I did it. I severed the bind. Cut it with clean, sharp scissors. Had I been hoping for dull ones? Some that would make the cutting long and tedious? Instead, I was given a clean snip. Done. Over. Unintentionally, but for the better.
In a sweeping moment, it was all over. Hitting send was not a concern. I just did it. No twice thinking, no hesitation. I wondered, too, what I should do about Facebook. I left it as it was. I didn’t know what to do, so I did nothing.
Crying silently, I walked home with Madison and parted with her to go up and cry in my room.
Alone.
I had stepped a muddied boot into a clear puddle, and no longer could I see myself. No longer could I see what I really wanted. But I had knotted the end of a tattered cord. We now could either start another or leave it at that. An end was just a technical necessity. Even though it broke his heart and sent him spiraling into fear. Terror, I would say.
“I’ll die if I don’t get to talk to you.”
But I ignored him. He wouldn’t die. I’d come home in 33 days and find him alive – maybe just not well. He needs to suffer and think over what he has done. I needed to shock him awake with an icy bath in his bed this morning. I could no longer be left unheard. The dissatisfaction would have killed us both later if not soon enough.
Later, I got online to study for a test. He was there, frantic and afraid. Spewing words and sentences without thought. Some sweet, some embittered. I let him talk. I let him beg. But I was calm and firm in my responses. I didn’t ask, I told. I politely demanded. We worked out the technicalities. Are we broken up? N…n…n…yes. We are. I need that. I felt the earth shudder beneath him, a broken heart fallen like a heavy stone – in two heavy pieces. He asked – he begged – me to read one last letter. And then he’d leave me be for as long as I needed. I complied.
Rife with errors and other grievances. Desperate and grasping. I let him grope. I saved it in a file. And then I closed it, promising myself that it would be the last one I opened and the last one I closed. Because the next 30 days are mine to live without interruption, without consideration for anyone else’s needs but my own.
And if one day I need to take a year off, I’ll take that year. Because I can’t be my best for anyone else, if I’m not my best for me.
The silence feels good. This kind of love feels good – this free from guilt kind of love. This distanced love. This love that walks ten steps behind me. I don’t need to turn around to make sure it’s keeping pace. It’s just there. Lovely and there. Not nagging, not tired. Just giving me my space – just letting me walk alone down the road, across the streets without holding my hand. It isn’t forlorn. We walk on no guilt trips to anywhere. We’re just happy apart. Taking our time. And taking the day. Taking the night, too, to sleep in different beds – to love the cold and emptiness of a bed just for me. Without room for another, not even a dream.
What if I get used to this? What if I enjoy letting go of the sweaty palm, so that I can cup flowers and faces in both my hands? I love the free spirit that lifts my heel. That runs with me. That lets me go. To be watched from a distant point, knowing – knowing doubtlessly – that I’ll come back. Just let me walk the path before I bring you along, too. I don’t like the suggestion of fear, you at my hip, arm around me. I am fearless, to walk forward alone – to punctuate the darker places with my presence. To scream alone and let no one come save me. I like this – to stick my fingers into black holes and hope that they come out attached. I like the carelessness – making life an obligation to live freely, fairly, wonderfully for myself, for my life’s sake. I don’t need forewarnings about things I know the reality of already. I don’t need opinions, or even second opinions. I don’t need debates. I don’t need Security Council meetings. Because I’m well aware and better aware of the direful consequences of free and unhampered action. I know how dangerous words can be. I know how stupid bravery can be.
But there is nothing stupider than thwarting the passions of youth. If I kill them now, they’ll be dead forever. If I let them bloom, if I let them flourish, they may be with me from now until I die or they may wither slowly with age. But no matter what and no matter where they go later, I want them now. I need them now.
I’ve been wild since I came out, a screaming alien draped in a young and loving mother’s juices. The fatherless skinny baby with black hair and blue eyes – and only an entire family to call me perfect in all my ways. The five frog fingers on each hand; the ten monkey toes in total. They loved me wonderfully, they loved me holistically. They gave me manners and religion, but even those they never enforced. The only thing enforced was love – the purposeful reinforcement of all my innate things. They loved me for my laugh. For the way I hid behind doors when I got mad. They loved me for my (physical) inability to share. They loved me for my ungenerous affection. They loved me for my naughty attitude. They loved me like a freak loves a meaningless piece of contemporary art. There would be some that wouldn’t call it what its creator said it was. But they did – they saw the art in who I was from the beginning and who I morphed into until now.
They grew me proud. They grew me mine. They grew me to love me – no matter the shapes I took or the colors I painted myself. They grew me to know what I deserved – what men could never give but would always offer. They grew me to know me and to abide by the rules that my Self dictated to me. They grew me, and they never tamed me. They encouraged me to be and love the Wild raw thing inside.
