Omaha

It’s not complicated anymore.

On Facebook, that is. In life, sure. My life is always complicated. But my relationship status no longer is.

I flew out to visit Brian on Thursday, and found him sick and miserable. Not the same Brian. A little slower and sleepier. And perhaps a bit more negative than normal.

I packed mostly sundresses, as I know Brian loves me in them.

We didn’t get out much over the weekend due to his illness. We didn’t fly kites. We didn’t go on the giant slides he told me about. We never made it to the zoo. He never cooked me dinner. The virus sort of threw a wrench in everything. He just seemed miserable.

But then, I was miserable, too. For other reasons.

On Friday, I made a comment regarding the state of our metaphysical relationship. And it became clear rather quickly that Brian and I had different ideas about what we were and where we were headed.

I thought we were, in some sense, dating. He did not.

He pulled out the traditional male excuse. The one about me being great, “but I don’t know if I want to be in a relationship with anyone right now.” I told him that we were already in some sort of relationship, albeit an undefined one. He disagreed.

I asked him what he was afraid of. Was he worried that I was going to go off to grad school and find someone else? Was he worried that he would find someone better?

I told him that he and I weren’t getting engaged or something just because I thought we were dating. And that we could always break up if things weren’t going well. It didn’t have to be some huge, serious deal if he didn’t want it to be.

We tried to move past it several times, but the argument lasted most of the day.

We were watching a baseball game in the evening when he looked at me.

“You’re upset.”

“Can you blame me? You’ve basically just reduced us to the label ‘friends-with-benefits’.”

He muted the television. “I can’t believe you just said that. I respect you and I care about you so much more than that.”

“Do you? Do you love me?”

He paused.

I wasn’t expecting him to pause.

The first time he told me he was in love with me was back in November, long before we were whatever it was we had become. He’s told me many, many times since then.

“I don’t know. I love so many things about you. And I love you in many different ways. But in a romantic way, I just don’t know.”

God, that hurt. I wasn’t expecting it. How could I have expected that? After all the times he’s called me, telling me that he couldn’t wait to see me. That my trip wasn’t coming soon enough. That he wanted to be there so that he could hold me. That he wanted to see me in person so badly…

“Do you think about me as if… as if I’m just one of your friends? Or am I something more to you than that?”

“I need to think about that.”

What! I wanted to scream. WHAT IS THERE TO THINK ABOUT??? How many times have you told me you loved me? And suddenly, that’s just GONE? Suddenly, I’m just like any other friend? I suppressed the urges to scream and hit him.

“Okay. Think about it. But I’m going to need an answer.”

I spent most of that evening crying quietly while he held me. I couldn’t even look at him. Such an awkward experience to be comforted by the person who is causing the pain.

“I wish you liked me as much as I like you.”

“I’m sorry for you. Because I’ve been in that situation before, and I know how much it hurts.”

Of course, that wasn’t what I wanted him to say. It just made me cry more violently. But it’s not unusual for him to make me cry. He’s just never done it in person before. And it would be a lot easier to be mad at him if he weren’t there, within grasping distance. Giving me the sort of hug I needed. And looking so handsome and so strong. And smelling like comfort.

I was at his house for another three days after that. It’s hard to have a conversation like that with a person. But having to stay in a house with them for days after tremendously worsens the situation. Watching television together. Eating together. Sharing a bed (and cuddling, despite knowing that it wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had). And feeling the entire time like I had to be nice to him. Not only because I’m crazy about him. Not only because he was my host. But because he seemed so ill and uncomfortable.

Saturday was actually a nice day. We stayed in pajamas for most of it. We didn’t leave his house once. I’m pretty sure all I ate were four s’mores-flavored Pop-Tarts. We watched Battlestar Galactica, Firefly, The Office, Arrested Development, and The 40-Year Old Virgin. I got to meet some of his friends, who were delightful. I acted cordially toward Brian, attempting to veil my residual anger. I cuddled with him on the couch and attempted to will all previous undesirable conversations out of my memory.

I could tell you about the pretty things that happened while I was there. How when we went to the bookstore, I laughed when Brian gravitated toward the Military History section. About all the ways we applied the phrase, “That’s what she said.” How words like “shiny”, “gorram” and “frak” entered my vernacular (if only temporarily). How he accidentally head-butted me in the nose, making me cry for an entirely different reason than usual. How I had the combination of Frosted Flakes with milk, and it was delicious sugar heaven.

I could tell you that Brian drank water out of a special backpack the entire time I was there, and I made fun of it mercilessly. Or how he taught me to play a video game called "Portal". How we watched two Indiana Jones movies with his friends. Or about how I jumped barefoot in puddles on concrete in a blue dress as his friend used my camera to photograph the orange sky after a rainstorm.

But in retrospect, none of that seems to matter. I guess the negative outweighed the positive.

