He Promised If He Left, He’d Take Me With Him…

He Lied.

I’ve struggled to know where to start, as a writer here on Medium. Not for lack of anything to write about, in fact, the complete opposite — I have so much to say, so much I want to share, that I’ve not known which point in my story was the best place to begin.

Then, as it often does, my life gave me a jolt, a sharp kick to the gut. A memory. A place to start — February 1st…his birthday.

Of course.

(Though I’m running late there. It’s hard. I want to be completely open here, write exactly as my heart and mind dictate — but these are often going to be things that I’ve never talked about before, not with anyone. I have been an extremely good secret keeper in my life thus far. So I’m having moments of wavering, a fair amount of deleting and re-writing…but I’m getting there. I am going to do this.)

That’s where I was then, the birthday of one of (if not the) best, closest, friends of my life. A man that I dearly loved. Yet I was not celebrating, I was grieving.

So, let me take you back to the most appropriate place to start this story — the beginning:

When we first got together, my partner (P)and I worked in a bar and that’s where we met him, my friend (L), and his wife (B). They were fun, really fun. Super cool, highly intelligent conversationalists who had a similar way of thinking to my own, had lives and friendship groups that we enjoyed becoming part of, who fit with ease into mine.

We very quickly became a tight-knit group, spending evenings and weekends together, drinking, dancing, playing cards, weekends away to see shows, sightsee, go shopping — and laughing, always laughing. Our friendship was filled with joy. And love.

Of course, that’s where things got complicated, isn’t it?

I adored L, probably from the minute I met him, definitely from the moment a few weeks later when I said something he appreciated so much that he wrapped my tiny (then 90lb) frame within his massive arms (6'5", 230lb, all muscle), bear-hugged me off my feet and said, “Oh I am definitely keeping you!!”

From then on it was a done deal, I was his.

I loved my partner, we’re still together, we’ve been together for 30 years, but there is at least some part of me that did and still does belong to L.

When the four of us were out together, L would introduce us to people as “P, B — she’s my wife — and S — she’s mine too.” I never argued, never thought to, no feminist sensibilities bristled. It just seemed right, because it was true!

L was my safety, my protector, also (in a different way to P) my home. I trusted him implicitly and completely. He confided in me when he was hurting emotionally, I was more accessible and empathetic than B, who was always a more cold intellect than a warm embrace.

I was always a warm embrace. So perhaps it isn’t all that surprising that the emotional support and physical warmth began to blur and shift, to slide into hotter physicality between us.

For the 20 years, we were together as a four-person friendship unit, L and I were often also (on and off) lovers.

Yes, I know — we knew — there were supposed to be two couples within our group of four, not three, morally we would be considered in the wrong, cheaters, to be reviled….and there were times when we did pull away from being together because we knew that other people would judge us badly for what we were doing.

We always fell back together though, because it was easy, we were so right together. We gave each other the things that were missing from our relationships with P and B.

It was never discussed openly between the four of us as a unit. Nothing was hidden though, not really. I mean, L and I wouldn’t be sexual in front of the others, but then neither would L and B or P and I. We were affectionate though. Extremely so.

The physicality between L and myself was always so natural and open that we never thought anything of it — although it was sometimes commented on by other friends (and sometimes casual observers, who couldn’t work out who was with who). We would lay around on the beach, at a party, in front of an open fire, and L was often draped over me or I was curled into him — a kitten surrounded by the bulk of a bear.

We would stay the night at each other's houses, or one of a couple would stay over while the other went home (early start at work in the morning, not feeling great, later on, there was sometimes a babysitter to relieve). Sleeping at each other's homes was simply part of our close bond and nobody was particularly bothered by where we slept.

Each house had a spare bedroom, beanbags/a large sofa/ a futon downstairs — and while B and P never slept together alone, occasionally we all just slept where we were, by roaring fires or open windows and doors.

Or more often L and I stayed together while the other two wandered off to the bedrooms.

Then everything fell apart.

B met someone else. She packed a bag one night and in the morning she was gone. L had no idea until he arrived home from work to find a letter. We don’t know where she went. We don’t know where she is. None of the three of us knew or even suspected anything beforehand. He never saw her again. We don’t really want to see her again.

By then, P and I had a young child. L, a beloved uncle on top of everything else he meant to us, moved in with us for a while. He was at a loss. He questioned everything in his life as it had been: his whole relationship with B, his relationship with me, every aspect of himself as a partner and as a man.

He became withdrawn and began to have thoughts of escape — going away for a while, moving away, or leaving us all behind for good.

For years I’d promised that I would always be there for him. I meant it. He’d promised me that if he ever left he’d take me with him, at least part of the way, or for some of the time. Maybe I would have gone too. Maybe I would have left P. I’m not sure, but the possibility is/was there.

I always loved Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band. When the four of us were all still together I would often play ‘Roll Me Away’. I thought of it as ‘Our Song’ (mine and L’s), a reminder of our promises to each other.

Unfortunately, as far as this story goes and for the bond between L and I, by the time he was really ready to go, I was a mother and my little one was now the greatest love of my life. I was going nowhere without that child — and there was no way of traveling with a little one, not on L’s Harley, that was for sure.

So L lived with us, going away for a week or two here and there, spending the odd night with other friends. He sold the house he’d bought with B, signed divorce papers when he heard from her solicitors. Kept going.

He got quieter though, looked older, wasn’t sleeping well. I had to practically beg him to eat.

He clung to me, wanted my attention more and more. I gave him what I could, all that I could and extra on top.

I was exhausted myself, had a child to take care of, animals to look after — and then things got even worse.

My partner became ill, needing full-time care in our home and taking to myriad hospital appointments with various consultants and for all kinds of tests.

All this added to health issues of my own was too much. Way, way too much. Depression, something I’d battled with for much of my life, began to darken my mind again.

I really wasn’t coping with the various challenges of my life and I had nothing left to give L. He was a healthy able-bodied man in his 40s, he was doing well enough (or so it seemed), was working full-time, and financially able to support himself. So I broached the subject of him finding a place of his own, in order to give us a little space back.

L was understanding. Within a month he’d moved out of our house into a small place he’d found to rent in the next village.

He missed being under the same roof as me though. Missed our closeness, so wanted to pick up the sexual side of our relationship again — something he hadn’t wanted to do since B left.

For the first time ever, because of my own mental and physical issues, I turned him down. L took it badly. I loved him so much, I always had and I always will, but for my own health and sanity, something had to give.

We saw less and less of L, who spent more time with his hard-drinking biker buddies. I was so busy though, struggling so much with my own health, that while I did notice his absence, I didn’t have either the time or the energy to worry or chase him up.

You might well say he was a grown man, I wasn’t to be expected to run around after him and you’d be right, that’s exactly what I told myself at the time. However, it’s now, with hindsight, that I can’t stop beating myself up and telling myself I failed him badly, because this year it’s been ten years.

Ten years since L’s death.

Ten years since he took his own life and left me forever.

Ten years without someone I love so much, someone I could maybe have helped, kept with me.

Instead, I’m haunted. Everywhere I go, everything I do, I’m still constantly bombarded by memories of him. Of the two of us, together, doing all the things we did — as friends and as lovers.

I feel as though there’s a hole in my heart, a shadow walking through life at my side. I sometimes feel like a ghost myself, because I’m still sick with grief, still, miss L every day.

Sometimes it’s almost more than I can manage, to hold myself here with P and our child when all I want is to stop fighting and go to join L.

He promised if he ever left he’d take me with him, but he lied. Perhaps when I can forgive him for that I might also be able to forgive myself for letting him go.