hibiscushut

[hibiscushut]

Midnight Love Letter

Why is it,“ he said, one time, at the subway entrance, "I feel I’ve known you so many years?” “Because I like you,” she said, “and I don’t want anything from you.” -Ray Bradbury

I’m still a bit baffled as to how we got here.

In this wild and crazy world I had learned to keep you had an arms length. You were safe shielded by dormant phones, silenced ringers, and dead batteries. Yet the memories of you have impeded my every move. Maybe one day I’ll explain how often your name has slipped my lips. Or how many phone conversations and late night ceiling stares I spent thinking about something you said. Beyond a dull sense of longing and physical desire–it has its own merits, for sure–I’ve daydreamed about you. Often you’ve been the fodder for pleasurable adventures for a quick release. But not always.

I don’t want you to think I see you as a heroic figure, free from flaws and ready to swoop in to save the day. As you say, you don’t want to be fixed. And I don’t want a superhero cape flapping in the midst of my own valiant recovery. I’m looking for someone who wants to invest. Who realizes that the future is a crapshoot–so you better have a good partner to watch the festivities.

I want to be the strong woman you are proud of. I also hope that I can show you how much of that strength wears me out. I want to know I have a safe place to break down, too.

I have so much to tell you, show you, and prove to you. I haven’t ever felt this way– because this time I understand what’s important. And I want you to feel like you’ve found home.

The quote above was one that I read when we were friends. After I accepted that you were too far away, too content with your status quo, and too dedicated to the idea of your ex. Only now, I feel like that subway rider realized she was in love. And perhaps, changed her mind.

Yours, Melissa

[hibiscushut]

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

It’s midnight (happy birthday!) and I’ve just hung up the phone. And my mind is racing, as is usual for a Sunday night. Except instead of worrying about school, or the kids (first day of the new school year!) or whatever random volunteer opportunity I’ve roped myself into, I’m laying here thinking about you.

You, Russell.

For two years I’ve been your friend. And I’d be in it to win it for 18 more (God willing). I get that the beginning of this story isn’t ideal, or romantic, though I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of reciting Shakespeare on demand with anyone on a whim before or since.

In the beginning I pined after the idea of you. I wondered what it would be like to be loved by someone who seemed untamable. Someone too focused on his own self-fulfillment. Someone who, for all intents and purposes, would have been terrible for me. I’d fantasize about you. And then I’d sigh and rationalize it out. You were too focused on your ex, too content with vacuous and beautiful women, and too independent to be a man who would even open up to the idea of commitment.

I hated that woman for you. Because I understood when you said you’d never seen a woman more beautiful. I understood what it feels like to give unconditionally in spite of appearances. And I knew that you had to go through the grieving process, too. (And even now I know there are obstacles and painful memories that persist.)

I am not foolish enough to believe that we have this crazy life figured out. But I am humbled that you trust me enough to give something a try. I hope you understand that I do value that vulnerability and trust.

I engraved three words into Lee’s wedding band: Love, Hope, and Honesty. I believed that those cornerstones could pull people through any tough times. Because if you love, hold firmly to hope, and communicate honestly–there’s not much that can stand in your way. I am not a perfect woman. I make mistakes all the time. I lose my cool, get frustrated, and am not always a bundle of joy. But I appreciate being checked. I like rules and boundaries. And I am intensely loyal and loving to people in my close, inner circle. 


In the worst case scenario, I can imagine not finding a place in your life. I worry about the culture clash of our worlds.
And I wonder how you’d fit in my world, too. But for whatever reason, maybe it’s the timing or because I can’t think of a reason to not give this a go, I’m excited. I do want to talk with you in person. I want to see if there’s still the same spark and energy I left when I met you before.

Because I could never sleep with you again and still love you, my friend. And there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to lose that, too.

Happy birthday, Russell. I’ll have to hand deliver a care package soon.

