Today is the 5th Anniversary of the Day I was Crushed by a Woman Unable. I do not expect this to become a national holiday unless, of course, I achieve the glory and status that renders every moment of my life, significant or otherwise, worthy of celebration -- or notoriety. We'll see.

But today is the 5th Anniversary, that anniversary, five years ago today. I believe it was also a Tuesday; I thought about checking the date on iCal, but that would be really pathetic, and I'm obsessing quite enough as it is. To get spot-on accurate about the dates would be just too much. Bad enough the damage that was done. She had options, choices of what action she felt she had to take, almost all of which would have hurt me. Some would have hurt less than others; perhaps I should assume it could have been even worse. After the fact, when it was far too late for anything but what was done, I found that the one thing she could have given me was closure, just enough so I would not go totally fucking nuts. And although I have not gone TFN, I've gone close enough. Although it may simply be that she -- the idealized on-a-pedestal glowing golden memory of her, the She that has nothing to do with any reality either of us lived through -- provides some good writing hooks; if I poke at what was once an injury long enough, maybe I can recall some of the pain, or a memory of the pain, or something I can now pretend was terrible pain only because of the paucity of true emotion in my life; if I poke long enough to get the words flowing, I can stir up an idea of pain that gets the voice inside chattering.

I like that version. I like it more than the story about me being half-insane with obsessive lust and hurt and bitterness. Being a step away from a prescription for Prozac or alcoholism or figuring out how I might track her down and do her in -- sweet Jesus of course I'm not planning to track her down, I've already googled her numerous times and can find no trace of her anywhere. Being that crazed has no appeal to me. I do not recognize that as me, either; I don't think I'm that nuts, not even close. I just happen to remember a few things:

The us that was us culminated five years ago tonight. That was the high point. She said "I love you," so quietly I did not think I had heard it. She said "I love you" and my sweet, gentle response was "What?" How artful is that? So quiet, so unexpected. I simply was unable to comprehend something that beautiful and perfect was happening to me. I did not believe I could make someone feel that way; I blurted my self-mistrust: "What?" And she repeated it -- and I wonder if forcing her to say it again was my big mistake. Did I show her my lack of faith? Did I hesitate in a way that told her I would never be the one she wanted? If I had simply kept quiet, or kissed her, or shed a single perfect tear; maybe....

The first time -- the only time -- we made love, I shivered, and she said "You're shivering." She thought I was cold, but I was just unable to contain the feelings within my skin. A year or two later, I watched "Say Anything" with John Cusack and Ione Skye, and the same thing happened with them. But they were in a movie, and in a car in that movie; we were in a bed, and in real life. At least for me it was real life. For her, I do not know.

She had immediate second thoughts, which is understandable given she had just ended a three-year relationship. Getting serious with someone immediately after that ended was probably not a good idea, for either of us. Had she come to me and said so, told me what she waited another two weeks to finally tell me, I would have been sad but we would have talked and worked it out. I would have had a say in my own life, we would have been friends; we might have found a long, slow path to happiness together. Instead, she took the Sitcom Route:

"Hm. I made a mistake getting into this relationship. He's a great guy, I probably do love him, but I just can't be in a relationship right now. Hm.

"I could talk to him about it. He's mature and he loves me. It'll be hard but I bet we could work something out.

"Or... I know! There's that guy at the bar where Karen and I go out for drinks. He keeps asking me out. I'll say yes, we'll go out, and when I tell him what I did, he'll be so angry he'll break up with me!"

I have called her chickenshit at times, and it's this episode I am thinking of. That's unfair. She was in pain from the break-up with her ex, she was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion that was in direct conflict with that pain, and she had never been with a guy who could have done what I would have: let her make a decision for her own needs and do it as her friend. She had experienced only selfishness, not love or selflessness. How was she to know I was different?

She only had to ask. To talk me, to take a chance that maybe I was different. But she didn't. She pulled her little stunt, she threw me out of her life without a word. I went, in a moment, from feeling extraordinarily happy to separated from my own life. Every pain I had known in my life came back to me, a grey blanket of depression that stifled my breath for the next three years. Of course I learned to breathe again, I got over it, I got on with my life and continue to learn new ways of happiness every day.

But five years ago tonight, I made love with a woman named Beth, and I was so happy. I thought it might last; I hoped it would. She took away that happiness from me, and I stumbled along into new happinesses. Tomorrow will be five years and one day, and only a fool would continue to count. Or would mark his calendar. Or would write about it annually.

Or wish her all the happiness she deserves.