Many of you know I’ve been working on a memoir for the last couple of years. My working title is Unrequited. As you might guess from the title, the book is about unrequited love. I’ve had many loves in my life. Three were, and are, unrequited.

As with most first-time memoirists, I often have to keep recurring thoughts at bay. They are like sludge in my writing engine.

• THOUGHT #1: Why would anyone be interested in my story? In the end, I’ve decided it doesn’t matter. It’s been a journey of self-discovery for me. Perhaps reading it will be a journey of discovery for readers, too.
• THOUGHT #2: Will I, a recovering “good-girl-perfectionist” ever have the nerve to actually publish it, to show my flawed, human self? – This is the biggie, mostly because I haven’t yet conquered the rampart of wanting to be perfect in my kids’ eyes.

Some posts will be excerpts, and other posts, like this one, will be thoughts about the memoir, or something I’ll share that represents one of my three “Unrequiteds.”

You may wonder how I can write this memoir while married. “What does you husband think?” Many have asked me that question. “How does he feel about you thinking about these three men?”

Let me just say, I could not write this memoir without Steve’s support. There is nothing he doesn’t know about my past, and nothing he doesn’t know about my feelings. We often have conversations about the importance of “AND” in life. He understands that I can still have the feelings I have AND love him. It’s not a case of EITHOR/OR. In fact, I love him more because he understands me. We’ve had many conversations about these three unrequited relationships and how they’ve shaped my life. I’m grateful for our openness and for his support.

I have not gotten absolute permission from the Unrequiteds to use their names yet. (More like, “Maybe. We’ll see.”) Once the memoir is complete, I will ask Unrequited #1 and Unrequited #2 about using at least their first names — after they’ve had a chance to read what I’ve written. Sadly, I will not be able to get that permission from Unrequited #3, as he took his own life in 2015.

I’ve completed the first drafts for Unrequited #1 and Unrequited #2. In the past few months, I’ve been working on Unrequited #3’s story. As you might imagine, it’s the most painful to write. #3 and I wrote countless emails to each other during our relationship, and I still have them, though I haven’t really gone through them for many, many years, perhaps back to 2003.

Reading through them takes a lot of emotional energy, leaving me with little energy or desire to put words on paper for the memoir. Finding letters I’d forgotten about is like reliving the joy of the beginning of the relationship, as well as the “out-of-synch” desperation we each felt at the end. It was an end neither of us wanted, but an end neither of us could see our way around. It’s also like reliving his suicide again, the same feeling of guilt and helplessness, of so many questions, of never and forever. At times, I’ve even had the same feeling I had when I learned he had died — the feeling of having the breath sucked out of me.

While reading through old letters and writings, I found this poem I wrote shortly after his death. I don’t know if I’ll use it in the memoir, but I’ll share it with you now. #3 and I shared a love of sailing. He taught me to sail, thus the sailing metaphor.

Fair Winds

Beyond the shallow reef,
the deep sea beckoned,
and he set out to sea
in the sailboat he loved,
the sailboat they’d shared.

He headed toward a setting sun
so intense with color,
he thought he might reach it.
There at last, he’d end
his long, lonely drift
through the interminable inlet
where years before
he’d made a wrong turn.

Clouds billowed above as he cursed
the unwelcome intruder that blasted
through his once-impenetrable wall –
the thought of her.

It was preposterous that
he could ever keep her out.
She was mixed in the very mortar
that fortified his thorny wall.
The last remnants of sunlight
touched his skin as
his weary bones drank the warmth.

Only a little farther and
he’d kill the engine,
the incessant, droning chug-chug,
the foul smell of diesel.

And at last, he’d succumb to the wind,
his greatest teacher, a simile for life yet,
he’d been a poor student,
so he leaned forward toward
the outskirts of the key,
as if he could rush the wind.

He should have said goodbye.
She would wonder why he left,
but what could he say?
Once they’d shared countless words,
once no words were necessary.
He should have left a note,
but there were no words.

Fog rolled in and melancholic blue waves
lapped against the hull,
cooing as they rocked the boat
and lulled his soul. “Here. Here.”

He steadied the rudder,
hand hovering over the kill switch,
keen for the silence he longed
to have enfold him.

He should have left a note.
Her heart would break that he hadn’t,
but there were no words

The main sail shuddered,
teased by the wind.
From the corner of his eye,
a blink of light on the port side –
the last buoy,
rocking back and forth,
its bell echoing in thick fog.

Fare-well. Fare-well.

Inhaling the salt-air perfume,
once, twice,
he was primed for the wind’s silence.
Yet his rumination of her
interrupted once again,
until he implored his fingers
to turn off the engine,
turn off the noise.
They obliged.

No words.
No goodbye.
Only silence.