March 2012
I started this blog when I was a senior in college, because at the time I thought I wanted to be a professional writer - whatever that meant. And somewhere along the line, I'd been told by “The Man” that maintaining a blog was a required prerequisite in this world. For me this blog has been little beyond a selfish endeavor, one that was initially meant to create samples for my part-time job as a freelance writer for a women's website. I wrote anonymously (always have) and submitted entries to my editor as needed. It wasn’t long before my friends caught on, and my silly blog became a go-to for their entertainment and dating insight. Sure, putting my personal life out there was a little awkward at first (from the get-go, my editor had me on the “dating and sex” bill so I was writing exclusively about hook-ups and other encounters with guys), but as it turned out, my friends, and their friends... they liked what I had to say.
I've enjoyed writing about this stuff, I guess. It's nothing out of the ordinary – just my day-to-day life and reflections on paper -- an exercise that has been a part of my world from the time I was seven, when I left home for 2 weeks at summer camp. The following summer I'd begged my parents to let me stay for 4 weeks, then 5 the next. My middle and high school summers meant being away from everything I knew, and everyone. And this meant letters. Since then I have recorded my life-- blogs, letters, emails, journals... And I often forget that not everyone can say that. Not everyone can dig through old email accounts or drawers at their parents’ house and come up with significant pieces of their life to recall and reconsider. Eventually, rereading what I had written became just as intrinsic to my life as writing itself.
As a working (and very social) adult, I’m busy. I don't spend time maintaining the blog. I don’t keep a journal. Occasionally I write long emails but rarely are they about anything too significant or mind-altering. I keep my passion alive with the reminders, with the trips down memory lane. I have found this to be the perfect hobby for me. Sure, one day I will run out of material to dissect. But with my writing major and freelance samples, my college days have given me plenty to work with. Then there is my post-graduation time in Tanzania. Hands-down the most trying time of my life to this point. My first serious heartbreak, Caroline’s suicide, and my brother’s second overdose – all within weeks of each other. And me, ten thousand miles away from home in total isolation, with no one to talk to but strangers and my Swahili-speaking students. Needless to say, I filled a few pages.
So here I am. Writing about my life for the first time in years, really. I want to write about hindsight. That magical 20/20 thing we always talk about. But 20/20? Is it really? Because “20/20” suggests perfection. Perfect clarity. It means having no doubt about what exactly it is that we're seeing. I am writing again because I have a story to tell. Well, it’s two stories really. But the second story is one, I think, that I can discover only through writing the first… One that I can discover only through this magical thing called hindsight.
******
The first story begins at a Belgian restaurant in midtown DC. I was 25 years old and in total party mode. Every year in early November on the eve of the Beaujolais Nouveau release, this particular restaurant hosts a massive gathering, complete with free wine, DJs and dancing. A great excuse to make merry with an eclectic crowd on Wednesday night. I was there with at least 20 friends so didn’t necessarily seek to meet anyone new, but at one point shortly before midnight, a European-looking man approached me. He was attractive but seemed a good bit older. I’m sure I was purple-mouthed and tipsy, and probably friendly enough at first. I was surprised when moments later I was still standing there, talking to this stranger. We spoke for no more than 5 to 8 minutes, but in that time I learned that we had both been on the African island of Zanzibar in August 2008. It was an odd connection and one that stood out to me. My time spent in Africa is a precious piece of my identity that is often tricky to discuss, especially during a first-time encounter. So it’s always a pleasant surprise to meet anyone who has spent time on the Wild Continent. In some cases, people who have been there can relate. In some cases they can't. Maybe this guy could, I thought. I’d be interested in talking to him again.
I didn’t see much more of him that night, but I gave him my number and heard from him soon after. For whatever reason, we never reconnected after that. He was traveling. I was actively dating and busy at work. For the next few weeks my friends and I occasionally joked about the mysterious Brazilian. We called him Cisco. I never imagined I’d see him again.
****
The following September, I was crossing the street to happy hour when my phone buzzed. I couldn’t believe what I saw. Francisco: Hey! You may not remember me but I wanted to check in. Thought maybe we could catch up soon over dinner or drinks?? Well, something along those lines. And I’m sure there was a smiley face or “xoxo”. Foreign men love that shit. What opportune timing. I was single and had recently sworn to begin venturing further outside of my comfort zone to meet new men. What better way to start than a date with the mysterious Brazilian?
For our first date, he asked that I come over to his place to cook. A very bold and unexpected request, I thought. I wiggled my way out of it and suggested going out instead. Hell, this guy could be a rapist or axe-murder for all I knew. Baby steps.