Yours, Melissa

[hibiscushut]

There were no embraces, because where there is great love there is often little display of it.

I’m not being cranky.

I am sad for my friends.

And you’re right—the problem isn’t you.  It isn’t me. But they’re our friends, and I feel like we owe it to them to help sustain their marriage.

Maybe it will end in violent rage, a hideous divorce, or some miserable process of letting go—or maybe they can look at the core of their issues, and choose instead to work through it together.  We, obviously, aren’t going to hold their hand through the process…but they need friends. They need someone to see from whatever limited perspective we’re given, and offer whatever loving advice we can muster.  

You know Ryan better than I do. I imagine he is like most people who are in a self-destructive spiral. In the past, the two of you united to get through hard times but through destructive channels.  Ryan can’t afford a ten year vacation from reality. He can’t afford to lose his job and drink…and find and use women as band-aids through painful days.

And maybe it’s the fact that I am Melissa’s friend.  Or that I’m a mom…and I’m looking at this with a heavy heart seeing how much Ireland and Christopher idolize Ryan.  Maybe it’s because I have seen him do more than go through the motions of fatherhood. You are right; they are not his biological children. But marriage to a woman with children is more than a promise between two consenting adults. It’s a commitment to those children, too. And it takes a real man—a selfless and dedicated man—to pick up the pieces of another man’s debris.  And at the end of the day, call me a hopeless romantic; I believe that love has infinite power when it’s present and embraced.  

I see Ryan as a man who is torn—having to choose among a pressing sense of obligation, a desire to have and lead a family, and a fear of failure that keeps him from accepting the life in front of him completely.  Add to the mix a wife who is stubborn (a quality you’ve said Ryan seems to cling to) and a tendency to lean on alcohol to dull the extremes of life.

I feel like you two are accustomed to commiserating.  I bet Ryan doesn’t share his good days with you. Or, if he does, he looks for the moments to complain about so he can continue the conversation…and you guys are probably good at it. Aside from being “OK” and  “fine,” “miserable” is your next favorite adjective.  Happiness seems this elusive and imaginary emotion that isn’t an option in your status updates.  So in order to continue to bond—I imagine your conversations are much like the comments section of your favorite website.  Fearful boys with misogynistic tendencies who have a plethora of stories to tell about how you’ve tamed your shrews and put women in their place.  

You asked me, “Should I not be me? Then I’d be boring. What use would you have of me if I was someone else? Or everyone else?”

I like you.  I am thankful you are far away because I feel like I get to know the better parts of you.  And because I don’t expect any promises or commitment, you can be yourself. Or as close to it as you care to be. I’ve given up actually getting to see you again, which makes it easier too because then I don’t feel disappointed. But I’m not asking you to be “not you” here. I’m asking you to be a good friend and recognize that Ryan looks up to you. He sees the brazen, bold, and strong man you project and probably wants to be “like” you. “You” are not boring.  But it depends on which Russell we’re talking about.

Look, I know you’re really good at manipulation. I know you know what to say, how to say it, and how to rope people in. I like your manipulation. I like that you don’t tell me about the women you’re seeing. I’m not sure if you’ve actually lied to me about it, but I don’t ask pointed questions often. I like the endless battle of hope. And you can count on me, generally, to give you the ego boost you need to get through the day because I do—genuinely—like you.  And I’ve explained those feelings ad nauseam. I do not have many friends. But the ones I embrace I care for deeply.

I like the Russell that few people get to see.  I like your charming smile.  It’s pretty good.  And you definitely had me wrapped around your finger.  (In retrospect—I couldn’t have been a very challenging prospect. You really couldn’t have entered my life at a lower low than July.) And while I laugh at your bravado and enjoy your public persona, there are days I wish I could just wordlessly enter your apartment, give you a big hug, kiss your forehead, and walk away. I have cried for you on many occasions, and felt sick to my stomach recounting your stories. And the part of me that should just stop typing and shut up really isn’t afraid if you’ve played me well. I was warned.

