I've been dreaming about Raf a lot lately. So far, I'm unable to put my finger on what triggers these episodes of frequent Raf appearances. It doesn't seem to be connected to my being stressed, or relaxed, or any other mood I'm in. Often, I'll have the most vivid dreams about Raf when I'm perfectly happy and thriving.
The other day, someone asked me whether I frequently remember my dreams, or whether I seem to only dream of Raf. Excellent question! As we all know, everyone dreams all the time. The trouble is that your brain suffers a type of amnesia when it wakes up from its coma-like state. So it only seems like you dream every once in a while. I happen to remember my dreams quite frequently, and they are much-varied and plentiful. So while I tend to only report Raf dreams on this blog, have no fear: my subconscious has another life!
When I first received Raf's end-of-friendship email (wow, typing that makes me realize again how cowardly it is to end a 10-year friendship by email. By fucking email! ), I frequently dreamed about things that had already happened. In those scenarios, Raf and I would be talking at our present ages in situations we had been in when we were younger. On a camp porch, a grassy hill, a raft, my house, etc. We were always talking, always discussing things past but also debating the future. When I found out about The Kid, my dreams switched to scenes of me seeing Raf (and sometimes Ingrid) from afar, but always walking away or waking up before I got to speak to him.
Recently my dreams have taken a dramatic shift. The Kid is now nearly two years old (which makes me realize how old and pathetic I am for still dreaming about Raf to begin with), and I've just had my first dream in which I interact with Raf again. Yet somehow the interaction is not direct - it's a bit difficult to explain. In this recent dream, I am somehow part of Raf and Ingrid's household (a visitor, a guest, a nanny?). I am holding The Kid almost at all times. Raf is instructing me to do things, but he is almost talking past me as if he is actually speaking to someone behind me. Yet every time I turn around, embarrassed, to see to whom he is speaking, there is nobody behind me. Ingrid hovers vaguely in the background in a non-threatening way. My feelings toward her are neutral, as if she does not truly exist but is a piece of furniture in the room.
Needless to say, I have no idea what to make of this pile of garbled snatches.
The only thing I am sure of is that my dreams have not given up trying to process what my conscious self has worked hard at letting go. I guess I'm cool with that, as long as the dreams don't become too distressing or frequent.
Maybe Raf is slowly moving through different parts of my brain, being corralled into the part where you store the long-term memories you only think about once every 5 years. Corralled by my subconscious sheepdog, cleaning my brain, making room for new dreams about people who add value to my life.
But before I dismiss all my dreams as frivolous mixed tapes of a confused past, know this:
The Kid is a girl, just as I dreamed.
Showing posts with label Ingrid. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ingrid. Show all posts
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
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?
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?
Friday, December 19, 2008
Rehab
Today was a pinball kind of day. Rihanna just came out with a new song that puts me about 2 years behind schedule in terms of coping with the loss of Raf and has aptly titled it "Rehab." Every time I hear it, I feel my heart harden and my jaw clench. I wait for the emotional blow to hit me about 3/4 of the way through the song and let out a sigh of epic proportions when it's over. Lex knows not to ask questions. YouTube won't let me embed the song, but you can check out the video here (ignore the ludicrous video.) The last couple of seconds (4:32+) aptly capture the expression I most often use when I feel Raf's memory surround me.
Why does grief come over us in waves? Is it the result of the brain's compartmentalization, or is it a sign of unprocessed emotions? Am I putting myself through unnecessary guilt when I let my mind drift over the well-known landscape of regret and nostalgia, or am I experiencing mental indigestion because I'm incapable of correctly processing pain? I wonder what Jake's wife would have to say about this.
Speaking of Jake, I got an email from him a couple of days ago in reference to the Master Plan I recently wrote about:
Hi San,
Since reading your latest blog post, I feel like a klutz. The letter I've been writing is to you, not Raf. In your last post you said I was writing him the epic, but what I will say to Raf will be pretty short. In an ideal world he'll be inspired to say something like the email you inspired me to write to Maria* - and I meant what I wrote her - which was a short explanation and has definitely made that relationship a big positive. I have you to thank for that. Ach...forgive me, I'm an idiot. The MP as you put it (which sounds manipulative) is in the works, but the letter's to you...
I am now up to date with your blog. Great writing, you could do well as a writer. I only realised once I got to November that the most recent posts are at the top...I started at the end of each month and read to the beginning.
