And we sure raged together. He was so fun. I loved being around him. He had about a million and ten friends, I loved his friends. But he could get deep too. I remember one night we were walking around, talking about children. I ļ¬gured the world was damaged and had enough people in it, no need for me to procreate. I had nieces and nephews to suffice me in that department. He quipped back, āItās not about bringing life into a damaged world. Itās about giving the gift of life.ā I just thought on that for a while afterward. I felt that. He challenged me, and I respected that.
I remember most every pertinent thing he has said to me. One night, with glossy eyes, he told me my lips were sexy. He leaned in toward me while across the table at a Hookah bar and holding my eye contact he said, āDonāt tell me Iām not alone in this.ā I didnāt fully understand what he meant, as this was the ļ¬rst time any suggestive comment had been alluded, not to mention, drinking was involved. Plus, I didnāt want to enter into that conversation. He was dating other people, so I assumed this ācome onā was coming from someplace else (lower down)ā¦and I felt disrespected. āIām not one of your women,ā I contemptuously thought to myself.
I never brought it up the next day. Instead, I brought over my usual batch of bagels. Taking care of people is something I love to do. I had been scolded for not being up to par in this department in previous relationships ā I didnāt clean the right way or make the food the right way ā but it is easy to chastise somebody accommodating (I see now). With the insecurity of this former āshortcoming,ā I now speculate that I was overcompensating for doing a poor job before. And I didnāt recognize that loaded conversations like those that had occurred the night prior should be broached, and the air cleared. At that point I didnāt want to initiate anything romantic, so I kept living my life on a surface-level; lack of communication was simply easier, safer. I could get over the weird allusion and keep the peace.
A few months later we vacationed in Paris, visiting my sister and brother-in-law. It was one helluva trip. We had champagne toasts on the Eiffel Tower. Picnicked at Versailles, soaking up the sun. Midnight bike rides with baguettes and wine, we sat along the Seine River and shared stories. We had a blast.
At the very end of our trip, we were treated to an NYC-themed going-away party. We dressed in costume and we raged out the night together. Seriously, we took that party by storm. Imagine lots of gregarious ex-pats, lots of wine, lots of laughing, and us two interacting the way our chemistry just works. He and I just clicked, always have, and it was āmagique.ā
As the party died down he came over and sat right next to my side. I was very aware that his demeanor was oddly different. He leaned in close and these heartfelt, confessional words just tumbled out of his mouth. What he said may forever haunt me, and the words he said and the ways in which he said them changed me; they moved me. Because in that moment, the clouds began to part, and my mindset shifted as I realized he might actually have feelings for me, but the question was left for me to answer: does any of this mean anything to me? I simply didnāt have an answer; I was drowning in confusion. What about that potential new girlfriend back home? And all his friends rooting for them to āmake it?ā Not to mention one of his friends also liked me a lot, and I didn't want to hurt any feelings. All I could muster up was, āI think it's really complicated, donāt you think itās really complicated?ā His response was blank, stone-faced. I added that I wanted to actually have that conversation, but he had already forgotten, even moments after he spoke, he had forgotten what he said when I tried to readdress the topic. He was dunzo for the night. The next day, it was as if nothing had ever happened. He left to ļ¬y home, he mentioned nothing, except to say he didnāt remember how the night ended.
In the days following, I mulled over his confession over and over again. I wasnāt able to make sense of it: there were so many mixed messages. What does he mean? Everything? Nothing? It plagued me to the point of near insanity. At that point we were both drinking, unfit for a clear and honest conversation, but since, we didnāt have one either. Even still today, he just doesnāt recall any of it.
But all the things in our relationship became so crystal clear to me following his Paris departure. I sat with my sister ā talking and writing it out ā and then I began to see the clarity through my foggy haze of complications, fears and doubts. Sitting there in her Parisian dining room, I began to hear the music. It had been playing for days, and only now had I actually begun to hear the song that had been playing. The room was ļ¬lled with such vivid colors. Bright and bold, with lovely sounds. The beauty of the world was all of a sudden right in front of me, and I was an aļ¬cionado.
Everything in this exact moment still replays to me as if in slow motion: I watched my best friend carry my 2-year-old nephew across Paris. I have cried to this man: been my real self. He has rescued me from bad dates. I met his parents, and really liked them. He has mended my heartbreaks. He misses me when he goes away on business, and I miss him too. When I look across a crowded room, I often meet his gaze and my stomach drops.
There is a Yagan word I once found on urbandud.wordpress.com called āmamihlapinatapei,ā describing the meaningful look shared between two people who desire to initiate something but are too fearful to start. It reminded me of a shared moment in a local bar one night, before Paris. I looked up at him as he was leaving; and the way he looked back at meā¦then it hit me like a slap in the face: Oh my God, these are feelings. But feelings for him? What? Noā¦no heās like my Bro. No! Oh shit, what am I going to do? Weāre so safe here in the safety net of friendship. What do I do now?