And in this moment I am seeing two people I’ve grown to love, in spite of their obvious flaws, making all kinds of crazy decisions, dancing around what could be a beautiful life.

I didn’t mean to offend by saying you’re not domestic. I think you wanted a domestic life. And I think you tried to make a relationship work with your wife. No, I know you did. But while Melissa may seem neurotic from time to time, she does have a good heart. And it takes a woman with some backbone to try to support a man like Ryan. He’s big. :)  But back to you.

I am fearful that your current brand of miserable “kill yourself” rhetoric is not what Ryan needs right now. When you were at your lowest…he was there for you. I don’t know all of the details. And maybe when you were ready to end it, Ryan handed you some aspirin and a razor blade and challenged you to make a choice—I don’t know. And I hope that he’s not actually to the point where he’s so unhappy that you two go off in a Thelma & Louise blaze of glory. I guess I just wish it felt like we were united for good here. It’s not helpful for me to be a voice of reason for them both, because Melissa needs me to be “her” friend.  And because I’m a woman, it’s awkward to approach Ryan because it shouldn’t be my place to be a mediator. But I don’t think Ryan is going too far outside of his social group to seek out any support that might bring greater healing and a renewed desire to enjoy his day-to-day life.

It’s not bad here. It’s not a bad life, Russell. The people are ridiculous and it’s devoid of any culture…and maybe I’m simple-minded for enjoying the simplicity of raising children and having someone to cuddle with at the end of a long work day. I never got bored with married life. Sure, sex gets stale if you don’t work at it. But I never wanted anything, or anyone else. And maybe I am sad because I don’t want to see more people lose that stability. Particularly with children involved. Melissa’s ex was a tool. (And I give people the benefit of a doubt.) And Ryan loves those kids. He loves Melissa, too.  I hope.

I’m not sure why I feel frustrated with you in this moment. I thought maybe typing this out would help me understand it. I do apologize, because I know this isn’t about you.  And you don’t deserve to be blamed.

I don’t need you to be someone else here. I need you to challenge your friend to stop complaining…or to seek out better ways to get through the day. I need you to try to give him a pep talk. To shake his shoulders and tell him to snap out of it. I need you to try a different path. Because, whether or not you realize it, you are a better brother and friend than anyone else he has in his life…and there’s a burden of responsibility that comes with being a good friend.  You have to want a better life for the people you love than you feel you deserve. It’s sort of like a marriage. You have to love more than your spouse. You have to try harder, be more devoted, and take on more responsibility than you ever seek to receive. And hopefully, if you have the right friends, everyone gets taken care of. One way or another.

That’s what being not like “everyone else” looks like.

[hibiscushut]

My affections then are most humble

It’s not okay. I woke up crying and haven’t stopped. So it’s 2:45 and instead of allowing verbal diarrhea to fill your text messages, here goes.

Since honesty is always the easiest route, please be careful to recognize I haven’t tempered my words. I trust you’ll recognize the truth and not judge me too harshly.

I never wanted to be a meaningless fling to you. Because earning your respect is far more valuable than the physical intimacy you willingly give away to strangers. I love you, my friend. And the fact that I do want to try again makes it difficult to lean on you right now. I intensely value our friendship. It’s not something I care to toss to the side when I choose to invest in someone new. And I’m not sure I can reconcile those two desires. Because, on some level, speaking with you while meeting someone new would be akin to cheating. Oh. There are so many thoughts crashing through my mind right now that make so much sense, but my choices all seem nebulous.

This would all be so much easier if. That phrase starts too many of the sentences.

Saying goodbye to you now would hurt. And I want equally to show you that you are deserving of love. You are so clearly not the man who I want for my children, or for my heart. There has to be someone out there who has the capacity and desire to take care of those two most precious things.

