Facebook = Death

Guess what happens when you're a stupid idiot and spend way too much time cruising Facebook? You come across pictures you'd rather not see. Like this one:


Look closely....yep, that's a baby in a woman's lap. Beautifully photographed, might I add. And that can only mean one thing: I'm looking at Raf and Ingrid's first child without even realizing it. When my retinas finally get through to my neurons I get a little fuckratulations inside. A new pseudonym is born: The Kid (borrowed from ExMi). So there you have it. Today in a photograph. I thought I'd share my little emotional storm for your benefit.

New Year's Resolution #5 - FAIL

But hey....at least I'm in Europe. As lucky circumstance would have it, so are Lex, Marco, Cian, and Hayden. However, only Lex, Marco, and Hayden are in the same country as I am. (Cian is in Ireland, naturally.) Marco is at work. Lex is interviewing for a job all day. So today's million Euro question is: Do I call Hayden for some self-centered ego-stroking or don't I?

A Rolling Stone Gathers No ... Memories?

Today's Aside:
The Daily Show is quickly becoming one of the most trusted news sources in America. I'd like to hear your thoughts on that, readers.

Nevertheless, Jon Stewart is a hottie.


(Definitely supports Lex's theory, but oh well.) On to today's post.

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I'm spending a little time on the East Coast this week, helping Marco pack his things before the expiration of his visa forces him out of the country. We have two remarkably different styles while doing this. He's a total packrat that hangs on to every little piece of paper, movie ticket stub, receipt, bad photograph, and museum map we've come across in his time here. He shovels them all into suitcases like he can't live without them, even though they've spent the better part of the year gathering dust in his bookcase or on his bulletin board. Then there's me, the cruel and relentless disposer, trimmer of extraneous data fat.

While Marco is at work I sneak through piles of this crap and eliminate things that really don't need to go back overseas (I mean, seriously: do you need a receipt from the gas station we stoppped at for a Coke on our way up to Maine?). He is despondent when he sees me putting his furniture on Craigslist or eBay for under $50 a piece, upset when I insinuate his inefficiency in pruning his collection of "mementos", unsatisfied until he realizes he won't need to pay $150 to check that third suitcase after all.

I get this merciless ability to streamline my life from my mother, I realize. (Marco is much more like my father in that respect). Throughout the tens of times that we've moved around the world, my brother and I feared her for her muck-out mantra: "If you have to think about it, throw it away." Now don't get me wrong - my mother is just about the sweetest person on this Earth - but during moving season she would have us root out all of the excess until, upon her third or fourth inspection, only the essentials were left. Nothing was sacred - not even our impressive collection of stuffed animals when we were younger - and everything had a purpose: clothes we no longer wanted were given to the needy, electronics our young attention spans had discarded were shipped or driven to recycling centers, books we hadn't read in ages were donated to the local library. My mother was building a lean enterprise, and we struggled to adjust, coming up with reasons months in advance to keep certain items marked for disposal. As technology advanced, she started putting items on eBay and Amazon - even once accidentally selling a gorgeous book I had received as a gift from Cian.

Someone once remarked to me when they heard this story that I must have no memories left, and I paused to consider this. As much as my brother and I dreaded the almost yearly mucking of our proverbial stalls, we had always seen it as sort of a farce, screaming in mock horror whenever our mother announced its commencement. There was never any animosity toward her, just the realization that we had to keep track of our things and be that most elusive of qualities: responsible. It made sense: our posessions multiplied like rabbits from one house to the next, and there had to be some sort of process for keeping order. Perhaps foreseeing some sort of perpetual memory loss, my mom and I had made a deal long ago: I got to keep one giant shoebox full of whatever I wanted, as long as it was all in that box, labeled and organized so that it would be easily identifiable and not thrown away by accident.

Last weekend, at my parents' house, I opened that box. It had been years since I'd gone through it - I'd "evolved" while away at university and developed a filing system of my own. Inside were mostly mementos and letters from exes - things my mother had advised me I would want to look back on later in life and read, even though at the time I wanted to do nothing more than burn them. "This is how you learn", she would say. "This is how you see how far you've come. You'll want these when you're 30, trust me."

