Writing on the Walls

If you ever wanted to know how much Kit loved me, all you had to do was go to the bathroom.

I saved every note he wrote me, even the silly little ones on Post-It Notes. I'd find designer cards hidden in the medicine cabinet, my sock drawer, the dvd player. They were tucked inside the bookshelf, the microwave, the jewelry box. They were taped to the walls, the mirrors, even the ceiling. It was like a treasure hunt with the best prize of all - his love.

Every time I found one, I squealed with delight. I couldn't wait to tear the envelope open and read whatever sentiment he'd written there.

Sometimes it was sexy "Tonight, I'm going to trace every curve of your beautiful body with my fingertips" or sweet "I can't wait to spend my forever with you" or even silly "I love you more than a one-armed fisherman's tall tale."

He quoted the great poets like Keats, Yeats and Shelley. He wrote Irish blessings and folklore. He used lines from his favorite bands and entire verses of love songs. He made me feel so alive, so unique, so completely adored.

A few square inches at a time, I covered the bathroom walls with these notes. Some people have Reader's Digest for company. I had the entire history of our relationship. From the time we'd been dating for a week, to a month, and random Tuesdays in between - I could look back on it all with fondness and affection.

Kit & I met online. I had fallen for his words before I'd even met him. He's a damn good writer and those emails were the highlight of my day for weeks before we got together in person. Reading someone's writing - whether hand written notes or emails or even (dare I say it) their blog - is incredibly personal. I got to know him through his words. I fell in love with him every day for six months through his words. And it was his words that deceived me the most.

The first few minutes after discovering his unfaithfulness are a blur to me. I screamed in a way I can only compare to Wesley in the Princess Bride when he's put on "the machine" and loses fifty years of his life. He suffers the ultimate torture in losing his love. It was an unrecognizable voice, hardly human, barely my own, echoing in my ears.

Along with the scream came the tears streaming down my face, onto my shirt, onto my keyboard, into my teacup. Sobbing, wailing, hysterical tears begging for it not to be true. The more I read, the more I knew this was not a dream, no matter how much I was dying to wake up.

I can't tell you the exact amount of time I sat at my desk, staring into the void. I can't tell you how many minutes passed before I could feel my face or hands again. I can't tell you what made me move - but I do know what I did next.

I went to the bathroom and ripped down every single love note from its revered space on my wall.

Each note made an indescribable noise as I tore it down. The audible sound of my heart breaking into pieces.

So now I have to redecorate my bathroom. But I have no idea how to repair my heart.