I spent an hour in my bed this morning lying in my sheets staring at the ceiling, a scene reminiscent of “Garden State,” only my sheets are green and purple, not white. I was not going to post today, because I was/ am not prepared to deal with the last month. In all honesty, I don’t know what to do with myself. That sounds dramatic, and I don’t want to be dramatic: I want to be honest. What do I do? Where do I go from here? My life for the last 9 months has been a series of waves, each one bringing contention, fighting, loneliness, isolation, boredom, depression, what have you. And then, for one month, I was pulled out suddenly, torn from the water, held in the sun. This morning I woke up and saw the swell of the rip tide on the horizon, and I don’t know what to do.
What makes it so hard is that the memory of the trip is so tangible. I can still see the patina color spokes of his eyes, every bit of dust in the house, what books are on the bookshelves. My clothes still smell like his apartment. I can hear the sound of the street outside his house. I can feel the shape of the tendons on the back of his neck. I know that I will never return to that apartment, and that every day the memory is going to become more remote, as the neurons receive fewer electrical charges. In fact, the neural net will be an excellent escape—to remember how wonderful this trip was will be a counterproductive measure.
I cried in the car on the way to the airport, when we kissed goodbye, at the deport tax desk, in line to have passports checked, waiting to get on the plane, before takeoff, during landing, at the Chili’s in LAX, on the plane from LA to Dallas, in the car ride home, in my bed going to sleep, this morning waking up, brushing my teeth, and right now. I wish I could say this was all because I didn’t want to leave Mark—that would be very romantic, and no doubt flattering to him. In fact, Mark has the disadvantage of always having to say goodbye to me when things in my life are deteriorating in simultaneity with our departures. As a result, I’m always sobbing at airports, street corners, or el stops, and the poor boy is left standing awkwardly, and no doubt feeling confused and a bit uncomfortable. But then again, he’s quite perceptive, though he is usually powerless to do anything about these issues. And of course, one week later, I’m fine. He always sees me at my worst, but then, he’s still around, so I suppose that’s part of what love is.
This time, what are these issues? An unpredictably tender reunion, for one. I wasn’t expecting the trip to be as wonderful as it was, and as a result, was left slightly more vulnerable. Senior year we parted, not fully understanding each other. This time, I had grown up, he had mellowed out, and we were able to talk without bruising. So when I left Christchurch, it was with the understanding that I was leaving someone whom I understood, and who understood me perfectly. I was also leaving a month of cafes, books, concerts, camping trips, and evenings out, returning to a life of house arrest and tv. I was leaving quiet and serenity for parental stress and wild children (I understand both, and I’m not blaming parents or siblings, but it is a hard transition nonetheless). Then there are things going on with family and friends that are too private for me to address publicly: arrests, abuses, neglect, self-destructive behavior, funerals. Then, of course, loneliness. I was leaving someone who kissed me, cooked me breakfast, and read me books, for an empty bed and an empty inbox. There’s the extreme isolation of living here, never meeting anyone new, never going out (no money, no license), never having anyone to talk to. Serge’s been great. And Mary and Gavin, Adele Anne Lakshmi and Bonnie, they’ve all been great at listening, but I don’t reach out, because I don’t enjoy talking about being lonely, or being depressed, because it doesn’t make me any less lonely or depressed. I deal with things quietly and privately, and I’m usually quite good at it. The problems had gotten so vast this past year that I had to compartmentalize and repress them, living in a pleasant state of numbness. Not healthy, I know, but a temporary solution until life got better. In New Zealand Mark made me talk, express, and enunciate
things, and now I find myself at home, with all of these unwrapped
things around me, and nowhere to put them. I don’t want to store
things anymore, I’m tired and they are heavy, but I have no idea what to do. No idea at all what I should do with myself.
But I do know this. And for this brief moment where I’m being honest, where I’m not trying (believe it or not) to elicit sympathy or a reaction, I might as well talk about Mark. For someone who is as big a part of my life as he is, I talk about him mostly through allusion and insinuation. He deserves more than that.
I am driving back from Abel Tasmen park with Mark. We are in the country, and there are no houses to sprinkle lights across the black hills, and the moon is full, occasionally glazing a pale gray over water and grass. We are talking about the subject of Us, and Mark tells me that I have a curious habit of downplaying or obscuring either him or our relationship when I am in front of other people. Like Humbert Humbert, I realized that I did not know my darling’s heart at all, for within it is a garden and a twilight.
Mark and I did not handle our relationship with much grace. Loving each other wasn’t ever the issue—in fact, while the nature of the love changes, it is the one constant between us. At first, I infamously assumed that if we dated for a short period of time, I could make a decision about whether or not we could last as a long-term couple. And after three months, I decided there were impediments—religion, smoking, health, temper, sociability, and so I broke it off. Junior year, the smoking disappeared. Senior year, the health and sociability issues disappeared—Mark cleaned up, lost weight, went out, made new friends. And then, I come out this year, and the temper issue was gone—he had calmed down, less drawn to absolutes, less likely to get angry and throw things about. Which means, as the years passed, the only thing that separates us was religion. Unfortunately for me, I am intractable on the issue of marrying outside the faith. Mark has done his best to understand my decision, although he thinks it’s a mistake, but the problem hangs in the air that, if Mark’s mother had raised him a Mormon, we’d probably be married by now. Mark and I, not Mark’s mom and I. How do we deal with this? We have no choice but to create barriers—we do not allow ourselves to fall in love, we try and keep things familiar, familial, sweet. We keep up an intimate friendship, because if we were to allow ourselves romantic attachment we’d consume ourselves. What does this create? A situation that is impossible to relate to others, so we say we’re just friends, we say things are complicated, but really what we want to say is that we love each other but let go, in our own separate ways, for self-preservation. We try and date other people. The jealousy now is part of the happiness then. None of this has been anything on my part but the most clumsy, messy, childish debacle. Mark was not always the most tactful at communicating his frustrations. But we try and stay close, however the nature of the relationship evolves.
When I kissed Mark goodbye at the airport I didn’t look behind me. I knew that if I did II would run after him, and if I did that, I would have a perfect life, but a life that was by different principles than I had intended. I am unfortunately born with as much stubbornness as acquiescence, and I made a decision early in my life that there are certain things I will not yield. I have made a stand, and I have to live it, even it seems my life will be the poorer for that decision. It is perhaps a fault or virtue, though I am inclined to think more of a fault, that I will not listen to reason on certain issues. I have been operated on, there is an empty, clinical space under the diaphragm.
So as I’m home, and trying to figure out what to do. I want to say this again, and do it publicly: You were the best thing I discovered in my life. Thank you for putting up with me, for putting up with this terrible situation and not judging me, not thinking me cruel or callous. Thank you for asking me how I feel, for buying me presents and cooking me breakfast, for taking care of me. Thank you for never giving up on me, even when you found out I wasn’t always the confident woman I appeared to be. Thank you for dancing with me, for that night you held me when I was crying and you didn’t say anything, for that green bracelet you bought me before evensong. Thank you for those car trips, for your empty bank account, for being angry with that guy from kung fu class. Thank you for your love, your life, the hours. I love you, my darling. I didn’t want to leave.