The bundle I was looking for lay underneath the Valentine's Day cards, the high school prom photos, and the baseballs and mix CDs from my ex. Dozens of identical white envelopes marked self-consciously with the pointy handwriting I so adored. They were addressed all over the world - to almost every place I had lived. He had kept track of me, written me, sent me photographs, always in the same white envelopes. No return address, just his four initials. A whole relationship held together by a single rubber band.

I found that box in under a minute, even amongst the chaos of my parents' new house, and for the first time in my life I was grateful to my mother's insistent spring cleaning ritual. Filtering every 6 months or so had allowed me to distill what was truly important and keep it safe. I had gathered memories - they were just carefully stowed away until further notice.

As I started packing my bag to head back out West, I nestled the bundle of white envelopes safely between my clothes. I would read them when I got back to my apartment, have my emotionally overwhelming moment(s), and move on. I planned to observe this part of my life like I would a time capsule: as an interesting but otherwise irrelevant portion of history. The next morning, as I was trying to help my brother schedule an appointment online, I mentioned that I was going to fly to see Marco. Not having clearly heard me, he exclaimed: "who, Raf? When are you going?" I froze.

San: We're not friends anymore, man. He's married now. His wife hates me.
Lil Bro: So? You guys were friends, like, way before he met her.
San: It didn't work out. I don't know what to tell you.
Lil Bro: That's so dumb. He's a moron. I mean, you're my sister, you know? How can he not love you?
San: He's not a moron he's just.....no, you're right. He's a moron.
Lil Bro: Hey have you seen this website? It's so cool.......blahblahblahblahblah

(my brother has a short attention span)

I walked over to my suitcase and put my hands on my hips. Raf didn't belong anymore. He had chosen to leave my life. He had no business being all over my apartment, making the last year of my education a replay of regrets - pain with which I would punish myself on days when I got too close to happiness. These letters should not be in my suitcase - they needed to be shelved away until I was either old enough to have forgotten him or wise enough to take his memory in stride. But I knew better than to throw them in the trash. "This is how you learn", after all.

I Get By With a Little Help

This weekend I jetted off to see Marco in his timezone and was reminded that United Airlines is the devil.

I was sitting on a 200-seat plane only 30% full and when I attempted to sit in the exit row to give the mom and her kid next to me some space, the flight attendant reminded me that the exit row was reserved for people who paid $39 to sit there. I looked at him incredulously and patiently attempted to explain the economics behind customer retention in a case like this (i.e. why does it matter if I sit here? I'm not robbing anyone of a seat and a little customer service in a case like this might make me use United again), but to no avail. He sent me back to my seat. So there I was, crammed in with two other people when there were 140 other seats open.

It seems to me that United's business model looks a little bit like this:

Zero knowledge of basic economics + Lack of employee empowerment + Underpaid flight attendants = Sucky Airline

Not to mention that getting in and out of airports like Hartsfield, LAX, Newark, and O'Hare is basically a lost cause 93% of the time. (Don't even get me started on Philadelphia or Denver).

Ok, end of United rant.

So...as I was saying, I went to see Marco this weekend. People tend to complain a lot about long distance relationships, and some of those gripes are certainly warranted. On the other hand, I tend to find that it has its positive effects as well. For one, you're always super excited to see the other person on the weekends. Secondly, you tend to find out pretty quickly whether or not you want to be together, since nothing is easier than to just stop calling. It's the perfect out for commitment-phobes. No confrontation. No guilt. No seeing the other person all over town. Just silence. (Pretty shitty, I know. I'm not condoning this as a method, but it's a possibility.)

Since the beginnings of our relationship, Marco and I have gone through various phases: same-city dating, love-nesting, mini-long distance, mid-long distance, and super-long distance. Maybe next year we'll both move back to Europe and find a nice apartment together in a big bustling city so we can take a crack at a life together, but for now we're still flying and time-zone hopping.

