Last Saturday I ran into R. at a party. We hadn’t seen one another in a while. And while she looked stunning at first glance, I intuitively knew something was wrong.
Her vibration was low. And she seemed less sparkly than usual.
She confessed she was in what I like to call a “come-here-go-away” relationship. She had become involved with someone who was not emotionally available.
I could only smile. Not for her pain. But because I know it so well.
For the past two months Mr. 700 Miles (Away from Chicago) and I had been doing the same thing. Until two weeks ago, when – without a word – he went away. No text. No phone call. No Facebook message. Nothing.
A part of me felt sideswiped.
We had just Skyped the night before, before bed, as had become our ritual – enjoying all that technology allowed us to enjoy about one another. We blew a kiss goodnight. He said he would call me the next day.
Intellectually, I had no reason to believe he wouldn’t.
And yet all that day and the next I felt twisty and anxious. Something inside of me knew otherwise.
I was right.
What I didn’t realize was we wouldn’t speak again.
I don’t exactly understand what happened. And yet, I do. Clearly, he couldn’t do it. And for whatever reason, he couldn’t tell me he couldn’t do it.
At first I felt sad. Confused. Then I got angry — chucking magazines across the apartment, their glossy pages smacking and fanning out on the hardwood floors, and shouting into the universe, “You F**king Pussy,” choking on my sobs.
I beat the bed with a red spatula – the one my friend Kristen brought me the day I moved into my apartment – whacking it until I was exhausted.
I wrote a letter in red marker – one I will never send. It wasn’t kind or generous or understanding. It didn’t speak of my gratitude for him in my life, or that my heart would always be open to his friendship – even though this too was true.
I didn’t write it to garner a response, or to guarantee he would remember me a certain way. I wrote it so I didn’t have to hold the pain myself. So I didn’t have to pretend it didn’t hurt when it did.
It felt good. And hard. And when I was done, I wiped the Alice Cooper mascara rings from under my eyes and went to sit in a church basement with the people who taught me I didn’t ever have to drink again – not even during times like this.
I miss him. Our friendship. Our deep connection – emotional, spiritual, creative, sexual.
But I do not miss what I saw in my friend Saturday night. The twisting. The anxious. The uncertainty.
The holding on to what was, what could be, rather than what is. The hearing only what I want to hear – what fits my story.
The trying to wedge myself into a sexy stiletto of a relationship – the one that gives me blisters.
And as R. told her story, I felt gratitude. Gratitude for his “bad behavior.” In walking away without a word, he made the choice for me. A choice I had made a month prior, in a moment of strength and clarity, when I told him I couldn’t do this. That I needed more. A choice I ultimately could not stick to it.
It all reminds me of when my girlfriend A. divorced me a couple of years back. When she told me I was “too much.”
“I am sorry you feel that way,” I said, rather than, “You are right. Please show me how to be strong like you” – which was, at the time, more my style.
At that moment our karmic contract was broken. We were done.
It has been more than four years since we had that conversation at her home in Long Beach. Over the years I have reached out just a handful of times. She never responded. And then I stopped trying.
I thought being told I was “too much,” was the worst thing that could happen. It wasn’t. And in the process, I learned that I wasn’t either.
I thought “being left without a word – abandoned,” was the worst thing that could happen. It wasn’t. And I learned that I wasn’t either. That that is an old adoptee fear. Old language. He simply chose a different path. And he chose not to tell me about it. It was never about me.
Perhaps that was our karmic contract. Or at least part of it.
R. left the party early. Perhaps to see her Mr. Come-Here-Go-Away. Perhaps to twist and perseverate. I’m not certain.
But I stayed. I ate cake and talked with friends about the book proposal I am working on, the contract work I recently secured, and about dancing a master class with the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater. Anything but him. But us.
And on the way home, I thanked Mr. 700 Miles – for many, many things – among them, his “bad behavior.”