Jake
Hmmm. I am most curious about this letter. He tends to be very insightful. It also got me thinking: what is going to say to Raf? Moreover, maybe it was time to start thinking about what exactly it is that I want from Raf in an ideal situation.
As I was contemplating these things, my phone buzzed. Blackberrys are amazing things, aren't they? They keep track of your email, your contacts, photos, music, and best of all: painful calendar reminders you'd rather forget. Thank you, Blackberry, for reminding me that December 2nd is Raf's anniversary. Thank you so very much. Perhaps you can also remind me that his child (which he neglected to tell me about) was born in September? Oh no wait, I'll remember that one on my own: it's about a week after my OWN birthday. Thank you, brain. You and Blackberry have been most excellent ninja memory assassins today. It's a good thing they haven't invented a Blackberry chip you can implant in your brain yet, because you can't throw a chip embedded in your cranium against the wall when your eyes well up with anger.
In other news, Hayden's father has put his gorgeous canal house on the market. I imagine this must be a pretty painful experience - downsizing because you're lonely even though that means leaving behind the last thing your wife did before she died: decorate and furnish that house. I was back in Europe for my second round (the one that got me the job) but didn't get in touch with him. When I got back to the States, I texted him saying: "Hey, I was in town but didn't have time to stop by. Next time, maybe. Hope you're well." No response, unsurprisingly.
That was in September. Flash forward a few months. Marco and I are about to start looking for apartments in January. Needless to say, irony felt it necessary to make sure all of the ones available and with decent parking are located exactly in the same neighborhood as Hayden's new place. Ah, yes. Well played, Lady Irony. Well played.
A question occurred to me recently while reading Raf's letters (yes, I ended up bringing them back with me from my parents' house. Bad girl, I know.)
Did he take advantage of me?
It's possible - the four-year age gap was significant when we met. But aside from our intense and prolonged bout of kissing during his visit there was no intimate physical contact to speak of, so that rules out motivation by sex. But what about emotional (ab)use?
I recently theorized that Raf took advantage of me emotionally at a time when I was vulnerable to losing my own emotional identity by being his crutch. This is based mostly on the blush of embarrassment I feel when reading our fervent correspondence from that time period, but I recall it as being nothing short of genuine on both our parts at the time of its unfolding. Certainly a teenage boy with nothing but sex on the brain would not take the trouble to cultivate an 8-year, emotionally intimate relationship with someone half a world away? There would be a virtual guarantee of no physical satisfaction, not to mention millions of other options in his home country.
As I do almost every week, I re-read Ingrid's angry email to me demanding my exit from Raf's existence, trying to glean some sort of truth in her venom. Even her hateful assessment of the situation certainly makes it seem like our bond was real.
The question Jake inspired remains: what do I want from Raf? An explanation? An apology? A friendship? The answer is so hard to pinpoint. Maybe there comes a time in grief where you're too far gone to want to go back. At what point do the wounds of bitterness and anger soften into the faint, throbbing pain of nostalgia? When have you buried and wept over enough pieces of your shattered heart to resent a perpetrator's effort to come back and help you dig them up? And if that desire goes away, why don't the emotional thorns?
Maybe that's the feeling of wisdom taking root in my soul...
*Explanation to follow at a later date (when I figure out what the hell he's referring to - my memory does not match my apparent wisdom. Oops!)
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
And Then There Were Three
I received an email from Jake this week that said:
Yo San,
Haven't forgotten you...actually I'm thinking about writing a letter, which we all know will take me several months and almost be worth waiting for. Hope things are good and you haven't had too much snow!
Jake
That letter will almost certainly never be completed, but it's a nice thought. Unfortunately, Jake belongs to the variety of men who are terrible at correspondence, completing to-do lists, or....er...wait, maybe that's all men? Anyway, best not to get my hopes up.
My weekend out in California went well, except for the fact that Lex got himself mixed up in some freaky (and by the look on his face on the plane ride back, entirely regrettable) threesome in San Francisco while I was in Sacramento. Go figure. The man is a sexual deviant. I've promised to let him guest blog about it if there's enough demand.
By the way - HOLY SHIT HOW BEAUTIFUL IS SAN FRANCISCO? I feel a bit silly admitting that I had never been until this past weekend, but it was absolutely breathtaking. I can see why it makes lifers out of so many Americans.
