fix you

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. 

take my hand

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.