to the status quo. I loved Mary, love her still. Love had budded and blossomed but in the long run could not thrive beneath that withering negativity that dries up hope.

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