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?
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 Aliceand 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 Iwill 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.
How much do people really change? When my friends run out of patience with the Raf situation (bless their hearts), they inevitably turn to the phrase "people change" as a conclusion, and understandably so. I find myself asking the same questions over and over again - so much so that my poor roommate Lex has memorized the answers in spite of his most valiant efforts to constantly redeploy his empathy.
SaN: Do you think he'll ever write me again? Lex: Maybe. Eventually. SaN: Do you think he hates me? Lex: No. I think he's afraid of the impact you have on his life. SaN: How can he do this? How can almost a decade of friendship not matter to him? Lex: It does matter to him. He's just trying to get by in his own world and you were collateral damage. He had to make a choice.
When we are faced with a situation in which another human being inexplicably betrays the trust created by a close bond, we are left feeling blindsided - wondering how we couldn't see such a thing coming. As blissfully uncomplicated as men can sometimes be, Raf's complexity has baffled me from day one.
I suppose the irony of this blasted situation is that for the longest time, it was Raf who had the stronger feelings for me as opposed to vice versa. Now, in my twenties, I am left feeling like I ran out of time to reciprocate and as a result am hemorrhaging my emotions into the vacuum left by his departure. I berate myself often:
- Did I not take his feelings seriously enough? - Was I not expressive enough with my feelings? - Was I so vain that I thought his adoration would last forever? - Did I ever really think that we could make it work, or did I just like the attention? - Did I lead him on? - Did I do enough to let him know he was important to me? - Did I drive him toward a placeholder instead of giving him the freedom to find someone he really loves? (More on this later)
There's a great song called Hold You Down by a band named JUMP. Their discovery is about the only good thing my psychotic ex Ryan ever contributed to my life. That, and the ability to definitively tell the assholes from the good guys for the rest of eternity.
The lyrics discuss the effects of paradigm shift (seeing the same issue from a different perspective).
Was I watching over you? Or watching you fall apart? Did I lend a hand to hold you down? Or just a hand to hold? Did I pull the wool over your eyes? Or keep you from the cold? In every look upon your face There was an element of grace Did I read between the lines? Or erase...?
The snippet above pretty much describes the constant state of questioning in which I find myself - did I do good or evil in my friendship with Raf? Did I damage him with uncertainty? Did he finally just decide to cut his losses and exit with what dignity he had left?
Throughout our friendship I always had long-term boyfriends while Raf bounced around from one 3-month stint to the next. I would consistently get emails that extolled the virtues of one girl only to receive a follow-up declaring that it was over. He was restless, nomadic, and victim to a self-described incompleteness. This sense of purposelessness, coupled with his family's reticence to accept his desired vocation, made for quite the quarter-life crisis as we headed into the new millennium, now firmly bound to each other by unwavering loyalty and implicit understanding.
Photography was Raf's escape from the world's negativity. It was the one place where he could feel at peace and, most importantly, be good at something. To this day I am so proud and grateful to have been part of the force that compelled this kind of talent to firmly anchor his proverbial stake in the ground and tell his father he was going to follow his passion. (See below)
Back in the day we used to talk about the kind of photographic subjects Raf would pursue if given the chance. His answer was always the same: people. Ironically, what he has ended up specializing in is landscape photography. Why is this ironic, you say...?
...time for another Flashback.
It's a good thing Raf has shaved his head this year, or he wouldn't be able to strap on the helmet he's just been handed. I almost didn't recognize him coming down the long gravel driveway a week ago and might have walked clear past him had he not called my name from 50 feet away and started running toward me the instant my Keds-clad feet had hit the dirt.
In the meantime, we're being informed of the safety procedures of whitewater rafting. As I'm trying to get Raf's attention from across the gazebo, he motions sternly for me to pay attention to the woman explaining what to do in the event of a man-overboard situation. "On your back, feet up and pointed downstream, grab the closest possible oar, make sure you get pulled into the raft on your stomach, not your back. DO NOT STAND UP IN THE CURRENT." Check, check, check. Got it.
We are dismissed, and I strap myself into a damp life jacket. This is going to be awesome. I clamber into an eight-person inflatable raft with Raf at the helm. As we make our way down the first couple of Class II rapids I feel an icy splash at my back. I look behind me to see Raf holding the neon orange bail bucket and sporting an I-dare-you-to-retaliate grin. I glower at him and vow revenge. My opportunity strikes quickly - at the next eddy I "accidentally" over-paddle and catch him fully in the face with my backsplash. Excellent! We continue down the river, laughing and dousing each other in the freezing water, which is a welcome repast from the afternoon heat. The sun catches Raf's eyes and they prism into an array of hidden colors. He flashes me a smile that hangs in the space between mischief and tenderness.
Suddenly his face turns to horror as I'm flying through the air. I crash into the water and my world goes into slow motion.
My mouth is full of water. My body feels paralyzed. Where am I? My head goes under but the life jacket buoys me back up to the surface of the raging water. My limbs are numb from the cold. I am floating above myself in third person, compelling myself to swim. "Closest oar...downstream..." Adrenaline ordered by my brain finally reaches my body and my feet shoot up out of the water. Do not stand up, SaN, or the current will take you down and drown you. I spot the yellow raft and starting swimming for what seems like miles. An oar touches my fingertips. Raf. I latch on and let him pull me toward the raft. Then my mind goes numb. I emerge from my brief trance to Raf shouting my name. I don't understand what he wants. My hands have no feeling in them. I look down at my whitened knuckles. Why can't I move? Raf kneels over the edge of the raft, and I see his lips form the word "oar" over and over again. My mind has trouble parsing his words. What does he want me to do? His hands grab my life jacket and pull me toward him. "LET.GO.OF.THE.OAR!" I comply, and with one heave he has me back in the raft, soaked and shivering.
Raf: You alright, then? SaN: Mmm-hmm Raf: You eejit - don't scare me like that! SaN: (...)
(...)
He was scared?
It's official: ravenous butterflies have set up shop and are making a meal out of my innards.
Later, as we browse the gift shop and flip through the souvenir photos of our raft, I spot a photography book. I flip it open and become engrossed in the images. Over my shoulder I hear a snort of derision. "Landscapes." He's back to being himself. "I like them", I tell him. Raf walks off and becomes interested in something else, but I can't take my eyes off the book.
On my birthday that year I get a package postmarked eight weeks earlier from halfway around the world. I open it and start laughing. Landscapes.
As the afternoon turns to dusk we walk back to the bus, still damp from the water but no longer shivering. Raf and I break into a run, racing each other to the parking lot. About halfway there we stop and look at each other for no good reason. He motions in the low sun and I give my silent assent.
I jump on his back and drape my arms around his shoulders.
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