I was actually pretty uncharacteristically nervous for that first date. We met outside and walked into a tiny DuPont restaurant, where the TV behind the bar was glowing with the breaking news announcement that Steve Jobs had died. “Oh my god, what happened??” I asked before I could process the clip. “Are you kidding? He's had pancreatic cancer for like 10 years…” Oh, right. Fucking nerves.
Dinner conversation was good. I was pleasantly surprised to find by the end of the night that he could make me laugh (genuinely laugh – not just the polite first date laugh). He had seemed so serious and formal when he’d greeted me outside, complete with his black leather jacket and two-cheeked kiss. He told a story at dinner about a runner he used to work with and how the skin on his face was saggy from all the hours spent hitting the pavement. “You know, like how girls’ boobs get if they don’t wear a sports bra?" He reached up and pulled down the skin on his face, distorting it show me exactly what he meant. He looked ridiculous. I thought it was hilarious. I had already known that this guy would be interesting, with his globetrotting policy job and former homes all over the world. But he was also refreshingly quirky. And to me, quirky is real. I decided then that I wanted to see him again.
For the second date I agreed to cook at his house. My gut told me that my actual guts wouldn’t end up in his freezer, so I went with it. Once again, I was nervous (maybe the whole dating out of my comfort zone thing), but I was excited to know more about this man. And I knew that witnessing him at home in his personally tailored surroundings would tell me plenty. I was not all that surprised to walk into a candle-lit apartment, light jazz playing on a turntable, and remnants from his world travels peppering the main room. Yep, looks about right. I was, however, slightly caught off guard when he asked me to take off my boots upon entry. His apartment was apparently a no-shoes space. Hippie? Buddhist? Huh.
He cooked risotto, and we drank wine. We spent dinner conversation mainly on our families. I noticed that he talked even more than I did (rare), but I couldn’t decide yet if this would get on my nerves. For the time being, I enjoyed it. He was a great storyteller. At one point I looked up at him as he was animatedly talking about his sole visit to the deep American South, to Mississippi, and I caught myself thinking that the way he spoke reminded me of my dad. Curve ball. I also noticed that he mentioned his mom and his brothers, but never his father. I wondered about that.
We made out on the couch after dinner. He was a good kisser. When his hand started to slip down my jeans, I stopped him and said something smart about taking it slow, since it was “just our second date”. He balked at this, and said that I shouldn’t see this as a second date. What on earth was it then? He launched into an explanation about how we were just getting to know each other, and how he didn’t understand Americans’ insistence on formalizing this process by defining “dates”. Well, whatever. To me these were dates. A man inviting a woman to drink wine and share stories over dinner, then said man kissing her madly on the couch, touching and laughing. This “date” comment made me a little wary, but I was nonetheless intrigued. Who was this strange person who barely shuts up and has preconceived ideas about Americans’ dating terminology? And how is it that he isn’t annoying the crap out of me? I went to bed that night smiling.
The third time we hung out was when it really began. He let me decide where to go, so we went to a dungeon of a bar, dressed super casually, and we just sat in a booth and talked. We played with Google Earth on his new iPhone. We zoomed in on Bagamoyo, the town in Tanzania where I had lived for 6 months after college. We took an aerial tour of Zanzibar, trying to figure out where exactly we had each stayed in 2008. We talked about the beer menu, ordering a couple of draughts neither of us had tried. We talked about sports. It was normal. Very normal.
At one point I reached up and touched the back of his head, grabbing onto his thick dark hair, commenting that he could probably use a haircut. For the first time since I’d met Francisco, it occurred to me that maybe I could be in a relationship with this person. Maybe this mysterious Brazilian could be a part of my life after all. I was shocked.
It was after that night that I finally loosened up. The weird nerves were gone, and I was myself. I could feel him feeding off of my newly found sense of relax. He seemed more comfortable too. We interacted like normal people, like friends, not like a guy and a girl “getting to know each other”. This was when I decided to sleep with him. I knew he’d had a peek into the real me, and he seemed to like it. I liked what I had seen too. I’d never had any concerns that the sex might not be good. He had been incredibly touchy-feely out of the gate (Brazilian), and he had a great body. I knew he would take care of me in bed, and I was right. The sex must have been pretty good for him too, because after that night he really stepped it up. He was texting more, calling, wanting to see me. He showed up at my house the following Saturday morning with strawberries, whipped cream, and champagne – a “treat” for my roommates and me.