As I've noted before, Jake's historical allure had worn off a bit since our phone call back in July. Where I had once felt a compelling urge to go seek him out in order to find some peace in my head, I now felt disappointment in knowing that even he looked at me askance when relaying my Raf story. Then again, I hadn't told him the whole deal. I hadn't told him about the kiss.
Flashback
The year 2000. I'm standing at the train station, tugging at my red, long-sleeved shirt. I shouldn't have worn it today - it always makes me sweat. I would have been late had my mom not finally put the kibosh on my agonizing between cornflower blue and bordeaux. "You're beautiful - stop with the micromanaging!" she had said. She was right. Still, I'm regretting my choice of outfit. Will he think I'm pretty? Thin enough? Perfect enough? Did I look like I was trying too hard, standing there in the cool autumn breeze in my long black peacoat, a scarf carelessly flung around my neck only because my mother had said "It's too cold to be wearing THAT!"?
Damn it. The train is late. I hated tardiness. It drove me crazy and went against all of my Type-A instincts. Didn't they know what today was? Didn't they understand that of all the trains in America, only this one would determine the rest of my emotional life? Raf is on that train.
Suddenly it's here - the thundering hoofbeat of a thousand mechanical horses. It hisses and squeals to a stop, passing me with a whoosh of diesel and metal sparks. I have to run to catch up to the last car. There are too many people - I can't see! What if he's not there? What if he decided he didn't want to come? What if.....
He's a hundred feet away. A hundred lousy feet. His eyes meet mine and he gives a half-wave. Suddenly I'm self conscious. How do I look? Should I walk over or stand on the platform waiting? Holy shit - a hundred feet. From an ocean to a hundred feet - is this even real? Seems like I've been waiting so long to see him that it can't be. All those letters he wrote me, and now... a hundred feet.
I start to walk toward him awkwardly. Stay cool. Stay cool. Stay....FUCK THIS! I start running, hair flying in the wind. He's running now, too, his giant backpack almost pulling him off-balance with every stride. We crash into each other, laughing, hug awkwardly, and don't let go. I can't believe he's here. A wave of relief comes over me as I pull away and look into his familiar face. Still the same. Comfortable. Warm. Right.
We pass our first day both like old friends and like new lovers: comfortable but weirdly shy around each other. As the sky goes dark we head to our respective rooms on the second floor of my parents' house. I dawdle around the hall, hoping to find a private moment to say goodnight, but soon I run out of excuses to still be awake (you can only brush your teeth so many times, after all.) I lie in bed, tossing and turning. I can't get my mind off Raf. I want to know what it was like, seeing me again. Is he happy to be here? Is it everything he imagined it would be?
Finally, I hop out of bed and creep into the hall. I have to be near him. When I get to his door, I pause. This is stupid. And childish. He's probably asleep. I sneak back across the hall - each floorboard squeaking too loudly for my self-conscious taste. As I turn the knob to shut my door I hear another squeak. It can't....no.....can it? My heart beating audibly now, I stand breathlessly in the darkness as I hear tentative footsteps draw closer.
The knob turns and it feels like an eternity. Raf hesitates before he pushes open the bedroom door. I'm frozen in the middle of my room. What do I do? He walks toward me, feeling his way in the moonless night. "I...I wanted to talk to you.....I......" I stammer. "I know. I don't know what to say...." he replies. I can hear him breathing now, smell his skin in the inky air. He stands millimeters away without touching me. "I....I've missed.....you...." I manage to say, now almost breathless with anticipation. His breath grazes my face. I shudder. "I...."
My sentence goes unsaid. His mouth touches mine and my thoughts go blank. It is perfect. It is how I imagined it would be. It is.....it just IS.
-------------------------
I'm lucky. When Jake picks me up from San Francisco, his wife is on a client call (she's a psychologist). Don't get me wrong - she's lovely - but it's a lot easier discussing this with him in private seeing as I barely know her. On the car ride to Sacramento I debate holding back parts of the story but eventually decide against it. Full disclosure is the way to go, I figure.
As I'm winding down my epic and Jake starts asking me questions mostly in the vein of "how do you feel about that?", I can't help but feel a bit betrayed. Here I was, baring my soul to someone I hadn't seen in a decade, and yet he was giving me some sort of psychoanalytical bullshit! This sucked. As the weekend wore on, however, Jake started to realize that this was really eating away at me and changed his approach. I felt grateful and nostalgic: these were the kinds of conversations we used to have all the time, and I was glad we had re-discovered them.
