I wish I knew when I started to need someone in my life, romantically speaking. I can’t remember when the seed was planted, but I do know the period over which it bloomed, seeping into the hidden places in my heart and winding a web of silver spider silk around my mind, binding it up forever.
I didn’t see it coming, this immense, mind-boggling loss. I never expected to still be feeling pain when an unexpected song comes on the radio or as I lie in bed during the calm before sleep comes to call. Sometimes I really think I must be a sucker for pain. I almost enjoy the chills down my spine when I utter his name in secret.
I never thought of myself as a dependent person. I’ve always been someone who was unafraid to forge into the unknown, accepting all challenges with no regrets. I left home for boarding school when I was fourteen and now I’m doing my best to make my way in New York City. People would tell you I’m a rather self sufficient gal.
These days, I’m not so sure they would be right.
“I don’t know why you’re even giving him a second more of your time. Don’t waste anything else on him,” my Mom said to me over the phone.
A lump rose in my throat.
“I. Yeah, its not that easy. I can’t just erase someone from my life.”
There’s something about the process of leaving your first love that changes you forever. When you are left reeling from your last words as a couple, you don’t have the tools to mend yourself. The blunt, round pegs of friendly advice don’t fit in your newly formed square abyss. You are ill equipped to handle the personal tragedy.
After I broke up with my first love, I almost wanted to wallow in the loss. My relationship ended due to stress from being “long distance” and it killed me that I wouldn’t be able to get closure or make any new memories of us together. I wasn’t going to run into him at the grocery store and remember warm feelings. There was a good chance I might never see him again in person. The only way I could continue to have a relationship with him was to have a relationship with my loss. I became addicted to the pain. Every time I felt myself going numb, I would summon up some vision or sense of his presence lying beside me, arm draped over my waist. I would mash my eyes closed until I could remember every detail.
I was asking for the pain, worshiping it as the only resource I could salvage from the ship I lost at sea. I was holding onto every memory and every word, wrapping myself up in them to keep myself warm because I feared I would never find anything that compared to the depth of my over-dramatic, self-inflicted woe.
The first time I realized I had an paralyzing addiction to this relationship was when my ex and I decided we had to stop saying “I love you” and “I miss you.” I remember the conversation coming to a natural end, followed by a painful burdened silence.
“Yup.” He said.
“Yeah. Well. Uh. Ok.” I said.
“So… I’ll talk to you later then.” Click. The call ended.
I cried and cried, squirming in my bed. I cried till my eye lids hurt. I cried till my pillow looked like a Rorschach test.
Then there’s the question of whether or not you still talk after that point. Is there any reason to risk the pain crushing you repeatedly? Maybe it’s the masochist in me, but when I saw his number flashing on my phone and playing that familiar siren’s song, I had an Pavlovian response.
“Heya.” I would take a deep breath and try to sound busy and important on my end of the line. “What’s up?”
“Nothin’. Nothin’.”
That always drove me crazy. Why do we call each other to say essentially “nothing” is going on unless it’s to fill a need, that emptiness. I wanted him to say he needed me, admit his pain and his struggle. I wanted to know for sure that he was no better off than I was.
We spent the rest of those stilted phone calls working arduously to make conversation, lifting the brick of each topic until we had an unsteady step pyramid. Every time we spoke, I wished we hadn’t, but I couldn’t pull myself away. Every time I thought I could move on, he would call and I would answer. I hated myself immediately afterward. Worse, in low moments I would pick up the phone and call him, hating myself afterwords for voluntarily opening those old comfortable wounds.
I’ve talked to a lot of friends about losing their first serious relationship. There is a sort of camaraderie that comes with the territory. When you’re going through this endless pool of loss, it’s very easy to think of yourself as the only person in the world who could feel or understand such intense pain, but really, when you start talking to other people, you find out you’re just like everyone else.
This phenomena makes me feel two ways. One: It’s comforting to know other people feel the same way you do. Two: It’s disheartening to reduce the lingering magic and longing of your break-up to a right of passage when it’s all you think you have left. It’s never fun to not feel special.
I want to believe that what I had was extraordinary, that this sumptuous affliction actually means something, but I have to wonder if it really does. What if it’s just a bridge everyone crosses at some point?
Everyone says, “You’ll heal eventually.”
I don’t think that’s true. I think everyone just somehow learns to operate under new given circumstances, like an amputee victim learning to walk without a limb. I don’t think the loss of virginity is when you lose your innocence. The loss of innocence occurs when you realize you have to deal with life under unexpected and seemingly unendurable terms.
I’m tired of wading through my antiquated romance. I don’t know how, but like most things, the first step is to accept this new recess in your life, this tiny, bottomless well lodged between your ribs. It’s a fact. It’s not going any place, but that shouldn’t stop you from going anywhere you please. Perhaps you won’t get over it, but you can get on with it, wresting and contending with your life as you take baby steps out your front door and into the real world, learning to live with your phantom limb.
[The following video is from So You Think You Can Dance. It is an especially moving performance by Kupono and Kayla, choreographed by Mia Michaels. This piece is what pushed me to write this article.]