I always wonder how it is possible for me to be so happy with Marco and simultaneously feel such grief over Raf. Now, mind you, Marco has known about Raf from the beginning. I'm always very up-front with the person with whom I'm in a relationship in that respect. However, I'm also smart enough to know that sitting around all day complaining about how I miss Raf and feel betrayed is not that great for my relationship. Since the feelings come and go in phases I just tend to let them wash over me and then move on with them properly stowed away.

Raf wrote to me a week before his wedding: "I think about you often - every day, really - and most days I get a lump in my throat." That pretty much sums up how I feel as well. But it's never a lump that prevents me from living my life - it just confuses me enough to blog about it! You must be wondering whether all I do is sit around all day and pine. Luckily that is not the case, although I do have days when I feel like everything I do is marked by Raf's memory. In that sense it's a lot like the death of a loved one - at least that's how it usually feels to me since I have no contact with him and basically zero hope of ever seeing him again.

On the phone with Lex last night, I wondered if losing Raf would've hurt less if I hadn't, well, lost him. If we had just remained friends but faded out of each others' lives over the next 20 years, would it feel the same? Lex posited that it would not - that I would come to terms with it on my own and eventually no longer wake up every day thinking about it. I agree to a certain extent - Raf's departure was made worse by its emotional violence, but that doesn't mean it would have been any better had he still married Ingrid and I'd had to live with her insecurity and control issues (which Alice and Lyla sagely pointed out) for the rest of my life. So, what's better? I guess I'll never know. All I can deal with is the present.

I was standing in the shower with Marco on Sunday, shampooing my hair, when I suddenly felt the water move from just over my head to exactly the right spot on top of it. Then I felt a kiss on my neck. When I opened my eyes, Marco was soaping himself as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Without me saying anything, he had seen that I had been standing far forward in the tub to rinse my hair and had subtly realigned the shower head to make it easier for me. It was such a simple thing to do, yet so emblematic of who he is as a person. Later that day, we drove to the airport:

SaN: I hate leaving you. It always feels so permanent.
Marco: I know - I hate it, too.
SaN: But at least we have a lot more weekends together, right?
Marco: ....and hopefully an entire life.
SaN: *Blush*

It's moments like those two that make me realize that if I hadn't been through all of this bullshit with Raf, I may have never met Marco in the first place. And so, whenever I'm feeling a wee bit too sorry for myself and cursing Raf for breaking my heart, I look up at this wonderful man who takes the time to know how I like my eggs, to tell me the truth about what I look good in, to know what all my little body language cues mean, to indulge my handbag addiction just enough (but still steer me away from the $1,000 Gucci bags in Milan), to figure out how he can get me to like fish, and to adjust the shower head when my face is full of soap. And then I realize how lucky I am - not just to have him, but also to have friends like Cian and Lex who know the difference between a moment of anguish and senseless wallowing and have the kindness to tell me when I've crossed the line between the two.

When I think about these things, a small "thank you" goes up to whatever force compels our universe to keep existing and I know that I will eventually make peace with this storm in my head.

In the meantime, I'll have Raf's photos to remind me of all that was good between us until one day I am able to forgive him.

October Is The Cruellest Month

When you grieve, you're supposed to go through stages: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. Theoretically, when you hit Acceptance you're over most of your anguish and have found some sort of closure and inner peace. With Raf I tend to feel like I bounce around those stages like a pinball in a machine.

Denial -Anger - Anger -Anger - Depression - Anger -Angerangerangerangeranger - Denial - Barbarbarbargaining - Depression - AngerDenial - Extra ball! - Anger - Denial - Denial - Ddddenial.....Bonus! Start again!

On the way home from work two months ago I discovered a rusty silo by the side of the highway on which someone had spray-painted the words "4give YoSelf." The first time I saw that graffiti I started crying while driving at 70 miles per hour. I called Lex and tearfully stammered that I couldn't do it, that I couldn't move on, that I couldn't forgive Raf (much less myself) for all the emotional crimes committed over the last 10 years. I remember weaving through traffic, the picture of hysteria but utterly devoid of energy inside, sobbing "I can't.....I can't.....I can't..." until finally Lex calmed me down.