We drove out to Lake Tahoe on Saturday to watch the salmon spawning.
After taking in our share of the mating action (very Discovery Channel, by the way) we headed down to the Oktoberfest going on in the town next to the lake. As we watched children hula-hoop and browsed some of the arts and crafts stalls, Jake's wife suddenly said: "ooh, I want to look at the pictures over there!" Landscapes. Dozens upon dozens of them. As I stood looking at one riverbed shot in particular, my memories got the better of me and my eyes welled up. I swallowed hard. Why did Raf's memory have to follow me everywhere? Why did it have to be a part of everything I did? Why is it that to this day, every brilliant blue sky reminds me of him?
"What kind of landscapes does Raf do?" Jake asked, suddenly flanking me. "All kinds", I hoarsely replied, quickly blinking away the evidence of my nostalgic weakness. "Mostly Namibia and South Africa." I added. Jake nodded, clearly regretting the question as he eyed my reaction. "I'm....going to look at something else." I quickly added, then bolted toward the wrought-iron mug display.
Flying home, Lex asked me if I was happy that I had talked to Jake. I nodded, resting my head on his shoulder. In spite of my initial trepidations, I felt relieved to have had someone who knew Raf to talk to. My visit, all in all, had been a success.
After I got Jake's email, I went on Facebook to reply to his message. As I started typing my response, I froze. Raf had left a message on his wall:
Hello hello! Sounds like you are having a fine time! I'd love to live in California... Ingrid and i were there last year for a couple of weeks, she shares the sentiment! Hopefully one day we'll also be able to visit camp. We became parents three weeks ago, so currently future planning doesn't go much further than the next nappy change... Good to hear from you!
Of course.
Yo San,
Haven't forgotten you...actually I'm thinking about writing a letter, which we all know will take me several months and almost be worth waiting for. Hope things are good and you haven't had too much snow!
Jake
That letter will almost certainly never be completed, but it's a nice thought. Unfortunately, Jake belongs to the variety of men who are terrible at correspondence, completing to-do lists, or....er...wait, maybe that's all men? Anyway, best not to get my hopes up.
My weekend out in California went well, except for the fact that Lex got himself mixed up in some freaky (and by the look on his face on the plane ride back, entirely regrettable) threesome in San Francisco while I was in Sacramento. Go figure. The man is a sexual deviant. I've promised to let him guest blog about it if there's enough demand.
By the way - HOLY SHIT HOW BEAUTIFUL IS SAN FRANCISCO? I feel a bit silly admitting that I had never been until this past weekend, but it was absolutely breathtaking. I can see why it makes lifers out of so many Americans.
As I've noted before, Jake's historical allure had worn off a bit since our phone call back in July. Where I had once felt a compelling urge to go seek him out in order to find some peace in my head, I now felt disappointment in knowing that even he looked at me askance when relaying my Raf story. Then again, I hadn't told him the whole deal. I hadn't told him about the kiss.
Flashback
The year 2000. I'm standing at the train station, tugging at my red, long-sleeved shirt. I shouldn't have worn it today - it always makes me sweat. I would have been late had my mom not finally put the kibosh on my agonizing between cornflower blue and bordeaux. "You're beautiful - stop with the micromanaging!" she had said. She was right. Still, I'm regretting my choice of outfit. Will he think I'm pretty? Thin enough? Perfect enough? Did I look like I was trying too hard, standing there in the cool autumn breeze in my long black peacoat, a scarf carelessly flung around my neck only because my mother had said "It's too cold to be wearing THAT!"?
Damn it. The train is late. I hated tardiness. It drove me crazy and went against all of my Type-A instincts. Didn't they know what today was? Didn't they understand that of all the trains in America, only this one would determine the rest of my emotional life? Raf is on that train.
Suddenly it's here - the thundering hoofbeat of a thousand mechanical horses. It hisses and squeals to a stop, passing me with a whoosh of diesel and metal sparks. I have to run to catch up to the last car. There are too many people - I can't see! What if he's not there? What if he decided he didn't want to come? What if.....
He's a hundred feet away. A hundred lousy feet. His eyes meet mine and he gives a half-wave. Suddenly I'm self conscious. How do I look? Should I walk over or stand on the platform waiting? Holy shit - a hundred feet. From an ocean to a hundred feet - is this even real? Seems like I've been waiting so long to see him that it can't be. All those letters he wrote me, and now... a hundred feet.
