Apology

I never understood how to apologize to Jennifer.  I could say, "I'm sorry you're hurt," or "I'm sorry that I hurt you," but I couldn't get much further than that.  She wanted more, and I didn't have more for her.  She felt that I had betrayed her.  She had loved Daniel before I did, and I knew this.  

I didn't want to apologize for falling in love with Daniel.

I didn't want to apologize for kissing him after I told her that I had feelings for him, and she had said, Okay.  That's okay.

I didn't want to apologize for getting together with him because their own romantic relationship was over when I got together with him.

I didn't want to apologize for betraying our friendship because I felt that our friendship had been lacking.

I didn't want to apologize because I wasn't planning to break up with Daniel, so the apology felt insincere.

I didn't want to apologize because I was going to marry Daniel, so the apology would be empty.

But now.  It's nineteen years later.  Daniel and I have been married for eighteen years.

We are now separated.

His apologies are not enough.  He sees that he has hurt me, and feels bad that he has hurt me, but his apologies are not enough.

My apologies to Jenn were not enough.

What would have happened if I had given her the apology she needed?

What would have happened if I had put her and our friendship ahead of myself and Daniel and our relationship?

I would have spared myself the pain I'm in now.  Maybe.

I would have spared myself some of the pain I've experienced in the past nineteen years.  Maybe.

I wouldn't have our four children.

For years I have thought of What If's.  With the many hurdles and struggles in our marriage, I have gotten after myself for getting married, for not waiting longer, for not looking more carefully at the situation and stopped that fiery rolling ball that was headed towards marriage.  It's a hard ball to stop.  My mom hinted at stopping that ball nine months and then three months before the wedding.  A month before the wedding, I said to him over the phone during an argument over birth control, "Well, we can always get divorced."  But I didn't call off the wedding.   My dad advised me two nights before the wedding to stop that rolling ball.  I wouldn't do it.  I couldn't do it.  I'm not sure why.  Part of me knew that there was trouble.  I was also too in love with Daniel and this big, romantic, passionate, quick relationship.  Perhaps I felt like I couldn't stop a wedding that was already announced and being planned and then planned and then happening.  Or perhaps I just loved Daniel and believed that it would all work out.  

I wasn't sure then, and I'm not sure now.

But finally, in our separating, I have let go of regret.  I fell in love with him within minutes of meeting him.  Eleven months later I loved him.  I was in love with him.  Even with all the difficulties we had in that one courting year, I loved him and wanted to spend more time with him.  I forgive myself now.  I accept that that's where I was nineteen years ago and eighteen years ago, wanting to marry Daniel.  I realize, The heart wants what the heart wants.  The head did not cast as big a vote in the end.

I have watched countless movies and read books where I have not understood the woman protagonist who keeps going for the wrong guy.  It's so obvious that, even if he makes her feel so special and excited and wonderful, he'll put himself and what he wants before her eventually, and she'll be left devastated by him again.  I've never understood this character, never identified with her.  I've thought, Go for the good guy!  or You'll be okay on your own -- trust me!  What was Bridget Jones thinking when she got together again and again with the Hugh Grant character?

Unknowingly, I became that character in my marriage.  The semi-apology, the rationale, the romance, the talking, the sweetness, the kind gestures, the family -- I got sucked in each time, convinced or hopeful that things would get better.  And they did.  For a while.  Just like in any movie or any book.

I can't be that person anymore.  And this is okay.  

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Jenn and I have stayed in touch sporadically over the years.  I recently sent her an email with the simple sentence, "I'm sorry."  No qualifiers, no explanations.  It may still not be enough.  But I am sorry.

I am sorry that I betrayed her friendship.  Our friendship.  Her.

I am sorry that I moved forward in my romantic relationship without working through our friendship and seeing where that led, too.

I am sorry that I was impatient in starting and building that romantic relationship.

I don't have to apologize for falling in love.  And I can't change my actions now.  I no longer want to.  I do not regret a love that gave me our our beautiful sensitive children.  I cannot regret how I was so enamored of Daniel.  I cannot regret that love.  And I have no need to.

I'm not sure what the rules of friendship are, but I've gotten increasingly clear on what the rules of betrayal in marriage are.

And I want more than an apology.