That first sex-night had also opened the door to a mutual favorite pastime of smoking pot. I try not to smoke constantly, but I think it’s the perfect supplement to a night on the couch with good food and good wine. And of course, good music. His music collection was up to this point one of my favorite quirks about him. He had shelves of vinyls from the 60s and 70s, some of which were closely familiar to me. My dad had collected records too, and has now passed the hobby along to my older brother. A nice cozy touch.
From that point on, we were connected. There weren’t a whole lot of expectations. I didn’t worry about where he was or what he was doing. He came from a very separate world socially, and I appreciated and related to his dedication to his friends and to his work. But the time we spent together was memorable and passionate. The sex was amazing, the curiosity was perpetually building, and the layers were slowly peeling away. I noticed that he had begun to make more of an effort. First there was the strawberry thing. He brought me a gift from his trip to Costa Rica. He talked about getting away with me, to Central America or the Caribbean. He talked about wanting to go out with me and my friends, to see me in my world, he said. His interest in me and in my life was clear. We were on a good track. His impending six-week trip to Brazil over the holidays did little but turn up the heat. We talked about being apart and how we would stay in touch. And we did. The sex didn’t stop just because he was away. He wrote emails, I sent pictures, we video chatted late at night. For me, it was fun. Really fun. And I was glad that we had found a way to keep the spark alive.
*****
I felt like I was going to throw up. Up to this point, I had tried to ignore this person – this female face that continually appeared next to his on Facebook. It had been about a week since he and I had ended things, deciding mutually and amicably to no longer see each other. His creeping hesitation, he claimed, was a result of his desire to move to Brazil permanently within the year. After he had returned in January, we had seen each other a few times. The passion was more intense than ever. I had missed him, I really had. But he was different somehow. He was lost in his head. He was sad. On our last night together, he said that he’d been through this before, and it would just be too hard to say goodbye the deeper we got. I knew that it wouldn't be long before my heart would fall completely, so I grudgingly agreed. I walked away from him that morning, sad but hopeful. I knew that it was probably the end of our story but that we had experienced something real and rare, and I felt cared for despite it all.
That feeling didn't last. The following week I felt off. My bearings were unsteady. I was confused. After much internal struggle, I finally accepted that there had to be more to his story. Our connection was too unmistakable to throw it away without a real shot. And he had been in touch too, telling me how much he was missing me – but why? It had been his choice to let me go. I had this odd irrepressible feeling, like something was terribly wrong. Like I was somehow in the dark.
Against my better judgment, I clicked on her name on Facebook: “Melanie Feliciano”. The first thing I noticed was that she had attended the University of North Carolina for her undergraduate degree. So had I. The second thing I noticed was that she had graduated in 1997, eleven years earlier than me. But most importantly (to me at least), she lived in DC. Ah ha. This eased my mind. There was no way he had a serious girlfriend in Washington – not with the amount of time we spent together, particularly at his place. And not with the frequency that we communicated by phone and email. Surely he wasn’t that stupid. Maybe she was a family friend, or a cousin. Still, I had to know. I Googled her name to find that her life was more or less broadcast online. She was a writer. I felt a pang in my gut at this discovery. I started to read the home entry on one of her blogs but stopped myself almost immediately. This was pretty personal stuff. Yes, it was on a public forum, but I somehow felt like I was being unfair, like I was intruding on her life (and maybe even his) against her will. Besides, I didn’t care about who she was or about her life story. All I cared about was who she was to him.
I then Googled their names together. Bingo. There was a video. A very strange video, I might add. It was a creative documentation of his triathlon experience from summer 2011 (ah yes, he had told me about this). She was behind the lens; he was her subject. There were scenes shot in the apartment that had become so familiar to me, with its brightly colored walls and ethnic touches. She was filming him early in the morning, eating breakfast. I could hear her giggles behind the camera. It was like witnessing a train wreck… it was uncomfortable and awkward to watch, but I couldn’t stop.
Before taking action, I slept on it. The next morning I was swamped at work. I had meetings all day. Yet somehow I couldn’t block this person out of my mind. She was a writer. She was a Tar Heel. And she was potentially dating the man who I had fallen for over the past several months. I had to know who she was and what she knew. In between meetings, I shot him a quick email: I'm aware that I'm breaking my own rule of no-contact, but this is important... Do you have a girlfriend? I came back to my desk an hour later to find that I had several missed calls from him along with a text and voice mail. Yep. I knew it. He was in panic mode.