I really am filled with hate right now. I tried to update my iPhone with 3.0 software and AGAIN it went into recovery mode and is in this odd loop hole where the computer tells me to restore it and then says there is an error and it can’t be restored. This happened once before and I took it into the store. They managed to restore the phone so that I could use it, but I’ve never updated it to the new software again for fear of having this very thing happen. I wanted to try to download it today so that I could download the Wordpress App, but it seems I have entered this annoying “You-need-to-restore-but-we-are-unable-to-restore” vortex again.
I made an appointment with the Apple Store, but there’s not an available time until Saturday, two days from now, at 5:50 PM. Even though that’s an inconvenience and it may ruin my plans for the 4th of July weekend, I HAVE to go on that day because my phone has to work. I can’t live without it.
I had forgotten what this is like. I actually feel naked. I’ve grown so accustomed to all of the tools on my phone, not to mention its run of the mill ability to, you know, make phone calls. I have plans to hang out with two people this weekend and without my phone, that may not happen. If it doesn’t, I’ll be a sad panda.
Ugh, who am I kidding? I’m already a sad panda.
I’m also pretty disgusted with how reliant I am on my iPhone. A few posts ago I wrote about how I was addicted to my iPhone and its different bells and whistles. Now I’ve progressed to going through actual withdrawal. I’m not kidding folks. I’m restless and I keep pacing around the apartment and trying to sleep this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach off. I keep wondering how people will contact me.
Would it kill me to be incomunicato for a few days?
Maybe I should just… move to the jungle and live off of fish I catch with my bare hands and water tempered with iodine tablets. I could even fashion a spear out of a branch and hunt boar. Maybe I’ll meet John Locke from ABC’s Lost. Ah, let’s face it. I’d never make it.
I used to be way more outdoorsy. I have taken several “adventure” trips in the course my blessed life. I went horseback riding with my parents in Arizona for two weeks. I’ve camped and rafted in Alaska for three weeks and gone on glacier hikes near Valdez. I went into the Montana mountains for three weeks and stayed out in the woods on solo for one of those weeks. I visited the Galapagos Islands and took naturalist tours. I worked with the National Park Service tagging sea-turtles and living on a boat in the Caribbean. I went white water rafting in the Colorado River and hiked out of the Grand Canyon.
So now I live in New York City. Rewind. What? How did that happen?
When did I become so tirelessly urban? Where has my inner cowgirl gone?
I think she’s still somewhere inside of me. I feel her stir in me whenever I can see a large expanse of sky, even if its only over Washington Square Park. I actually felt her today, of all days, while I was sitting in Grand Central Station.
I was trying to get a few moments of escape and serenity from my boss, who was making me do all sorts of annoying little tasks like canceling her Visa card and changing her legal address, both of which are real headaches for the actual person, let alone an assistant who is trying to remember all of her boss’ personal information.
As I sat on a bench, I noticed that there was a bird twittering and tweeting away. I knew immediately that it wasn’t a pigeon because pigeon’s coo.
Actually, if you ever get a chance to hear pigeon sex, its coo-rific. It makes me die laughing. I’m not a pervert, for the record, but they used to roost right outside of my window as a child. I often convulsed in giggles when I heard them going at it in a rousing “coorus.” Get it? Coorus, Chorus? Come on people! I digress.
As I looked for the source of the sound I noticed something tiny and dark running across the floor. I almost shrieked because I thought it was a nasty New York rat. Upon further observation I realized it was a red breasted robin. Phew.
My father is obsessed with birds and he taught me long ago how to identify one. Actually, we used have a huge one that lived in our backyard in Chicago. This type of bird is also significant to me because I loved The Secret Garden as a child and Mary Lennox, the heroin of the story, was guided by a “Robin Red Breast” to the gate of her Aunt Lily’s garden and he flew around the ivy covered, overgrown walls and kept the girl company while she planted seeds. That story was so gorgeous, both in text and on stage as a musical.
So there I was, overworked, underpaid, and sitting on a bench looking at my very own Robin Red Breast. This one was singing beautifully but upon closer inspection, I realized his wing was broken. He must have flown into the building and banged into a window or other reflective surface while trying to get out. It was so tragic because you never see anything but pigeons (AKA the rats of the air) in the city. Atleast I don’t. Then again I’m not specifically looking to identify birds.
It is a fact: This poor creature that reminded me of my childhood and a beautiful story will die. I didn’t know how long he’d been there. Perhaps he was singing for his supper. Perhaps it was his “Swan Song.” He must have been in so much pain. Maybe it’s stupid, but it made me tear up a little bit as I watched him waddle about. He even hopped over to me and just looked at me for a while, completely unafraid and uninhibited. It reminded me of how the animals had acted during my visit to the Galapagos Islands. The sea lions and marine iguanas would just sit and sun themselves on the beach. They hadn’t been introduced to fear of humans because they’ve never been hunted there. That whole trip made me feel like I was living in the Garden of Eden. The guide warned us not to touch the sea lion pups even if they approached us because the mothers would stop recognizing the scent of their young and disown them. They were so adorable. You just wanted to pick one up and squeeze it so badly. I don’t mean like Lenny in Of Mice and Men. I mean a comfortable cuddle rather than a life threatening clamp of doom.
