Free Whatever...Love Is Love by Maria Bello

in the middle of the night and she was the only one I could see. I would lie awake for hours trying to think of ways to soothe her, bring her relief, and how better to love her. During the day, I spoke to her. Now, four years later, I think of her much less. But on our anniversary, January 12 of every year, there is an ache deep in my chest, and I long for her.
    Let me clarify. I was introduced to her many years ago; January 12, 2010, was the day I wholeheartedly, undoubtedly fell in love with her. After that day I could no longer resist her raw beauty and violent, extreme love. She wanted me. She needed me. And I gave myself to her, not knowing that it would be the end of life as I knew it.
    She was mysterious. People either loved her or hated her the first time they met her. She was dark and angry at times, but there was a softer, radiant side of her, too. Only certain people were able to see that side—and not because they looked for it. Only certain, special souls were able to hear the siren’s cry of this mistress. And, as in the German myth of Lorelei, the siren lured sailors to crash on the rocks with her beauty and songs. Some survived and some did not. Those who did had a glimpse of her heaven.
    For years I gave her everything of myself. And she took it. Eventually, I began to hate her—her draw, her sex, her death. She was a force I could not fight. And the only people who could help me heal from the wounds she caused were those who had been intimate with her as well. Two years in the middle of our tormented relationship, I was limping and barely breathing but still going back to her.
    Haiti was my mistress.
    In my life, I have been lucky enough to travel all around the world. I have seen the most beautiful and the most awful places. I have stayed in huts and palaces, dined with princes and beggars, and thought I had seen it all. That is, until I went to Haiti. I didn’t know that I could be so completely taken in by a place. Maybe it was my wanderlust and need for adrenaline that made me spend so many years roaming the world as a quote-unquote “humanitarian.” I was in Nicaragua after the earthquake in 1997 with my brother and a group of friends entertaining children with music, dance, toys, and much-needed laughter. I went to Bosnia during their war to work in refugee camps and talk to the women who had been victims of sexual violence. My humanitarian travels took me to Africa’s many countries, and around the poorest parts of the United States. I was doing what I had always loved, fighting the bad guy, the oppressor. I was doing the work that Father Ray had taught me to do. I was sure that my career and public profile allowed me to push for real change, to get attention for the causes I believed in. So I never questioned if I was a humanitarian or not. Of course I was. And then Haiti hit me.
    On the fourth anniversary of the earthquake in Haiti, the day 350,000 people died and millions were left homeless, I woke up early to take Jack, Clare, my mom, my dad, and my brother Joe to Jack’s soccer game. The game was an hour away, in the middle of nowhere.
    I knew it was “the day,” but was too busy, too afraid to deal with it that morning. My dear friend Bryn and I had texted over the week about the coming anniversary. I was supposed to have written a letter to the women I work with in Haiti for them to read at a memorial in the still-dilapidated palace. I was avoiding all of it.
    It wasn’t until Clare and I stopped to pick up lunch for everyone after the game that it hit me. I was standing in the bread aisle in the grocery store and suddenly a wave came over me. I saw in my mind all the faces I had known in Haiti, all the destruction, all the sorrow. I burst into tears.
    So much loss and pain and tragedy. So many broken hearts and people. So much joy that would eventually turn to sorrow. The faces I see rushing in my head: Bryn, Paul, Father Rick, Barbara, Lolo, Caro,