Well, I jumped over the ledge, and merged my compartments. By that I mean I communicated in the most honest way I could: I sent him an email explaining that I was nervous, too. I couldnāt convey my own feelings in any other way but writing. So I went for it: I chose me and my wants, knowing that exposing the āreal Claireā was the riskiest move I could make. I chose an āusā and I tried. I didnāt get the response I was hoping to hear. He didnāt recall any of the conversation and he wanted to honor his new potential girlfriend back home, plus keep āusā safe in the friend zone. He always has a girl. I should have ļ¬gured then, but I am glad I was for once, true to myself.
I had a business trip to China soon after this Paris revelation which provided a necessary break from the drama. I chose to honor our friendship during that time away, and I was communicative and friendly, because, I ļ¬gured, my feelings were something I could just get over. What was most important was what he wanted. Yet Holy Lord I tried to make him see āit.ā I went crazy, pining for him to ļ¬nally wake the f*ck up and admit that he had those feelings inside. It was totally embarrassing, and thoroughly lonely. I mean, I wonāt lie: sometimes I just wanted to call him a chicken shit. But he chose otherwise, and continued to choose otherwise.
Trust me, itās been a bitch of a battle. It aināt easy ļ¬ghting a heartbreak in front of your friends, and our mutual friends (in fact it blows). Especially when you pretend like youāre not in love with the guy. I tried to change myself: I cut bangs, dyed my hair, wore new clothes, joined a dating Web site, traveled away... Yet I found myself slipping back into the cloudy haze of self-dishonesty again, miserable as my heartache kept blinding me from reality. And soon enough, I came to another T in the road, a moment where I just had enough of the irritating love bullshit. I could not wake up one more day crying. I was angry at love. It brought me pain again. Elizabeth Gilbert (whom I adore) explains this moment perfectly in her book, Eat, Pray, Love: āThe only thing more unthinkable than leaving [our close friendship] was staying; the only thing more impossible than staying was leaving.ā
Today, I feel good. It took me nearly a year, but I managed to fall in and out of love with this guy, without even a kiss. Itās crazy to think about. But hey, I can rock the shit out of a heartbreak. Iād write the manual: How to Rock the Shit Out of a Heartbreak (By Claire).
And what eventually came of this cloudy heartbreak? Well, my world came alive. My personal outlet was in writing. Plus some very good friends, really good wine, and a few terrible dates lit the way. An aside, these terrible dates were more than terrible, these were AWFUL dates. The French Dine-and-Ditcher is a classic (a story for a future blog posting!). With my writing, I have drafted so many variations of our story. While itās painful revisiting it, each time I do something new opens up for me.
I began to see and realize I was serving him and his needs over me and mine. And I was basing my whole life off the feelings, thoughts and actions of others rather than my own. I wasnāt being authentic at all with people or myself. I was not standing up for me, nor standing up for others. I was simply relating to them, cushioning them, regardless of their āClaire compartment.ā Not being real honest, but rather ābeing real nice.ā For example, I never said to him what he told me in Paris until months down the road. I was protecting him. And while thatās sweet, itās not real. Itās not truth, and itās constantly making me a victim. I was letting the world happen to me, not me happen to the world.
So, while it was awesomely painful and it hurt so good; I opened up not only to everyone, including him (weāve since ācleared our airā), but also to me. I learned Iām an āinternalizer,ā over-analyzing e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g. I wonāt āgetā something until I write it out. Itās the only way I gather my own thoughts, separate from the thoughts of others. Writing is my tool to communicate and through writing, I learned I love profoundly. Iām a Bohemian chick. I love being goofy and making fun of myself. If an event involves 80ās music, karaoke and/or me hosting something of some sort, Iām game. Iām spontaneous and wild, but I love getting deep with people. I want to laugh until I cry. I want to learn how to play my guitar. I want to travel the world, interviewing all sorts of Remarkables and sharing their stories through āClairities.ā I love collaboration and empowering people. I love to inspire and help others see their true inner beauty, let them see who they really are. I love ālove.ā I love everyone. And I love me.
Iām so grateful for him and that last night in Paris. If he hadnāt said what he said, who knows when I would have woken up. And while he is still in my life in some aspects, our space has changed; it was inevitable. But I forever want the truth, even if itās the hardest thing to hear. I will journey this world, open-minded and open-hearted. I want any future āhimā to always make the right choice, even if itās the hardest choice. He will choose me, and go into truth and right with me. He will be strong-willed and compassionate while also a complete goof ball. And in return, I will show him all of those things too. That is how I love, and want to be loved. Itās my complicated love: it challenges me, inspires me and supports me in everything I am and will be. I want to be deeply affected and unafraid, laughing my way through life. Because life is beautiful, even in those moments of heartache and pain. I forever promise myself that I will search my soul to be confident in knowing what I want, bypassing ego and fear, as that is the right choice and the right thing to do for myself and others.