It was easy to run away from the others. They gave more than I wanted even though I gave none. They made me feel queenly and regal, draping me in capes of gold and purple colors. It was nice to be adored. But I never needed it. And I never wanted it for long. Sitting on thrones and making rules – it wasn’t for me. Where I came from, there were no rules, only wind. And so I went – with it. Back to the uncivilized freedom of barefoot feet and stubborn hair to match a stubborn heart. I had a heart made of leather, and they a heart of glass. There was a carelessness in my attitude – dropping hearts without second thought, leaving before I could hear them shatter.
It was neat while it lasted. Fingers interlocked and silent nights. But it wasn’t enough to keep me from running away. Sit Down, Stay Awhile, never meant more than an hour or two. It was hardly long enough for me to take my coat off. And the one time I did, I left a few minutes later without it.
I refused love like I had an allergy to it.
No, no, no, really, I’m fine – don’t trouble yourself.
They set it on the table anyway (for just in case purposes?). I talked to them and let it sit there, untouched. I might have forked through it a bit to make it seem I had more interest than I did. I didn’t want to be rude.
Let me get you a drink with that, they’d say and go.
To come back to an empty chair and a fork in the heart they had left for me to love.
Even after I found a home, I still wished I could refuse the cannibalism again and again – just to hurt them, just to force them to eat themselves – to put their hearts back behind its cold boney bars. It was probably better in there anyway. The guest room in me was probably colder than the lonely cell within themselves.
And that was because I was using up all the heat in the main part of the house – my part, my heart. I needed it to beat with me while I ran. I needed the muscle strong and ever-ready to run, to just go. And go far away.
While I ran, I found him. Lying, casually, as if we had an appointment and he was early.
Had it been anyone else, and I would have kept running, slower perhaps – to ask wordlessly for a chase. But I stopped instantly in my pathless path. He smiled expectantly. And without preliminary conversation, we walked together.
He cleaned up my foul mouth. He combed gentle fingers through my tangled hair. He fell in love with my poetry and the muscles in my legs. We fell in love simultaneously. The only exception to past affairs. It was, with us, a halfway meeting. Romeo and Juliet – completely and utterly not meant to be together but wanting no one else and nothing more. It was dangerous loving, and little did I then know. He knew, and tiptoed cautiously by my side, hiding in my shadows or hiding me in his. We could only be seen together at night, with hushed voices, hands and lips for words.
He taught me manners through example. He held my hand against gentle, calloused palms with sweet fingers. He cut off my unrefined and reckless words with his lips. He was lovely and genuine, a calm soul with promises he would keep. He was the only one I ever let guide me because he did it so subtly. With tender finger prints he smoothed the nicks the Wild had given me. And he did it as though he just wanted to touch me. Only out of love, and some affection too.
I fell in love with his sweet soul and the way he loved me.
Enough to let him, for a long, long time.
It is inherent, though, this restless feeling. The irony in his name. Reston. Rest on. Stay Awhile. When really, I just want to run away – sometimes alone, sometimes with him. When really, I just want him to let me run away because he knows I’ll come back, and he knows that I’m never really gone. No matter how far away I go. I want him to let me go – into darkness, into depth, into frightening places – because I need to go there. I want him to let me learn, to let me be. I want him to love the wild in me, that untameable, unnameable, unmanageable Thing.
I just want to be boundless.
He put up fences, because he’s Afraid. That I won’t come back because I’ve been stolen by interest in something else or death.
It’s weirdly liberating not to want to talk to him. I have sequestered a most ardent desire to give him my time – all the time I can. And that, in itself, is a feat beyond laudability. I’m proud of me. Amen. It isn’t that I wouldn’t like to talk to him; it’s that I’m not allowed and therefore I just don’t have the want to. Because I can’t. So there’s no use wanting it.
His letter was sweet. I knew it would be. The second letter was not.
A flash of him, alone, comes to me. Melancholy from a throbbing heart, with no one to put ice in a bag. He’ll only let it swell until it becomes too big for the pericardium, and it either bursts or withers or becomes aggravated. If the latter, then I’ll meet him at the peak of his rage.
But I know that heart. It won’t ask to hurt me for what I’ve done to it. It will ask, kindly, with pleases and thank yous, for me to just love it and make it better. That’s all it ever wants. That’s all he ever wants. Just a little more love. He wants a motherly love, one that encourages and gives until its resources are depleted. I blame insecurity. And a lack of self-esteem. But mostly I blame an undying love for…Me.
You never would have known it – the coy way he smiled to the side, when we first met. The way his fingers touched my leg without my acknowledged invitation. He was sure – always. He took me to water tower tops in the rain. He came back. He hung a hammock between two trees at the park. He played a song for me in the church I wasn’t allowed in.
He always took me by surprise, the simple way in which he did impressive things.
I’ll be afraid to look into the eyes I stole from. The glint, I took it. I’ll be afraid to see what destruction I have wreaked. I’m already afraid. Will one month make his desolation tired and even more wary? Will he be at a point of no return? Finished off from 30 days of neglect.
That’s terrifying. To think of him that way. It’s like envisioning his corpse.
I must learn to subdue haste. I must learn to use my time wisely by not using it at all.
11:25 p.m.
I still have a long way to go with that.
