I've found myself guarded and worried - and I've found myself slow to unfold and a billion other things.
That's the only text I have left. One of many warnings you laid out like breadcrumbs that I traced all the way back to the beginning. Intertwined throughout so many conversations we had in the short time we knew each other was fair warning that you would leave.
I've never made so many changes in such a short time. I've never felt so calm and so terrible. I searched desperately for answers, everything I said, everything I sent was just grasping at straws for any other answer than the one I already knew.
I don't talk about you anymore. I just patiently wait for the day I don't think about you anymore. It hasn't come. I just calmly sift through the thoughts. They don't hurt anymore.
Guys always come back. Maybe it will be years. Or maybe you'll be the one that doesn't. What bothers me now isn't that I don't think you'll come back, in whatever capacity. It's that you will. That you will and it won't be the same. Because it won't be. There will always be this great break, a huge rift. It would be a painful undertaking to mend it, not worth the trouble for the ugly monstrosity of bloody hearts and tired brains. Sometimes you have to let things go.
The stars had aligned that day, pointing the way to my heartbreak. I followed them smiling, impetuous, telling anecdotes and sharing half baked ideas as you interrogated me the whole way. I don't think I ever loved anyone like you. It was terrifying. I think we are most scared of the things we want the most.
The space you occupy in my memory is like a dream. Running around Austin, a city we barely knew. Listening to music. Swinging. Getting way too faded on a school night. And the first time I kissed you, you looked at me and said "Why me?"
I read this book once, where the protagonist had to learn to hold two opposing truths in his mind at the same time in order to perform a sort of magic. In my own life, such thinking- magical thinking - has come at a cost. At times I have performed it daily, thinking something is wrong that cannot be ignored right along with thoughts of how I am going to spend my day merrily with the person that is the subject of my doubts. I'm fairly certain I have planned parts of a wedding and a break up in the same string of thoughts before. Of course, these are the types of relationships that never end well. I think it says a lot about how much people like me cling to hope as we stand on the edge of uncovering an ugly truth. We can sense it, smell it, feel a change in direction, hear the quietness of something almost lost. Sometimes we embrace it, but there are moments right up until the end where we think things like, I hope he got us seats close to the front of the theater for that movie premiere.
It's hard to let go, no matter how good the reason may be, or how horrible the relationship was. For people like me, us sentimental types, we hoped for the best. Even when we knew better, even when we were angry, yelling, I'm done! I'm over this! Even when things are completely and utterly broken.
I had a thought as I was driving home tonight. I was asking myself why do you care? Why does it matter? I am one of those people you can describe as a "fixer". For whatever reason, I tend to get into relationships with people who I find out are broken, and I try to "fix" them. I'm not good at it. I'm also not completely conscious of it. If you had asked me why I got into my most recent relationship, I wouldn't be able to tell you. It wasn't because I thought he was a great guy, or because I thought we were a good fit. I had grown to enjoy his company, but I wasn't sure of him in the beginning. I liked that he liked me, but lots of guys have liked me without me giving them the time of day.
Then, like I said, I thought occurred to me. He was like my mother. He wasn't like her personality-wise, looks-wise, or in any other tangible way similar to my mother at all. But he was smart, different, and seemingly without many close friends. His stories were awkwardly told, like they weren't completely true, like he wanted to seem more interesting. His jokes were generally good natured and goofy, a kind of humor that won't get you very far in the service industry. He was opinionated in a way that seemed immature and naive. He was staunchly devoted to following any and all rules at the restaurant we worked at - a good employee whose constant pointing out of things done wrong rubbed people the wrong way. Quite simply point, he wasn't cool, and he was unashamed.
My mother had a hard time making friends. I saw the good in her, but I also saw the way her naive opinions rubbed people the wrong way, how the unbending line of her thought was something that eventually signaled a mind that was broken. I have often thought about when it all started for her. What was the breaking point? What would I have done differently if I had known she would lose her mental faculties? Was there something that could have been done to prevent it, to fix her?
I have dated one other man who was obviously, painstakingly broken. The relationship was horrible, and now, seven years later, the texts I receive from him are heartbreaking. He suffered his own break with reality within the last few years. I don't think it's a coincidence. My friend Gianluca once told me about a theory that people seek out relationships that have problems similar to those they witnessed in their childhoods, and they try to fix the things that were wrong for them in the beginning. For me, these relationships were not the same, in fact they were all quite different, different types of guys, different problems. But I think some part of me recognized a brokenness, a slight similarity, and I went back in my head to that massively devastating thing that I wasn't able to keep from happening, and I said let me love you, let me fix you, let me try before it's too late. And I'm not good at it, and it doesn't work. But how do you stop yourself, when it's like you've gone back in time, back to that critical moment before everything was lost? I don't even know it's happening until it's too late, when the signs become too clear that I cannot fix this anymore.
