Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Sad Stories

It is the first of September today. It's not fall yet, not officially, but there is no doubt that summer is over and gone. It wasn't a bad season. It had some ups, and more downs than I personally knew what to do with. The nature of time, though-- good or bad-- is to pass, and so it has.

Fall is always bittersweet at best, but I think this year I am more sensitive to the implications of the changing year. My springtime, when I started writing here, was a time of thawing-out and of unexpected new growth. I melted away from the unhappy routine I had been stuck in for so long, and began to take risks with my life. Some of them were sloppy, of course; I got involved with people and projects I shouldn't have, and their ending were not pleasant. I hurt people who might have otherwise been my friend. I was selfish, and I did things I regret.

From March onward, though, I was in love. It was more tumultuous and bold and terrifying than it has ever been for me, but nonetheless its shaky and unsure wings caught air and I was borne aloft. I was alone, however. I was too quick with my attachment, too excited at the prospect of something that seemed so perfect, and I ignored all previous experience-- to say nothing of all my friends' warnings. Caution was unknown to me. I thought it was the beginning of something huge, and relevant: that this could be my life.

Summer came, and we slowed down. Suddenly, we weren't spending every moment together, reveling in each other's presence and person. We still saw each other every day, or talked, but he began to withdraw. It was almost imperceptible at first, but I can't help teetering on an edge of insecurity, and it didn't take long for me to notice it. By June, when we were working on an opera together-- myself as an actor, and him directing-- it became the worst. I came home from rehearsals just to cry, knowing in my heart that it was falling apart around me. We had countless heartfelt conversations wherein he assured me he cared about me, that I hadn't done anything wrong, that he loved the time we spent together. I am still not sure he meant it.

July came, and we had one last holiday together-- Independence Day! (Of course there is irony in that). By that point, we barely touched anymore. Advances I made, even small gestures, were largely ignored. I loved him as much as ever, but he was a stranger to me. A few days later, I finally got a chance to talk to him, and I told him that I needed to be at least acknowledged, and not treated as though I were purely incidental and not any meaningful part of his life. And then came the biggest blow of all: he said that he was sorry I felt that way, but that he thought we had already ended things by a mutual agreement some weeks before. I was devastated, needless to say.

That very same day, however, I had signed on as stage manager for a show he was acting in, and we would spend nearly every day of the next two months together. Not an easy thing for a hurt and heartbroken girl to do, let me tell you. At first we didn't talk at all; then, briefly, here and there. There were a few longer, private, tearful conversations, but he was not used. I began to accept the fact that I had meant nothing to him. Life went on. We made peace, eventually, though I am not proud to say I went through phases of anger and bitterness and very unfriendly comments. We finally resolved to be friends, as painful and difficult as it still is. We don't know how to act around each other, no matter how natural we try to be. Disaster, in other words. Or, awkward. No good, either way.

But, here we are. We've wrapped the show, though we're trying to remount it here in town. If we do, he'll be commuting to make it-- he moves on Monday, a solid five hours away. I don't know if it's really a good thing. I think I will probably take a few huge steps back in the process, but there's nothing to be done. We are moving forward all the time, whether we like it or not.

For my part, I am done with entanglements. I know I won't be over him for a good long while, and a nasty part of me says that it is only fair that I got my heart broken. Upon reflection, I have never had a clean break from a relationship (maybe such a thing doesn't even exist). I have hurt good people, changed them. I always called the shots. I knew from the start that if, anyone would break my heart, it would be him. In that sense I was at least prepared.

I am getting better, though; I am finding things that I love to take up my time. I am spending my time with friends, which is lovely, and sometimes just hanging out alone, which is just as nice. I have been writing-- a few poems, and recently a short one-act play for a friend's senior show. I have decided that I need theater, and I will be declaring a double major upon my return to school-- I decided to take another semester off, to work and to really build enthusiasm for the whole school experience. In the meantime, I have been getting my name out to the theater companies in town, so they know that I want to be involved when there is a place for me. I'll also be doing a show with the university drama club; the cast and crew will probably be comprised entirely of people that I know and love. Right now, that is the most exciting prospect I have. I think I will probably be okay. That seems to be the way of things.

"Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter-- tomorrow we will run faster, stretch our arms out further... And one fine morning-- So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

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