I was furious. I couldn’t even bear the thought of talking to him, of hearing him out. What a sleaze. Finally, around 9 o’clock that night I texted him back. He wanted to meet up. I was in my PJs, packing for a trip to Chapel Hill the next morning. I told him he could come by. We sat in the den on the couch, and I told him to start talking, to tell me what was really going on. This whole conversation was and still is a blur. The information was coming too fast. I didn’t have the time or energy to process it, to ask all that there was to ask between the tears. I left that conversation believing he wasn’t with her when we first started seeing each other, that they were taking a break (I would later learn from him that this too was a lie). But he loved her. He didn’t say it, far from it, but it was all I could conclude. After all, he was choosing her. It wasn’t until he had me on the brink of love that he decided it was too much, that what he was doing was too wrong. So he shut me out. What a bastard. What a fucking bastard.
He tried to touch me, to hug me. It was one of the worst feelings I’ve ever felt. Is this what it feels like to love your abuser? My mind was telling me that I wanted his comfort, that I needed it. But my body was revolting. Every nerve under my skin was awakened and disgusted by his touch.
*****
I don’t know why I decided to go. I knew that it was a bad idea and wasn’t sure of what good could possibly come from it. But my curiosity has always gotten the best of me, and I was curious why he’d asked. After the girlfriend revelation, I had told him I didn’t want to see or speak to him again as long as they were together. They must have ended things, I thought. Despite this belief, I can genuinely say that I didn’t go into the evening with any hopes or expectations. I was still pretty appalled by him and what he had done, and I had started seeing someone else, which had served as a welcomed distraction. But again: the fucking curiosity. It’s one of my many Achilles heels. Another is live music. Gotye had been sold out for months, and I was dying to see him play. I have wondered if he knew that this particular bait was simply irresistible to me. Probably.
Of course, my assumption about the girlfriend had been wrong. I learned the afternoon before the show that they were still together. WHAT?? Why on earth did he want to see me? Had he not learned his lesson the first time around? While this discovery made me even more uncomfortable, by the time I found out it was too late. I was way too worked up for the concert. And still curious, even more so now than before. What exactly was his end game? What could he possibly want from me? Talk about destructive behavior. He had finally gotten rid of me, had come out of a 5 month affair with his relationship unscathed, with her still by his side. And now he wants to take me out to a public venue, take me out on the town? And for the first time ever, really. Truly riveting stuff.
Despite my belief in his lack of general integrity, I found myself still drawn to him that night. There was no sex, no kissing. Just him and me, next to each other, senses cranked into high gear, enjoying an incredible show. He got to see me in my element, at my favorite hangout spot in the city, relishing one of my favorite pastimes. At our next stop, a nearby wine bar, he shut up and listened to me and what I had to say. He looked at me dotingly and asked questions – he was completely tuned in. Ironically, I felt for the first time like we were a normal couple. Just out doing something we both love, with someone we love spending time with. I couldn’t believe that this was what I’d been missing. I realized (really realized) that he had been hiding me all this time. Hiding me from all this. This was real life, and this was her territory, not mine.
I woke up the next morning knowing that it was over between us. Both as friends and as anything more. My mysterious Brazilian was no longer mysterious. He was an open book, ragged and torn. Even with all of his palpable flaws, even with his dark secrets and twisted mind, I was crazy about him. He was just as painfully real as was our chemistry, and I shamefully wanted his messy heart to be mine. For the first time that night, I had begun to really see him. But with the transparency came the reality that my fairy tale was just that. He was a taken man, with issues and fears that were not mine to take on. Whether in 2 weeks or 20 years, his wounds would bleed out, and it would be her job to soak up the pain. I find myself sympathizing for her, hoping that she has the strength to take him on. She must be strong. Or rather, severely undiscerning. As a woman, I can’t imagine otherwise.
*****
I wish it were true—that
hindsight were 20/20. I wish I could
look back and see why he has been so afraid. I wish I could see his life with
her, see why he won’t let go, despite all the mess. I wish I could see him with his friends, with
his family. I wish I could see him with
his dad.
I wish too that he could look
back on this, on us, and see me. I mean
really see me. See that I don’t define
myself by my birthplace or my looks. See
that I’m not a mistress, and see that this role makes me uneasy and insecure. See all the moments in my life when I have
been through hell, and see that I am resilient, tolerant, and complicated as a
result. See that I can have a nasty
tongue when I’m tired, and see that I’m an artist in my own right. I wish he
could see all my quirks, and see my huge and open heart in all its flawed
glory. And see especially that I was clueless.