And in this stormy world I don’t want to be tough. And I don’t want to lose the remaining shreds of tenderness I have. In some ways I’d love to be the girl you grab from the street to show a ridiculously romantic time to, who walks away with a really beautiful story.

But I worry about you, Russell. I’m sure you’re rolling your eyes with the assurance that you’ll be “okay.” And, strangely enough, I bet I lost you with the mention of love.

At Challenge Day–this workshop for teenagers–they ask you (as an adult facilitator) to sit, knee to knee, with 4-5 students. We each go around and respond to the sentence starter, “If you really knew me, you would know…”

Several years ago I gave a speech in front of over 3 or 4 thousand teachers and I told my Challenge Day story. It’s on YouTube. I look terrible. But at that time, I said, “If you really knew me, you would know how much I love my job.” I continued by also acknowledging how much I loved my husband, and Liam…but I loved my job because I gave and received so much love to and from my students. At times. I had what felt like 50 children–all weighing heavily on heart. I wept for them at night and gave reserved hugs for them by day. I left them notes explaining how proud they made me, and I chose not to bother them when I knew life was too tough to stay awake in class. I fed them, nurtured them, and parented them in the most volatile years of their lives. And they repaid me with their devotion, their hugs, and now–their delayed words of thanks as they begin to have their own children and grow up.

I am a nurturer. And, perhaps, a fixer. And we happened to collide in what is the worst juncture of my life. I am in no state to start a serious relationship. But I only feel satisfied and like I’m living my purpose when I’m investing and giving to others.

If I were still in the classroom, a real brick and mortar one, perhaps this would be easier. It would be worse because I’d be experiencing the stress of the educational system. But I’d have a place to invest where the need is so much greater than my capacity for love.

So it feels silly that I choose to love you, when you are so closed off to receiving it. And what’s more ridiculous is that I’m not discouraged. Because I want so much to prove to you that people love you everyday. It’s not always a two-way street. Just because you place your hand up and state firmly that you will never love again doesn’t mean you won’t be loved.

So, my friend, it’s not okay. I wanted to see you, and the opportunity was so fleetingly exciting. But I understand. And while I never wanted to be a meaningless story, I also never want you to be one, either.

[hibiscushut]

5:25 is no time to wake up

I was thinking…since I clearly sleep so deeply that I find it necessary to wake up to process anything pressing, that I both hate and love talking to you.

First, I hate that I don’t actually talk with you. I believe we’ve spoken at length perhaps a half-dozen times (mostly when I was a hot mess and probably wasn’t the most interesting person so speak with) and the rest of the time we hash it out using fingers and shitty voice to text messaging.

But then, I like texting. Because on some level I have to force myself to accept what I’m writing. Or at least, it becomes more real when what I’m thinking ends up on the screen. And much like a counseling session, I find that I let more truth escape from my thoughts than I’d typically allow when we “talk.”

And I’m hyper-protective of our “conversations.” Melissa will ask, “Have you talked with Russell lately?” (Mostly because she’s bored with her own life and her sole mission seems to be to fill mine with random good-looking strangers) and I’ll share funny thoughts or messages that come to mind. But really, your friendship is precious to me. And I’m sure that’s why it drives her bananas that you and Ryan are close. I’m not sure what it is about you that cuts to the core of people.

And it’s no wonder that I love reading your writing. I mean, it’s the only real form of communication you seem to relish. Aside from intense physical intimacy. Even in the few times we’ve spoken, it’s generally been to hear the heavy breathing and evidence of the physical reaction you illicit after breaking me down in written form.

The minutiae of day to day life is both boring and intriguing to you. Even if we have a trivial conversation about it, you wait to hone in on a piece of it that you can analyze, comment on, or turn into a crack where you force yourself in to tear open a deeper truth.

And that’s where the sensitivity and protectiveness begins. I don’t care to share that with anyone else–or at least, with Melissa. Because there are too few people on this world who understand intimacy. And I hope that’s where we’re alike.