There is real love there, in trying to fix something that is broken. I think that's what gives rise to magical thinking. Knowing, from experience, that something is wrong here and I can't ignore it, and trying to hold on to those last few moments of happiness before you finally concede that I cannot fix you.
We are going up the stairs, the steps to the top of the largest and happiest place I have been. The sun is everywhere as light comes in at every angle through the clear windows that frame the blue sky and the rays make you brilliantly clear to my eyes. It smells like new books and some nice perfume I have never smelled. I know if I touch you it will be like a soft pile of cotton covering warm bones and some puff of air will come out with the most perfect scent.
The stairs spiral up and up.
There is another part that I would go to at night. It’s darker and mustier, and there are brown work cubicles that people sit at and leaf through books looking for things with a sense of purpose that feels more right than anything I know. We are always quiet here. I find you alone at a desk after emerging from the enclosed stairway that leads to the middle of the floor. You are sitting and looking for something. I would go up behind you and know if I smell your hair I would love the smell, I know if I touch you you would be soft.
The way out goes on forever; a ramp that goes both up and down. Stairs on one side go up a little then regress, never going down, always up, but sometimes less up than others. The exit is very very bright.
At the top of the stairs in the bright part of the library is a place to purchase snacks. Ice cream is five cents, hamburgers are ten. We don’t eat anything; we just look at the prices and feel full.
I remember being loved. I remember the intimacy of real love. I remember not worrying. I remember all of the little things they did, of how evident it was, that they loved me and it was pure and good.
When things go wrong, it's obvious. I wait them out sometimes. I forget that when something feels wrong it is usually wrong. I forget to trust myself. And the distrust and hurt ooze their way out of me, because I can't really stop it. I can't stop thinking, I can't help that I know what I don't know. I let it disfigure me, I let myself become ugly. And then I say to myself, "It's your fault. It's your fault they have done this to you. You should be grateful that they have forgiven you for how ugly you have become."
The part of my brain that allows quasi-magical thinking can feel the people who love me watching me. Can feel their sadness, as they watch their daughter, their granddaughter, their mother become someone she never wanted to be. I look at my grandfather and mother and scream. You left me, you left me. The only people who loved me well left me. "The day my mother died I wrote in my journal, "A serious misfortune of my life has arrived." I suffered for more than one year after the passing away of my mother. But one night, in the highlands of Vietnam, I was sleeping in the hut in my hermitage. I dreamed of my mother. I saw myself sitting with her, and we were having a wonderful talk. She looked young and beautiful, her hair flowing down. It was so pleasant to sit there and talk to her as if she had never died. When I woke up it was about two in the morning, and I felt very strongly that I had never lost my mother. The impression that my mother was still with me was very clear. I understood then that the idea of having lost my mother was just an idea. It was obvious in that moment that my mother is always alive in me.
I opened the door and went outside. The entire hillside was bathed in moonlight. It was a hill covered with tea plants, and my hut was set behind the temple halfway up. Walking slowly in the moonlight through the rows of tea plants, I noticed my mother was still with me. She was the moonlight caressing me as she had done so often, very tender, very sweet... wonderful! Each time my feet touched the earth I knew my mother was there with me. I knew this body was not mine but a living continuation of my mother and my father and my grandparents and great-grandparents. Of all my ancestors. Those feet that I saw as "my" feet were actually "our" feet. Together my mother and I were leaving footprints in the damp soil.From that moment on, the idea that I had lost my mother no longer existed. All I had to do was look at the palm of my hand, feel the breeze on my face or the earth under my feet to remember that my mother is always with me, available at any time." - thich nhat hanh.
Sunday, October 25, 2015
I'm sorry I wasted your time.
That's what you said. I haven't heard from you since, as it should be. I don't know what the purpose you had in mind was when you decided to lie, but I can tell you already that nothing was wasted.
My friend Thomas sent me a letter he wrote to someone he loved. He said there are three things you can do with an injury. You can let it cripple you, you can ignore it, or you can grow from it. I've been trying to grow for a long time now. I've been searching out how to become better my whole life.