During that storm, I thought to myself that everything would be okay. That’s what rain always means to me. I took it as a sign that the rest of the trip would go smoothly. I wish it had.

Sunday night, we lay in bed cuddling. He faced away from me and said he had an answer for me. I immediately knew what he was referring to. He told me he thinks of me as a friend. A very good friend.

I didn’t cry. It didn’t seem worth it to get upset. I just inhaled deeply a few times. And I thanked him for giving me an answer.

“Thanks for playing.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?”

“No,” I replied carefully. “It’s not meant to be harsh. It’s more like, ‘We didn’t work out. Oh well. Better luck next time.”

The truth is, I didn’t much care if it was harsh. I hadn’t intended it that way, but he hurt me. And in that moment, if I stung him, I felt he deserved it.

“What changed your mind?” I asked it calmly. It was more out of curiousity than anything else.

“What do you mean?”

“You said you loved me, and now you don’t.”

“I’ve changed a lot in the past few months. I want different things now... You’ve changed, too, you know. In good ways.”

His back was facing me. Otherwise, I would've wanted to punch him or slap him or something. If I’ve changed in good ways, shouldn’t he just want me more?

“Did you know before I got here? Would you have known if I hadn’t come?”

“No. I didn’t know.”

“Then… I guess I’m glad I came.”

I said it calmly and quietly. And in the moment, I meant it. Better to end things now than to wait and let them get more complicated.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t fight. I didn’t try to change his mind. I know better than that. When things are ending, you just have to let them end. There’s no sense in not accepting it. I don’t want to be in a relationship with someone who doesn’t want to be in a relationship with me.

I’m not sure why I was so patient and subdued. Maybe I was in shock.

I found myself saying things that I didn't whole-heartedly stand behind. Downplaying my excitement about grad school and exaggerating my fears about it. I think it's because I know how proud Brian is of me for going. And I didn't want him to be proud of me. His encouragements pained me almost as though going to grad school were some sort of consolation prize in light of him not wanting me. I think I wanted to hurt him. I think I wanted to ruin whatever image of me he once placed on a pedestal. Some part of me thought that it would make things easier. It didn't.

Freud said that we don't fall in love with an actual person; we fall in love with the projection of our own desires. Brian talks so much about passion being important to him, but he hasn't yet found a path in life that he's passionate about (well, maybe he has now with his new goal of being an optometrist... who knows). I think the thing that drew Brian to me was that I had already found that thing for myself. Something that I am wildly connected to and willing to fight for. He mentally defines me by the love I have for acting. I guess I wanted to take that part of me away from him.

We held hands as we fell asleep. I woke up with his arms around me. And I just laid there for an hour or so, not wanting to move him. Eventually, my skin felt like ants were crawling all over it. It was like he was contagious (huh... he probably literally was), and I urgently needed to get away from him. I got up and washed my face, in order to give my sudden stirring some sort of excuse.

Monday was… weird. I physically attacked him a few times. I meant it in a playful sense, but I actually hurt him. I guess it was because my subconscious wanted to cause him pain.

We watched some television. It seemed to be the only way to exist in the same place and not let things get too awkward. But it sucked. Every so often, I’d catch myself staring at him adoringly, and then remember that I shouldn’t do that anymore. I have to stop thinking he’s great. I have to stop caring about him. Because if I don’t, it’ll only make things worse for me.

I did something that I know confused him. He gave me a rare CD upon my arrival. A demo of his favorite band, Platinum Weird (headed by his favorite artist and writer, Kara DioGuardi, whom he mentioned in his interview). Before I left, I uploaded it onto my computer, and then I left it there. He tried to give it to me again, upset by the fact that I wouldn't take it. But I couldn't take it. I knew that if I had it, it would just make me think of him. Too painful to keep, but too precious to destroy or give away. I couldn't take it. Having it in my apartment would've just caused me to cry more.

As I was packing up, I told him that this trip was the first time that I’ve gone someplace alone, where I wasn’t going to or from my family.

“And how was it?” The way he asked made me think of a bed and breakfast owner wanting me to rate my stay.

“My feelings are mixed," I said, before hugging him. "I'm not gonna lie."

He dropped me off at the airport entirely too early. (In fact, I composed the majority of this post at the airport, making it difficult for me to remember to put anything in past tense.) As we parted ways, I hugged him.

“Thanks for coming to visit.”

“Thanks for having me.”

“I’m really glad you came.”

I let that one hang in the air.

“Have a good flight.”

“Thanks. I hate-love-hate you.”

“Um. Okay. I’m not sure what that means.”

“Neither do I.”

“Write me a letter or two while I’m in the desert? Even if it’s just to say that you’re enjoying Battlestar Galactica.”

“I will. After all, I love-hate-love you.”

And that was that.