Don’t forget that I love you, I said. At 11:11. I couldn’t stop myself from doing it, even though I almost did. But his face, sad and hollow from grieving, came into my mind. And Love Stories don’t have scripts. No they don’t, not really. It was my decision to make. There weren’t any rules someone told me to abide by. I made everything up. So I told him. Because that’s what I was feeling. And nothing in me told me not to say it.
He deserves to know. He deserves some hope.
Because he was never All Bad. He was just never All Good, either.
But who is All Good, and who wants that, anyway? Problems have grown us – they beg for love to show its face, to wield its sword and cut away the greedy, ugly things. He was never All Bad. I was never All Good. I’m selfish sometimes when I shouldn’t be. There have been times. But it wasn’t this time.
You know what I love? His face when he’s studying or reading something for fun. The slackened jaw and parted lips. Sometimes a pencil fitted in between them. And when he’s finished and we’re together, he’ll make me take a break. Come and sit on his lap so he can nibble at my neck.
No, I don’t feel bad for thinking about him when I’m taking time for myself. This isn’t about neglecting that my heart loves him. This isn’t about forgetting him for some set amount of days. This isn’t even about keeping promises with myself about not talking to him. This – these days I have taken out of our timeline are mine to do as I please with. I can wallow in my room over what I’ve done. I can recall fond memories. I can miss his kisses and his hands that dry my face even though they hate the feel of tears. I can sit and hope for new beginnings and final endings – of us and of the things that broke us. I can send him little messages of love if my still-loving heart feels like it.
I spent the day with me, and now, I come to night and think of him.
What will we say?
You look good; how are you?
Not the best I’ve ever been.
I’ll wonder if he automatically thinks I’m unattractive because I have a metal ring in my left nostril. I’ll be self-conscious of it, knowing how he despises it. I’ll wonder why I did it – out of spite or because I really did want it? Both, I’ll think. It was both. But I’ll regret it – even though, now, I know I shouldn’t.
How are you, he’ll ask.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what’s appropriate. We’re only friends, not lovers. We’re not nothing. We’re something. There’s potential in our skin, there’s want in our hearts. There’s conditionality wafting through the air like a bad smell – or do we like it? Like gasoline or nail polish remover. Do we have the right to make demands? Do we have the right to fight? Can we hold hands or hug? Can I lean in for a kiss?
I’m the one that left him, and yet I fear – so much – that he’ll reject me when I come back for him. Won’t he think I’ve been unfair? Won’t he feel betrayed?
Yes. And yes.
But love understands the selfish human needs of humans – even ones in love.
But I want to be good for him. And I want him to be good for me.
I just want him to be happy with me as I am. If he is that, then I’m happy with him as he wants to be and is.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
I’m feeling quite the opposite, he answered. Your actions don’t match up with your words.
I understood then, reading it at 3:15 a.m., that he didn’t understand.
That this was about him when it was supposed to be about me. He didn’t understand that it had always been about him – and about me just being a little bit better for him than I was before.
I woke up to a letter in my inbox. He was done. The day or two of waiting was too long, 30 might have killed him. He couldn't love what didn't love back. If I was going to be selfish, so was he. And that was that. Good-bye for now, he wrote.
It’s funny the way Love Stories never write themselves out. You can’t turn to the script – to see what line comes next, who exits, who enters, and from which side. We just improvise, go along as we can. And we made a great story – we made poetry sometimes, a real Shakespearean love affair. It was not a twist in the plot that either one of us had randomly injected. It was, perhaps, that all the times we had been tired of acting had accumulated to an amount that rendered us less than Broadway material. There were too many cuts and too many actions. Neither one of us could get the words right, the way we had in all other times. We couldn’t sweep the blips behind the curtain anymore. The audience wasn’t laughing, wasn’t marveling anymore.
I left the stage and asked him to wait there patiently. I needed to pat my forehead, cup water in my hands and put my face in it. I just needed time away, time in the privacy of the corridor outside that Relationship Auditorium. Not to talk to passersby, but to walk along it and look outside at the real world. To see how different it was from what I had been standing in.
Was I born to adlib plays, or was I born to write them? And watch someone act it out – just the way I wanted? Did I need more Life Outside to teach me to Love Inside, to write of love in real-life terms?
I looked at the clock hanging on the long wall. Nineteen minutes past. The second hand coming closer to twenty. Was it a wretched dictator? A hateful thing that could only tick to talk, a rude and constant countdown to the end of my life. Or was it my savior? A patient reminder that the minutes were mine to use till they all ran out, not numbers I could take and put in the palm of anyone else. It forced me to live before it forced me to die.
A smile. The Brighter Side of the Darker Half of the Story.
Three months and one month more to come I have spent here. I’m going to Israel. I’m going to Turkey. I’m going to Latin America. And then I’m going to Teach. And then I’m going to Write while I Travel the World some more.
This was my First Love – those dreams I crafted since childhood, writing books at Gigi’s house and teaching stuffed animals how to read. Because that’s who I am, that’s who I’ve always been –
the Writer within.
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