I start to walk toward him awkwardly. Stay cool. Stay cool. Stay....FUCK THIS! I start running, hair flying in the wind. He's running now, too, his giant backpack almost pulling him off-balance with every stride. We crash into each other, laughing, hug awkwardly, and don't let go. I can't believe he's here. A wave of relief comes over me as I pull away and look into his familiar face. Still the same. Comfortable. Warm. Right.
We pass our first day both like old friends and like new lovers: comfortable but weirdly shy around each other. As the sky goes dark we head to our respective rooms on the second floor of my parents' house. I dawdle around the hall, hoping to find a private moment to say goodnight, but soon I run out of excuses to still be awake (you can only brush your teeth so many times, after all.) I lie in bed, tossing and turning. I can't get my mind off Raf. I want to know what it was like, seeing me again. Is he happy to be here? Is it everything he imagined it would be?
Finally, I hop out of bed and creep into the hall. I have to be near him. When I get to his door, I pause. This is stupid. And childish. He's probably asleep. I sneak back across the hall - each floorboard squeaking too loudly for my self-conscious taste. As I turn the knob to shut my door I hear another squeak. It can't....no.....can it? My heart beating audibly now, I stand breathlessly in the darkness as I hear tentative footsteps draw closer.
The knob turns and it feels like an eternity. Raf hesitates before he pushes open the bedroom door. I'm frozen in the middle of my room. What do I do? He walks toward me, feeling his way in the moonless night. "I...I wanted to talk to you.....I......" I stammer. "I know. I don't know what to say...." he replies. I can hear him breathing now, smell his skin in the inky air. He stands millimeters away without touching me. "I....I've missed.....you...." I manage to say, now almost breathless with anticipation. His breath grazes my face. I shudder. "I...."
My sentence goes unsaid. His mouth touches mine and my thoughts go blank. It is perfect. It is how I imagined it would be. It is.....it just IS.
-------------------------
I'm lucky. When Jake picks me up from San Francisco, his wife is on a client call (she's a psychologist). Don't get me wrong - she's lovely - but it's a lot easier discussing this with him in private seeing as I barely know her. On the car ride to Sacramento I debate holding back parts of the story but eventually decide against it. Full disclosure is the way to go, I figure.
As I'm winding down my epic and Jake starts asking me questions mostly in the vein of "how do you feel about that?", I can't help but feel a bit betrayed. Here I was, baring my soul to someone I hadn't seen in a decade, and yet he was giving me some sort of psychoanalytical bullshit! This sucked. As the weekend wore on, however, Jake started to realize that this was really eating away at me and changed his approach. I felt grateful and nostalgic: these were the kinds of conversations we used to have all the time, and I was glad we had re-discovered them.
We drove out to Lake Tahoe on Saturday to watch the salmon spawning.
After taking in our share of the mating action (very Discovery Channel, by the way) we headed down to the Oktoberfest going on in the town next to the lake. As we watched children hula-hoop and browsed some of the arts and crafts stalls, Jake's wife suddenly said: "ooh, I want to look at the pictures over there!" Landscapes. Dozens upon dozens of them. As I stood looking at one riverbed shot in particular, my memories got the better of me and my eyes welled up. I swallowed hard. Why did Raf's memory have to follow me everywhere? Why did it have to be a part of everything I did? Why is it that to this day, every brilliant blue sky reminds me of him?
"What kind of landscapes does Raf do?" Jake asked, suddenly flanking me. "All kinds", I hoarsely replied, quickly blinking away the evidence of my nostalgic weakness. "Mostly Namibia and South Africa." I added. Jake nodded, clearly regretting the question as he eyed my reaction. "I'm....going to look at something else." I quickly added, then bolted toward the wrought-iron mug display.
Flying home, Lex asked me if I was happy that I had talked to Jake. I nodded, resting my head on his shoulder. In spite of my initial trepidations, I felt relieved to have had someone who knew Raf to talk to. My visit, all in all, had been a success.
After I got Jake's email, I went on Facebook to reply to his message. As I started typing my response, I froze. Raf had left a message on his wall:
Hello hello! Sounds like you are having a fine time! I'd love to live in California... Ingrid and i were there last year for a couple of weeks, she shares the sentiment! Hopefully one day we'll also be able to visit camp. We became parents three weeks ago, so currently future planning doesn't go much further than the next nappy change... Good to hear from you!
Of course.
Monday, August 4, 2008
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.
Friday, August 1, 2008
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...
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...
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