"No more."
With one look at his pained expression, I understood the difficulty he faced when saying these words to her.
For two years, he stood by his woman—through thick and thin, as the saying goes. He fortified his patience as she indulged in late night excursions, did nothing to discourage indecent proposals from other men, and exhibited other inappropriate behavior. What else could he do? He loved her.
They engaged in screaming altercations, wounding remarks and harsh words that poisoned the very root of their love. Soon, his or her—it matters not which—tongue cut too deep. And she left.
For months, in between drunken stupors—and the companionship of other men—she'd telephone. He listened, intently at first—then, later, rather indifferently. At times, she sounded remorseful; but at others, her words hacked at his heart with a vengeance. Overall—and most importantly to his mind—each conversation ended poorly.
After six months, he stopped taking her calls.
After a year, he began seeing someone else.
Next, the age-old phenomena of female behavior known as "If someone else wants him, he must be worth it" reared its ugly head and she requested to see him. He agreed. And they met.
To his surprise—and perhaps to his alone—she wanted to begin anew; to pick up the pieces and try again. He found himself listening to every word she said as he became simultaneously interested and dismayed. And when she finished, an austere silence filled the room.
"Six months ago, I would have given anything to hear those words," he told me. "Six months ago, I would have cut off my right arm for her."
"But now, now I'm tired of hurting. I'm tired of expecting a healthy relationship when there will never be one. She doesn't even know what one is. Does she? She'll never know."
He took a deep sigh, looked at me, and stated, "But I still loved her."
And then, his eyes lost their brilliance, his mouth drooped at the edges, and the shadows on his face deepened. Before continuing, he lowered his head and seemed to be rehashing the unfortunate circumstances in his mind.
He hesitated, and then muttered, "I told her, 'no more.' I just can't. No more."
His teary eyes rose to meet mine as he asked, "When do I give up? When does it become hopeless? Was I right in saying what I did?"
Regrettably, my response to these questions isn't a simple one. And when I say that it's not simple, this refers to the act, not the reply. The reply is rather simple and it's the same one for each.
In the movies and fairy tales, the answer would be that it's never too late. And, of course, one's family and friends are the quickest to jump to the "get rid of 'er/'im" conclusion. Moreover, in real life, these outlooks are the ones to which we cling. Aren't they?
But the answer lies within you.
How much are you willing to withstand? Weeks? Months? Years?
How long should we "hold on" to ensure that regret and remorse do not follow us in the years to come?
Each of us has a limit.
And no one's is the same.
For some, mere weeks ass before they seek the arms of another in hopes of dispelling their agony. And soon, the pain dissipates: Slowly at first, but we get better. For others, a lifetime would not be long enough to heal their wounded hearts. By my calculations, however, most of us will fall in between the two.
To my mind, however, none of us is immune.
For each of us there exists a person who will try our souls, break our hearts, and leave us questioning our own worth. How we deal with this pain, in part, defines our future relationships—our future lives.
We mustn't allow a false set of norms to dictate when it's time to quit. There are no norms.
The decision to say "No more" must come from within—not from without.
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