Today I read another blog - Diary of a Dessert Lover - and Des struck me with the following:

I realize, there comes a time when you have to give up the fight. I think that time comes when the other person has already given up – or expects you to want the relationship to work more than them. Both are bad, in my books.

But I can't do it. I can't let go. Does that make me pathetic or just stubborn? Is there another stage of grief where I will finally be released from this pinball hell into a bittersweet "Game Over"?

Even the city moves on. About two weeks ago I drove by the silo, pretending not to see it but peeking at it in my peripheral vision. The owner had painted right over that bright blue mantra. This time, I straightened up in my seat, called Lex and told him what had happened. Then I surprised myself by saying "you know what, maybe it's time to forgive myself." But Lex was busy at work and the conversation had to be aborted (bless his heart). The next day I fought back tears as I passed the silo.

I am an idiot.

Cian, one of my best friends, once said to me in his terse Irish way: "he's an arse, and you'd never let anyone else treat ya this way. What, has he got magical powers or somthin'?" I couldn't help but laugh. Cian is one of those guys who is hopelessly blunt and cynical yet so unexpectedly warm when you need it most. I've really come to value his friendship as well as his ability to tell me to "stop yer whinin'" over the last two years. Cian's long-term girlfriend left him right before he went to get his PhD only to shack up with one of his best friends, so he's got some valuable experience in the grief stages department. More importantly, for all of his cynical blather and "he's an arse" comments, he knows what it feels like to carry the dismal knowledge that you will never stop loving someone no matter how hard you try or how much time passes.

I often ask myself (as I did above) if I can't give up on Raf simply because I'm delusional or because I'm just plain stubborn. Maybe it's because I can't believe that someone who loved me so passionately for almost a decade now no longer wants to speak to me. Maybe it's the fact that he has always told me the woman to whom he is married was not his first choice. Maybe it's the fact that he once told me "you are the light in my photography." I don't know - or maybe I don't want to know. Like I said, I'm a pinball. I just find it so hard to deal with the fact that I may never speak to him again...

When I was on the phone with Jake the other day, I tried explaining this feeling to him in two segments. I'll try the same thing here, and maybe someone will understand me. First, I feel like I ran out of time. Second, I feel like our last memories of each other are unfairly skewed.

What I mean by this is the following. When Raf and I were younger, we never talked about the possibility of having a relationship together but it was always palpable in the tension between us. As he and I met other people, the hope for that relationship gradually waned but never disappeared. We lived more than 4,000 miles away from each other and were both students trying to finish up our education - first high school, then university, then graduate school. There was an understanding between us that even if we were to be together in the future, nothing would be possible until both of us were (semi)adults with degrees and financial independence.

Right before my third year of university I got a call from Raf. He wanted time to think about his relationship with his girlfriend, Ingrid, but this would mean not talking to me for a while so that he could sort out his feelings for her. I swallowed hard, cleared my throat, and with all of the willpower I possessed I told him I would always be his friend and that he should take whatever time he needed. When he figured it out, I said, I would be here to support whatever decision he made.

The months went by and I headed off to Europe for a year and a half abroad. While I was in the UK I got an email: "Ingrid and I are engaged!" I smiled. Then I cried. Then I smiled again. Raf sounded ecstatic, and I had been blissfully happy with Marco for about 5 months in the meantime. I went through all of the possible "don't do it!" letters in my mind and then sat down over three days to compose a reply. It was short but sweet: "I'm very happy for you. If this is what makes your life complete then I feel at peace. Congratulations!"

Over the next few months I tried to put it out of my head and focus on how happy I was with Marco, but my heart felt confused sometimes. It wasn't until I met Cian that I was able to get my head screwed on straight and sorted out again. "If you love him, you have to let him live his life." Cian was right. I took comfort in having chosen the high road. I would finish my degree, get into graduate school, and start my Masters degree.

Raf and I could be friends - we always had been, and we would be able to navigate whatever new complexities his marriage would bring one day at a time. I would do my utmost to respect Ingrid, who seemed like she just absolutely adored Raf and took very good care of him, even if his feelings for her weren't always of equal strength. I would be an adult and take responsibility for my actions. After all, if I had wanted Raf I should have told him so more definitively, right? You couldn't blame the man for trying to find love with Ingrid.