I've been reading this book called Triumphs of Experience. It's written by the man who was put in charge of the longest longitudinal study ever conducted. In it he explains that everyone develops coping mechanisms to deal with life's problems. Everyone develops differently, and some coping mechanisms work better to foster interpersonal relationships and others push people away. He summarizes the major findings of the study by saying that the most important thing in life is forming warm connections with others and at the same time finding ways to cope with life that don't push others away. In one sentence, "Happiness is love. Full stop."
I've been thinking about what you did. I don't understand what the point was, I don't know what was true, I'm not sure why you chose me, and I don't know who you think I am or what you think of me.
I thought a lot of you when we first started talking. Not just superficial things but everything, the stupid way you would spell words in texts and that we want to be the same thing. And it wasn't just that. It was very much everything. Even if you did lie how could you possibly know to lie about every single little thing and get it right? Even if you lied, and perhaps it's proof that you did it so well, you must have understood me.
I don't know you but I know you can understand me. George Vaillant says that generativity is one of the tasks we must attempt to complete to be successful in life. My friend Thomas said something that follows the same line of thought one time when he read aloud to me from his journal. He told me a story about his father getting angry for a silly reason. When Thomas asked his brother what they should have done to calm their father, his brother responded he thought they should just give him what he wanted. Thomas disagreed. In fact, he thought that giving someone you loved what they wanted simply to appease them achieved the opposite of what you should strive for when you care about someone. He thought that denying his father the chance to grow did not demonstrate love. Although it was harder to disagree, and uncomfortable, it was a sacrifice he offered in love. Generativity is what I offer you now. When I did the right thing (which I did) I did it to give you an opportunity to grow. Yes, at first I was angry and no, I am not happy with what you have done. That doesn't mean I don't care about you. In fact, it means the opposite.
You offered me a chance to grow too. I could have tightened my defenses, I could have insulated myself with a wall built of poor coping mechanisms. But I didn't. I forgave you and hoped the best for you.
We live in a world that is full of people trying to defend themselves. Even in this situation, people have told me to defend myself against you. I already have the best defense, and that is the awareness that everyone is capable of doing anything, intentionally or unintentionally. I told you that before when we talked about trust. I told you how I found it kind of nice, freeing, to not have expectations. Everyone is capable of pushing others away by using poor coping mechanisms. In fact it is guaranteed that most people will, despite their best efforts, eventually fail each other.
What we need to recognize is that failure gives us a chance to grow, as does love. You have both now. What will you do with them?
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"Some paraplegics (no legs etc) bounce back in a month, in a year, in 5, in ten, never. The only difference is belief, and trust. trust in the above, trust in themselves. And in order to get there, everyone makes that decision to live that trust, to think it, to embody it. This is why I say that when you believe the things you wrote me, say them, do them(I'm not good enough, I can't, It's hard), when you say these things you make them real." -T.S.
sometimes i feel like the world is so messed up that i like to imagine my own heaven where everyone i care about exists and is capable of being happy and of being genuine and of caring about themselves and each other.
all of my friends are there, past and present.
tonight i visited you there. we sat down and we understood each other.
all i could say was "why?"
and you just looked and you knew. it wasn't like those times you were there beside me and you felt cold and distant. it wasn't like those times at all.
i could see that you saw me, all my flaws and all the reasons for my flaws and you felt my anger at myself and you, for a second, were me and i was you.
i close my eyes and imagine the place i made for us. i put my unnecessary comments in the doorway so i don't forget them on the way out. i hold you close to me, the part of you i am not sure exists. i open my eyes and the door to us swings shut and you are safe from me.
the profile pictures confirmed what i wish i could deny. you were in too many of them to be alive.
i remember seeing the photo of you there that night, kissing the nose of the reindeer that had later fallen on my head and vaguely musing about how i wish i might have known you were there, could've said something. there was a small sense of comfort in seeing that you were still around and much the same.
it was odd to hear that you died today.
didn't know you well, wouldn't know what to say. you were strange in such a good way.
here's to your memory jakob lange.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
i want to send you some words, but when i thought about it, the fact that you are doing okay makes the world seem like a more hopeful place
the finest words i ever wrote to you
are just a mirror in the dark seeking out a long lost note from you
We are sitting in our backyard. I reach over and touch the cornerstone of my home. I don't need words here, I don't need actions.