I don’t need to be the only woman you sleep with, the only woman you talk to, or even your favorite of either of those categories. But I do want to be one of the only people who you feel comfortable being honest with. Because as much as I miss you, or find myself dreaming of flying in and never leaving the bedroom, I want to be able to trust you implicitly. I’m not sure if that quality is one that many people embody. Hell, I’m not sure if you do. But I keep “talking” with you because I hope you are trustworthy.

So when you visited and I laid there watching your phone blow up like a fireworks show and Brunna (Brenna? Whatever.) sent her crazy line by line accusations of how horrible a person you were, and you dismissed it by saying, “I told her to leave,” it made me wonder…what the fuck did he say to her? Did he rip her open, dissect her inner thoughts, dreams, and desires and then get bored?

Aside from being an admittedly jealous woman, (it drives me bonkers that she still likes every picture on your Instagram) I wonder why (after the written stream of accusations) she continues to cling to you. How did she get over her crazy rant? And why, dear god, can you possibly enjoy talking to someone whose grammar is so terrible? ;)

And maybe that’s why I don’t share you with Melissa. Because I share pieces of me that I don’t want her to know. No. That’s not it. Because I love the pieces of you that I do know. And there’s intimacy there…in not sharing. And the only way to feel trust is to be trustworthy.

It’s now 6:18 and the sun is rising…so Addie wakes up and comes into my room and asks to lay with me in bed. But first she says, “First, I have to get something. I have to go get my book on my top bunk. From my bedroom.” I smile and watch as my daughter shuffles in her pink pajamas to return with “her” copy of Don Quixote. Which she is now randomly turning pages in. She likes to claim my books as her own. Then pretend to get lost in their pages. She’s a woman after my own heart.

She finally asked, “What’s this book about?” And I responded, “It’s about a man…who goes on an adventure.” She said, “Yeah…that’s just what I need…”

So I better go. She’s requesting a back scratch. And as much as a pleasant distraction as you have been, my friend, this toddler is a demanding woman.

[hibiscushut]

The truth needs so little rehearsal

I started my first relationship when I was 16. He was my best friend from church, a tall and awkward boy with a lopsided grin and wonky haircut and a penchant for Star Wars and video games. He followed me around a youth camp for a weekend, while I battled with whether I should be annoyed by his constant presence, or give in to the curiosity of what boys had to offer.

We kissed in the woods and he became my first. My first kiss, my first love, and my first heartbreak three years later.

I loved him with the same passionate intensity I remember seeing in the eyes and hearts of the teenagers I teach today. When puffy-eyed girls came to throw their woes of breakups and loss on my teacher’s desk, a piece of my heart broke with them. Because I remember how deep the love was.

I find myself defending the depth of what some might easily describe as puppy love. Colleagues would roll their eyes over the antics of teenagers entering and exiting these fleeting moments of love. I could see the yearning to be loved in the eyes of young women who hoped to fill the void left by absent fathers, insufficient mothers, and robbed childhoods. I saw them beg to be loved–often looking for the kind of emotional support only given by someone committed equally to reckless abandon–a disaster in the making from the start.

No 17 year-old boy is equipped to provide the support needed to save these girls. But God save them, they’d try. Or they’d enter into the equation unknowingly committing themselves to a business venture doomed to failure. No foundation, a house waiting to crumble under the weight of years of neglect and of jerry rigged patchwork repairs.

But it’s certainly fun while it lasts.

Because in those three years I learned what it was to love without fear, to explore our bodies knowing full and well that neither of us had a clue what to do…I remember being so embarrassed to buy condoms for our first time that we drove an extra 15 minutes away to find the Walmart where we didn’t think people we knew shopped.

I remember getting so irritated to have to buy them that we opted to buy the huge box (which I jokingly referred to as the “Family size.”) We had to sneak…which was part of the fun. Because his mom was a snoop, we hid a backup condom in a random Aviary Guide leftover from Scouting, so sex became referred to as “Birdwatching.” I learned a lot about birdwatching in 3 years.