See that every action he took, every word he spoke, meant something
different to him than it did to me. See
that our relationship, no matter how real it may have felt, omitted the truth, or
any chance at the truth. And see that I
can never remember the "first story" alone, because our story is inevitably
two-fold. Our story isn’t just one of a
powerful connection between two very different people, but it’s one too of
deception and delusion. I wish he could
see that to remember it otherwise would be foolish and a lie. And see that as a result of it all, he never
really knew me, and that he never really will. Because if he really did know
me, he would look back and see that it was he alone who wrote our story. He would see that I would never purposefully
embark on any relationship that I knew would cause another person pain, even if
that person is the one holding the heart of the man I want to be mine. And he would see that this revelation broke
my heart into pieces, as I discovered that our love was little more than an
illusion, and that this other woman, this stranger, would probably be crushed
by our feelings, by our actions, and by our words. Maybe my account of the story will make him
look back with better clarity, not only on the sliver of his life with me but
on his full story. It all happens for a
reason, right? Perhaps. But I believe that every man writes his own fate, or
can, as long as he sees and accepts the complete truth. His truth. To stand
blind to that... well, it's an insane thing to do.
***
My hindsight
is far from 20/20, but there is one thing in retrospect that I can see clearly,
which is that I have meant something to him. The version of me that he knows,
or thinks he knows—whatever that version is—it has meant something. What exactly, I may never know. I am and always have been utterly blind to
his view.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
March 2013
Life is funny. The way it just unfolds on itself so ironically yet so seamlessly, leaving its puppets dizzying in awe. What was THAT?
I write this final chapter from the place where it all finally came to an end, from where I sit now, on my throne of 20/20. Getting here seemed impossible, but somehow Life, with all its puzzling twists and wicked sense of humor... It carried me here and it dropped me.
It’s been over a year since I sat on that couch with him, trying to take in and make sense of his confessions. After that night, the confessions kept coming. The truths began spill out, and with every passing week and month they just kept on spilling. Eventually, everything was out there. And a year later, everything was different.
Well most things were different. But some things… some things were exactly the same. Here I was again, staring at his brown eyes, listening to his words, which told me again that he just didn’t know what to do. His expression was equal parts confusion and shame. That part was the same.
This time, though, he and I were different. I was something different to him, and he was something different to me. Our feelings had evolved and our history had doubled. This time he had really seen me – seen my flaws and my open heart, seen me with my friends and my family. And this time I had really seen him too. Over time I had seen his messy conscience in both its exquisiteness and cruelty, and I had seen vividly how much I meant to him. By now I also knew about his father, and about his life with her – at least through his eyes. But now… now our plight was different. It was way more profound than he or I could've ever imagined. This time our feelings weren’t an illusion. This time we were in love.
In love. Yes, that was different. But it wasn't enough, because there was another consistency too – the only one that ever really mattered. She was still in his life.
How could he so easily betray her yet not want to leave her? This question haunted me. Honestly, despite where I am now, I think it always will.
Was my heart left broken in the end? Yes, in a way. But it wasn’t the kind of heartbreak that’s sudden and deep and takes your breath away. It was a slow wear and tear… a destruction that could never be described as devastating or complete, because like so many drawn-out love sagas, among the pain were periods of total ecstasy. Most of the time my heart felt happy and whole. It was only every now and then that he punctured a hole – sometimes small with a mention of her name; sometimes larger with an argument about our future.
In the beginning I had the strength to patch the holes myself, but as they grew in number and I grew weaker, I called on him to chip in. He did what he could to reassure me of his feelings for me, and he was pretty good at it, especially once the lies were gone.
And then – she was gone too. Well, physically. She left for another continent, for a 6-month graduate program. That’s when he really took on the weight of loving me. The punctures became fewer – nonexistent at times – and our hearts grew full to the point of near explosion. And that fullness weighed on him. It weighed on him for reasons he came up with by the dozen, but I knew it was the guilt. Eventually she would come back, and the jig would be up. He knew he couldn’t have us both – he didn’t have the smarts or the strength, and I held up my pride like a ticking clock. With the way he’d designed it, only one of us would be left hurt in the end. And despite what he said, I knew it would be me.
*****
Now he sits across from me, telling me he doesn’t know what to do, reminding me in his redundancy that things actually aren’t all that different, that the man I love isn’t all that different and therefore isn’t all that great. He’s still a man who lies and cheats, and still a man who says again and again that he doesn’t mean to hurt people, that he doesn’t mean to lie, that he knows he needs to change. And yet…
My vision blurs as I'm listening to his words. Blah, blah, blah, blah…and then I hear the last thing he will ever say to me. Look at me. You know that I love you. I don’t look at him. I stand up. I can feel his stare, but I refuse to meet it. My hand reaches down, feeling blindly and quickly. Coat, there. Purse, there. I turn my back and start floating away. I think I hear him say something after me but I don’t look back. I don’t answer my phone. I don’t ever see him again.
