on love & loss

“The rule of three” principle, stemmed from Latin (omne trium perfectum) suggests that things that come in threes are inherently more satisfying. Growing up, my mom referred to herself, my brother and I as “The Trinity.” As a family she wanted us to be a symbolic trio.

There are several different approaches I could take to the rule of threes. I could think mathematically—divide my life into sections, pinpoint positive things that happened to me and group them together in thirds. I could lean towards philosophy and base this on a consequence/reward system. For every bad thing that happens, a good thing will take its place. But most of the time, the things that happen to us, whether they be good or bad in nature, don’t make sense at all. I don’t want to go about my days and nights thinking, waiting for the remaining parts of a positive trifecta.

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On a rather morbid note, the only thing I’ve known to come in threes this year is death. I lost both of my grandfathers to cancer this year, less than three months apart. And my worst nightmare, in the form of the third death, came true a couple of weeks ago. I had to put down Mister, my cherished feline companion of 19 years. I woke up the Friday morning of Labor Day weekend and could tell he was sick. He got progressively worse, and I had the thought in the back of my mind throughout class, throughout work — This might be the end. And it was. I can’t remember being more anxious and heartbroken than I was that evening, sitting in the passenger seat of my boyfriend’s car with Mister wrapped in a towel as we drove to the nearest animal hospital. I didn’t want any of it to be real, and most of all I didn’t want my time with him to run out. On the way home from the vet, I made my boyfriend pull over and I started to vomit violently from shock, which I’d never experienced before. I wanted to believe that it was my body’s way of purging the sadness of the situation, but I knew better. The pain of losing Mister was (and still is) unfathomable. But what comes after loss is love. I received an overwhelming amount of calls and texts the day after—a monarch had died, and was being mourned by many on my behalf.

I’ve written a lot about love on this blog in the three years since I started it. I don’t know nearly as much about it as I’d like to. I’ve been cheesy, I’ve been cynical, I’ve been analytical. But then again I’m still in my early twenties. I didn’t learn what love is or should be from my parents, or books, or movies. I learned through experience, through writing, through therapy. I hate the idea of turning people from my past into lessons, but admittedly, the people that I have dated or been involved with from the age of eighteen to now have taught me a lot about what I do and don’t want in a partner. It’s been difficult to break unhealthy dating habits, to stop being drawn to emotionally unavailable people who make me think intimacy is a bad thing. When I started seeing my current boyfriend I turned to excerpts from self-help books and even a few of those cringe-worthy preachy articles about how to not let past trauma and negative behaviors spill over into this very new thing. For a few months, I rejected kindness and turned to aloofness so I could avoid taking emotional risks. I went against my own beliefs and let guys water down my passionate side. And then I realized how boring all that tiptoeing was. Being treated well isn’t something that should be earned, and the same goes for attention.

Not too long after the Beach House concert last month, I was enjoying some downtime by sitting in the library courtyard as I usually do. I was listening to a playlist that the boy had made for me. “Crimson and Clover” by Tommy James and The Shondells came on, and my eyes watered when he crooned Well I don’t hardly know her, but I think I could love her. I thought to myself, I don’t want to mess this up. Whenever I have a scab I give into the itch, and peel back the hardened skin, making the wound fresh again. This time I didn’t go for it.

My admiration for Nancy Meyers movies has stuck with me since early adolescence, but recently I’ve been fixated on one line in particular from “The Holiday.” Kate Winslet’s character, Iris, says to her neighbor, Arthur, “I’m looking for more corny in my life.” This line came after a scene in which Iris breaks off a draining relationship with an emotionally manipulative coworker. But I find myself relating to her character more as I’ve gotten older, especially now. It was an empowering scene, watching her stand up to someone who’s hurt her multiple times and gotten in the way of her pursuing happiness. Corny, as Iris and I have come to realize, is a good thing. So I’m making more room for it, or at least trying to.

During Labor Day weekend, a couple of days after Mister died, I was in the car with my boyfriend driving home from a night of playing cards with his family. It was raining and the music that was playing made me want to dissolve from happiness right then and there. Suddenly this rush of contentment came over me and I wanted to say to him “Hey, I love you.” I was too scared so instead I enjoyed the rest of the drive in silence. He said it to me later, though. But I already knew that he did. I’m thankful I waited so long to say that again to someone, to the right person. He put an end to my reign as the notorious single Scorpio in my group of friends, but at the end of the day, I’m still me.

While I was anticipating change during my last months of undergrad, I wasn’t prepared for it to happen so quickly. But I can safely say that I’m in a much better place emotionally than I was a year ago, and more well equipped to handle challenges.

Megan Thee Stallion said that it’s going to be “a real hot nerd fall.” And my God, I hope she’s right.

On that note, I’ll talk to you all soon.

All the best,

Grace