In 1990 my friend, my first great love, had a motorbike accident. Its consequence was severe road rash with several large scabs. The accident shocked me although nothing serious happened. From then on, I had a constant fear that I might lose my dearest one. For that reason, I kept one of his scabs after it had fallen off, with the (not so serious) idea in mind of having him cloned in the future if need be. I was studying biology at the time. In the end, my constant fear for him led to our breakup. Paradoxically, my fear caused exactly that which frightened me most.

I have kept the scab to this day, for twenty-seven years. Although I have since become a biologist, I have long lost the desire to clone my then partner. My fears, however, I still struggle with…

Twenty-seven-year-old scab from my first love’s wound

We grew so icy with each other those few days; what I thought might allow us to thaw the growing cold between us only solidified both our feelings. As you watched me scrape the ice off the car at the airport while you sat planning your family New Year's Eve, we both knew it was the end. 

Nothing was right for you in Marrakech, nor with the plan I'd painstakingly and lovingly created for us, but perhaps we were both ultimately too inflexible and too selfish. 

I accept my mistakes though the way you cruelly laid out my catalogue of faults still weighs heavy; my self-worth shattered. You never would acknowledge your own flaws though. Months of being fully present for you, limping from one family crisis to the next, trying to accommodate your needs, and taking on board all your interests. None of this - or the strain it placed on 'us' - was ever acknowledged. I thought there would be more grace, understanding and space for me when I needed it, but there was only space for you - I wish you'd been honest about that from the start; with me and with yourself. 

Hardest in all of this is realising that the person I fell in love with - and dreamed of building a future with - didn't exist, leaving me questioning my own judgement. 

But now, finally, I've cracked it and I am letting the illusion of you go. 

Twenty-seven-year-old scab from my first love’s wound

Freezing Point