“Conversation is like a tennis match,” my mother said. “You hit the ball to your partner and they hit it back. If someone hogs the ball it’s rude and the game is boring.”
The mothers of my adolescent group of friends used this analogy frequently when advising us on how to be engaging young ladies. We laugh about it today, but it still stands true.
Two summers ago, I was in a “me” place. I was worried about my future in New York City and my long distance engagement. I didn’t seem to have any room for anyone else, but of course I didn’t think about it that way at the time. I just focused on my own problems, obsessions, and neurosis.When I went back to New York City, I needed a place to stay for a few days before my apartment became available. My friend Pam had offered to let me to stay with her when I first got there because she had moved there a few months prior and we hadn’t seen each other in a while. I had gone to school there and was used to it but she was still adjusting. However, when I got there I found that there was an odd silence between us as we rode in the cab to her place.
It was so palpable that I finally asked what was wrong.
“You realize you haven’t asked once about me, right? How I’m doing? What I’m doing?”
My heart dropped into my stomach. I opened my mouth to protest but I couldn’t. When I really thought about it, I hadn’t inquired after her in atleast a month. “I’m sorry,” I stammered shamefully.
“It’s ok. I’m just… You know that’s not cool right?”
My mothers words from so long ago echoed in my head. “No. I mean yes. That’s not cool. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I’ve just been so crazed… and yeah, a little selfish. Just nerves and stuff.”
Pam looked out the window of the cab. She seemed so distant. She’s been the closest thing I’ve ever had to a sister and I couldn’t believe that I had hurt her so thoroughly, not to mention the fact that I had been so self involved I hadn’t seen this coming. She had called and asked after me, listening carefully to every development, every description of a fight with my boyfriend. Why hadn’t I asked about life in New York and her new job? “But you know you did that, right? You’re not just oblivious? I didn’t think you were like that.”
“I’m not like that.” I ventured. “I mean, I don’t doubt that I was.” I felt myself tearing up as we arrived at her apartment in Brooklyn. I was so utterly embarrassed. We trundled up the stairs and entered her studio. “I just had a lot on my mind. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know.” She offered me some water and we sat down at the dining room table. “I would ask about how you were and you would go on and on. You didn’t even ask about me. I just couldn’t believe it. I needed you.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, rather at a loss when considering what to say. I knew immediately that I had done a bad thing as soon as she brought it to my attention.
I mention this story, because Pam is still my best friend and my “sister.” We managed to get past all of this and now things are back to normal. She’s the person I turn to when I’m upset and I try to be there for her in that same way. Because of what happened between us, I am especially aware of conversation and my active investment in my friends, but I am also aware of when my investment in my friends is being abused as I had abused her.
I’m lucky to have a friend with so much history because if we hadn’t, she might not have seen any reason to invest any more time in the relationship.
Living in New York, you come into contact with a lot of people; you network, you meet people at your job, you bump into acquaintances on the subway. There are so many people that walk in and out of your awareness each day that it can be hard to keep track of them. You have to make a concerted effort to make time for the people who really matter and it is important that you choose those people wisely.
I been thinking recently about how difficult it is to make time for all of my friends and because of that, I’m developing very intense feelings about the people in my life who truly know what the two-way-street of friendship means, and those who take me for granted. I don’t have time for those people, especially in situations where I have so little time to waste. Perhaps it’s harsh, but it’s true.
My advice: When it becomes clear that someone calls only to talk about themselves and their problems, move on. When they treat you like you’re around to listen their problems but never want to hear out your possible solutions, tell them to take a hike. Tell them to find a therapist or a mirror and do their thing.
Focus on friends who seek your counsel and work towards results. Seek out the friends that notice when you’re not yourself. Save your time for the people who enter your life and both of you are changed forever by your companionship. Those are the people who are worth your time.
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.]
Two summers ago, I was in a “me” place. I was worried about my future in New York City and my long distance engagement. I didn’t seem to have any room for anyone else, but of course I didn’t think about it that way at the time. I just focused on my own problems, obsessions, and neurosis.When I went back to New York City, I needed a place to stay for a few days before my apartment became available. My friend Pam had offered to let me to stay with her when I first got there because she had moved there a few months prior and we hadn’t seen each other in a while. I had gone to school there and was used to it but she was still adjusting. However, when I got there I found that there was an odd silence between us as we rode in the cab to her place.