As I watched my doomed bird-friend, I felt a similar conflict. I wanted to pick him up and mend him, but as we all know, birds are ridden with disease, germs, and God knows what else. Also, who am I to think I could “mend” a broken bird wing. I have a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in theater. I’m not a veterinarian.
That thought reminded me of how when I was on my Outward Bound “solo” in Montana, I had decided to make a woven basket and failed miserably. I don’t know what made me think I would just naturally have the ability to do something like that. Did I expect it to be written into my homo sapien DNA? However, it was undeniably fun and it gave me something to do during the lonely days. I sort of remembered singing through the entire score of every musical i could remember and even the ones I was less clear on as I worked.
Somewhere along the way I traded simple pleasures and child-like curiosity for iPhone apps and rent checks. Some of that is just a part of growing up, but sometimes I think it wouldn’t be such a travesty if we all tried to retrace our developmental steps a bit and follow our silly impulses. Mind you, I’m not telling you to expose yourself to disease ridden urban creatures on the verge of demise, but a walk in the park to lie on the bedrock outcroppings and read clouds wouldn’t do you any harm.
Before you Bible thumpers get too excited, let me preface this with the fact that this is not a religious blog, nor is it a religious moment in a religious post. In fact, this is the antichrist of blogs. Well, maybe that’s pushing it, but let me tell you something. The devil is real, ladies and gentlemen.
Now when I say devil, I’m not talking of a red guy with a pointy tail, or an animated Satan in love with Saddam Hussein. No, my comrades, I am speaking of our modern opportunities for addiction. Honestly. Every time I turn around I hear someone saying, “You know what I’m obsessed with now?” Even I must admit that I have a moderately addictive personality. Ok… I may have an EXTREMELY addictive personality.
These days, addiction can sneak up on you. It’s that Starbucks coffee you think you need before class or that last high score you need in Tetris before you get back to writing your final English Paper. It’s facebook and myspace. It’s Ben and Jerry’s Fossil Fuel Ice Cream (Can you really blame me?).
Granted, some addictions are more serious than others. There are the old classics; sex, drugs, and booze. They’re still around.
I happen to be obsessed with Star Wars. I always have been. I think it probably creaped out the rest of my freshman class in high school. Han Solo is a hottie. You know it. I know it. Actually, I think my additional obsession with musical theater didn’t help too much in the popularity department either.
For the last 2 and a half years I’ve played World of Warcraft. Now, if that isn’t an addiction, I don’t know what is. I have levelled away HOURS of my life on that game. I have three level 80’s and I raid with my guild three nights a week. Its like having a part time job that I don’t get paid for. Does this make me sexy? No. The only person WoW makes sexy is Felicia Day. No. World of Warcraft makes me quite decidedly UNSEXY, nay, quirky at best.
I’m amazed at how easy it is to get addicted to games on my phone. The Sims 3 is one of my most recent iPhone love affairs. I loved fishing and selling my wares at the market so I could build my magnificent Sim House and get my Sim married off to whichever loser Sim lived in the house next door. I loved making them have sweet sweaty Woohoo on my hard earned Bohemian bed. After I got bored of repairing refrigerators and filling the empty parts of my Sim Mansion with potted plants, we broke up. I rebounded with Archers, a free iPhone app where you use your finger to aim an arrow at an opponent at a distance which is operated by your phone or in my case, my father. The first one to kill the other player wins. Suffice to say, it got dull fast.
Today, I welcomed the Devil into my home again, and by “home” I mean iPhone (which in itself, is another addiction). I signed up for Twitter. I have 5 followers, all of which are probably selling something. Lets not fool ourselves. They are all selling stuff. I thought Twitter would be some horrible thing that lonely people use to stay connected. Then I realized: I’m just a lonely person who wants to stay connected, plus following Dane Cook provides me with brief comedic respites and frankly, what’s not to love about that?
It is actually kind of fun to read about what your favorite actor’s, writers, and singer’s are up to in an average day. It got me thinking. With all of these little addictions that take us away from being face to face with one another in any sort of recognizable form of social interaction, Twitter is this odd cry for help. People need to feel connected in an increasingly digital world. That’s what their little video on the website says. I mean, sure, there is such a thing as threat level STALKER, but its kind of fun to take stock of what I’m doing during the day or post that my boss is making me prune her cactus with my bare hands (NOT AN ODD SEXUAL REFERENCE, I SWEAR) or reassure renowned award winning novelist Neil Gaimon that its OK for him to want to buy a particularly nice table.
But when it comes down to it, why don’t I just go knock on my neighbor’s door and ask to borrow a cup of sugar and then invite him over for some tea? Is it time we rest our eyes from the glow of the computer monitor or iPhone? Everything that seems fun these days is a trap. Holy shit. We’re living in a booby trapped virtual playground.
That said, if you want to know what goes on inside my crazy head during the day, you can follow me on Twitter. @annrichmond
Or, if you are boycotting Tweets in general, stay tuned to this blog.