Weeks ago, we were talking on the phone, and I mentioned my fear: that I would go to visit, and we’d realize that whatever connection we had only worked over the phone. That be being away from each other, we were filling in the missing information with things we liked. That we had built each other up to be more than we were. And that this visit would somehow make us fall apart.

“That’s not going to happen,” he said. And I trusted him. I guess I shouldn’t have.

All those times when he said I didn’t have to worry that I might do something wrong that would make him stop loving me… I believed him.

And look at the result. He doesn’t love me. Brian doesn’t love me anymore. And I can’t help but think that if even Brian can stop loving me that suddenly, that anyone would. I will never find anyone to love me. Because Brian did. And then he didn’t.

He has said in the past that the more he learned about me, the more he loved me. Even if I told him something less than positive or flattering, it made him adore me more because I had chosen to share it with him. Clearly, that didn't end up being the case at all.

I trusted him. I believed him. I’ve never put as much faith in another person as I have with Brian. I opened up with him. I told him things that I would never tell anyone else. And now I feel betrayed. And broken.

I’m not in any sort of relationship now. Not even a metaphysical one. And I’m not going to be over it for awhile.

There's always a level of disappointment when the potential you saw in something didn't pan out. I think that's especially true when it comes to dating. But this is different than my other experiences.

I’m wounded.

Not in the way I was when I broke up with my first ex. I was the one who ended things. I was in control. And although the process was painful, I felt free when it was over.

I’m numb.

Not in the way I was after my second ex. He broke up with me, but my heart was never really in it. With him, I just didn't care.

I’m single.

But this time is different. This time, I’m really hurting. A week ago I was writing everything I loved about him, and now I’m writing about how he ended things. It seems… wrong.

How can I be this hurt when he was never technically my boyfriend to begin with? And if we were never dating, as he claims, then why do I feel like I’ve been dumped? And why, oh why, does it hurt this much? He may have been a metaphysical boyfriend, but my pain sure doesn’t feel metaphysical.

I don't know why I should be surprised. It should've occurred to me that, sooner or later, he'd realize that he deserves better than me.

I guess this is what I get for not keeping him labeled "As Good As Gay".

I never thought I'd cry over a break-up. I made a deal with myself long ago that I would just say "Thanks for playing" and move on. But it doesn't feel that simple this time.

I didn’t cry in front of him, of course. But I did cry. At the airport as I typed. On the plane, after I realized my phone had fallen out of my pocket. At the lost and found desk at the other airport as airline employees tried to track down my phone (prompting one of the employees to tell me, "he's not worth it, Sugar. It's his loss."). On the L, as I tried to read through my tears. In my apartment as I checked my email. I’ve never cried this much as a result of a guy before. Ever. And I hate it.

I kept it together at work today. My sadness is beginning to turn into anger. I have an urge to shave my head, doing away with the hair that Brian loves so much. And maybe to eat my weight in pancakes and turn my body into an unrecognizable blob so he can't lie anymore and tell me he thinks I'm beautiful. But I'm not quite irrational enough to ignore that these actions would hurt me more than him.

I felt like our complicated relationship was helping me grow. But the way things ended, I wonder if I'll regress. I no longer trust anything he said to me. All the compliments he'd convinced me to believe. My self-esteem continues to plummet with each additional moment I spend thinking about this. If Brian doesn't want me... BRIAN... Brian who cared so much about me... Brian who told me he couldn't stop thinking about me... Brian who said he loved me... Maybe there's no hope.

I just wish... I wish I could understand. I wish I knew what happened. And I wish I didn't feel so stupid for falling for a guy who clearly couldn't care less about me.

I feel weak. I feel pathetic. I feel alone. I feel worthless. I feel discarded. I feel unloved. I feel miserable.

Is this what it means to be heart-broken?

I can’t tell.

All I know right now is that my heart is still beating.

And at the moment, that’s all that matters.


May your broken heart keep beating,

~A~





P.S. Brian answered half of the interview Sunday. He finished typing his responses Monday, as I lay next to him on the bed. He read all the answers aloud. And I felt vaguely violated by the fact that I was allowing him to take over my blog, especially under the given circumstances. But it felt wrong to not go through with it. I doubt that I’ll ever let someone guest blog again.

P.P.S. I actually felt guilty writing this, because I don’t want him to read this and feel badly for what happened. That’s how much I care about him. I’m the opposite of vengeful. I warned him that I'd be writing a post about this. And that it would probably be bitter. And that he might not want to read it. Part of me hopes he doesn't. Another part of me wants to obsessive-compulsively check my statcounter until he does. Maybe things will be easier to express through the written word than the spoken one.


P.P.P.S. The conversations I included in this are recited from a memory that may have been clouded by emotions. Therefore, I cannot speak to how accurate they are. In my head they’re pretty close to what transpired.