I have too many memories, that's why I don't like to think. When I think, I wonder why we let children get old and learn things we once hid from them. I wonder what the point is of knowing when I don't really want to know.
But I don't have to worry about that here. We're in the shade of two mulberry trees on a hot summer day in the Bermuda grass. I'm happy about what I don't know. I'm happy because knowing it would keep me away from you.
I come back to reality. Here, where you don't exist. Everyday, hidden behind every interaction, I am pouring libations on your grave that you might speak to me, I am building you an altar.
todays the day everybody, be an asshole to me today please. i want it all at the same time altogether now maybe i can take it better if i see you for who you are all on the same day all at once and then tommorrow i won't be your friend anymore i won't look at you i won't talk to you and i'll be utterly alone
but that's still better than just waiting for it to spring on me waiting and hoping that things will be okay that maybe there is someone like me someone who gives second and third chances leaves room for growth but no one grows here only me, growing into a contorted shape i am misshapen on the inside to make room for the change you never make and all the room you take up in my conscience i space myself out and cut holes through my chest you walk on bits of me and dont ever look up at others no wonder you dont like me you can hardly see me as i hold myself apart to make room for you
sometimes it makes me angry, but this is the life i have chosen right. so be an asshole today please please please please
I'm getting to the point where I'm losing my voice and settling into the complacency of knowing that my thoughts only matter to me.
My thoughts encompass myself- my feelings, my ideals, my social consciousness. Everything that matters. But they're nothing to most everyone. Even the people who say they care about me refuse to listen.
I try and pull them in and whisper the things I hide away in their ears. But they are deaf and blind to me. They shoo me away. They babble all the time. They are so caught up in the day to day. They do not know me at all.
Instead of showing me I am worth something by listening when I try to share a tiny piece of myself, they force an image on me. They throw out adjectives: sweet, funny, mellow. You can't see the way these words are like chains. They hold me down in a confined space. Stepping out of that tiny room you put me in creates an uproar. "Angela, you're never like that, this isn't like you."
You don't know how alone I feel most of the time. Alone in this room you made for me. Each room is different, but they're all just as small.
When I do something wrong, there's no pardon, only reprimand. I have to say I'm sorry for not being in my box, the way you like it. But you never say you're sorry for putting me in there.
I'm tired of trying to be anything to anybody. I just want to sit and listen to music. I just want to hide myself behind a wall of lyrics you don't understand and compositions that aren't easily accessible and enjoy something that you probably don't or can't. I only want to feel close to the people who listen to Girls and know what I'm referencing when I say "ashes grammar- ashes maths" without googling it; people who can sing every single word to 1901.
I want the words to speak for me, and I just want to live in a place where I don't ever have to do anything but throw out a single lyric, and be completely understood.
You are making these walls. You are building them out of the words we say, and hiding in a fort of our vulgarities. The injection of our words has not made you better, but they have made you immune. You are a product of abuse. You are as hard as a bone where it was broken; you won’t break in the same place again.
You try to hide the bruises behind your ear. You’re looking for someone to love. I don’t have to look far to see who taught you that sharp tongue, and that critical eye. I don’t have to wait long before they come out. Anything good we say, anything at all, doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because we say bad things too. You are consistent, unlike us. You constantly outpour the trash we fill you up with. It’s like those pictures of landfills we like to ignore. We keep making more and more trash each day. And you are here as a reminder of the cost of our transgressions, you show us how ugly we can be. You are showing me a reflection I don’t want to see.
Sometimes at night you're in my room. When I'm alone, and no one is online, you lay in my bed and make that face.
It makes me reach out and cup your invisible cheek in my hand, and stroke your skin while I cry and remember what I lost.
Tonight I was walking up the hill, and I swear you were right behind me, coming up from last summer, meeting me from the train tracks after we fought. You were right there.
I lay in my bed and remember the words you used to say. I listen to the Ukrainian closely. I look at red Van's in the store window. I hid your key away.
I take the bus to you. We go to Fatburger. We look for Phoenix. We drive to Portland. We fight. We lay in bed. I slap you. You walk away. I sit on the sidewalk and cry until you don't leave me anymore. I promise you. You promise me. We're okay. We're traveling, listening to NPR, listening to music. I sit with you in the gym. We look for Risk. I'm running after you. I'm yelling at you in the street downtown. We're on the monorail. We're getting Mexican food. We're in our separate hotel rooms. We are sitting on a bench in Kirkland, we are playing checkers with twigs.