Around September 2007 things started to go downhill. I got an email from Raf that said "Ingrid and I have broken up. I told her the truth for once. I feel dead inside." Turns out boy genius had never told his lovely wife about me and she had discovered that he sends me quite a lot of emails. She's furious, calling for a divorce, he's begging her to stay. Then he emails me.

I tell him to give her some space and explain the situation to her when she's calmed down. "Whatever you do, do NOT make it sound like she was the backup plan. She is your wife, and she is the most important woman in your life now. You do not throw away a marriage over one argument." I cringed as I hit "send" but felt content about how I handled the situation. After all, I had already resigned myself to Planet Platonic and I wasn't about to let all my hard work stuffing away my emotions go to waste. Plus, I now had almost 2 years going with Marco, who was looking more and more like super gorgeous, knee-weakening, emotionally stable, serenely kind, want-to-have-your-children permanent material.

Ingrid returns, they make up, and Raf emails me a happy "all is well." The next day I send him a text message: "Glad all is well. Love, SaN" Another day after that I get an email in my Inbox from Raf's address. It's from Ingrid. This is great! Now she knows that I'm not a threat - maybe I can even go visit them sometime! Boy am I wrong. Ingrid's email alternates between pleading with me to understand her "situation" and spewing bile and venom like a pro. Half threat, half entreaty, she basically tells me to go to hell but to be sure to empathize with her on the way down there. I'm baffled. What has Raf told her???

I will never get the chance to find out. October 2007 holds the last day of our friendship. On that day, I read Raf's last email to me again and again through a blur of angry tears: "That text message was completely inappropriate.....can't you see your role in bringing this about?......This has to end now.........I am not doing this in anger......." Then it hits me. Over and over again, like a shower of bullets. The rat-tat-tat of his last line spitfires at me:

I do not want to be friends with you anymore.

In one year I would have been done with my education. An adult. Independent. Across the ocean. The finish line was in sight - at long last I would finally be at a point where I would be able to make the biggest decisions of my life. I would be able to see him for the first time in 7 years. We would reminisce and laugh, I would meet Ingrid and all would be well. Eventually, when I got married, he would be there to support me, too. Maybe even photograph the wedding like I'd always hoped.

I felt betrayed and furious. I forwarded the email to Cian and started trembling with rage. FUCK HIM. FUCK HIM!

I had done everything right - I had supported him when he got engaged and when he needed time to think, coached him to prevent his divorce, told him I was happy for him and compartmentalized all of my feelings for him so that they wouldn't interfere with his happiness. Doing all this for him had been the ultimate sacrifice - the utmost test of whether or not my love for Raf was selfless enough to support him as we both grew into our lives.

Now he was telling me that I was expendable? That our friendship meant nothing to him? I couldn't believe this was happening. My thoughts spiraled out of control and I bolted from my apartment and started running. When I stopped, I didn't know where I was. I felt overwhelmed with confusion and rage. This wasn't supposed to happen. I felt dizzy and sat down on the sidewalk. I put my head between my legs and tried to slow my breathing. "This too shall pass, this too shall pass, this too shall pass....." I tried to repeat in my head, but to no avail. I retched. Nothing. I yelped in anguish. No tears. Raf had emptied me of all my emotions and salted the earth left behind with just one email.

My biggest regret of the way things ended will forever be that Raf gets to remember me as the woman who adored him, admired him, and always missed him. My last memory of him, however, will be the grenade he launched on the piece of my soul that harbored him. He will always be able to tell himself that this was "what needed to be done", whereas I will live out my days wondering what error I committed to merit such a unilateral and vicious demotion.

I've tried to hate him, but I cannot.
I've tried to forget him, but I cannot.
I've tried to give up the fight, but I cannot.
I've tried to forgive him, but I cannot.
I've tried to forgive myself, but I cannot.

Part of me is thus indefinitely in repair while the rest of me navigates my perfect life with my perfect job, my perfect degrees, my perfect family, and my perfect boyfriend with ease.

I am somehow defective.

I am drowning.

Help...