I learned how my blood flows, how my back arches, and how my fingers find sheets or clothing or skin to grip in anticipation of release. I became skillful in avoiding a stick shift on my left knee and how to use a headrest for support when fucking in the front seat. I lied, made him lie, and spent too many nights “at the library” to justify my lackluster 3.8 GPA–so I could feel the intimacy of another kindred soul, just trying to get through life.

And it was beautiful. I was so very lucky, I didn’t have drama or insecurity, or unfulfilled curiosity in high school. I got to love with reckless abandon until college came, and we went our separate ways.

The scariest day came when I realized I was alone. That my silly dreams were never going to work out. And I had to start over.

So I did what every good trooper does. I wiped my tears, packaged up the tender pieces left from my broken heart, and I became a woman.

And I was fearless. Fearless because I knew that power comes from being the person who cares the least.

I knew what I liked, and for an 18 year old, that’s dangerous knowledge. And it’s sexy. I could be bold and courageous and get what I wanted because I laid out the terms (with no uncertainty) that I was willing to offer XYZ in exchange for ABC. I’m not looking for love (I wasn’t) and you can’t fall in love (or I’m out.)

So I thoroughly enjoyed most of my twenties. I had short affairs, long-standing agreements, and some in-between. I knew when it was time to cut out, reiterate the rules, and from time to time, when to cheat to seal the deal.

Because I was powerfully in control of my wants, my needs, and desires.

I am not proud of some of the people I’ve hurt along the way. In retrospect, a few deserved a chance at more. But I don’t live with an ounce of regret. Until perhaps, now.

Because when I met Lee, he was broken. And I was growing tired of the game. So I swooped in, gave him a shoulder to cry on, and mended his brokenness with my faithful determination to make his (and my) life better. I was devoted in a way I had never been. Because I was rewriting the rules and I figured (I’m laughing as I type this) that if I did this “right” that it had to work. If I closed my eyes to curious contenders, and became his cheerleader, that I would be able to fill the gaps left from his broken childhood, his negligent mother, and his fearful single father.

I could be his hero.

A month ago in counseling Deborah (who I am convinced is the smartest listener I’ve ever met) asked him, “Do you believe that unconditional love exists?” And he quickly responded, no hesitation, “No, of course not.”

I’m not sure I spoke for the rest of the session.

People with Attachment Disorder, which loosely is described as a condition that stems from an insecure childhood from birth-3 years of age, often feel that no one is capable of a love that conquers all. Because of this, when things are “too good” they self-sabotage.

For me, that meant discovering a series of indiscretions including a year-long affair with my best friend, and a half-dozen other affairs over the last five years.

I loved this man unconditionally until I just felt stupid.

So everyday I choose to love my children, with passionate intensity, because I’ll be damned if they grow up believing that true love can’t exist. And I’ve tried over the last year to find joy in everyday living with my husband, because I have hope that he’ll learn to accept his past and embrace the life that’s sitting in front of him.

But I owe it to myself and my children to love myself unconditionally, too,

In retrospect, if I’m really being honest with myself, I never took that packaged shattered heart off my high school shelf. It’s still tucked away under piles of useless shit gathered over the years.

When you described the part of sex when someone really lets go, the sentiment slammed me in the stomach. In truth, it made me cry. I know exactly what that moment is, how it feels, and why it would be an intoxicating moment to share with someone.

You’re an odd duck, Dr. Wiener. Too smart for your own britches. You’re too smart, too fit, and too self-confident for my taste. I feel like I’d never feel beautiful enough, thin enough, or smart enough to rally wits in a debate. I have a 156 IQ, but I’m not well-read and I don’t have a slew of letters scrambling after my name. I’m 6 classes shy of my Masters because I had kids. You win on too many counts. And you know how to ask the right questions and dig in to capture the essence of a conversation, minus the bullshit I’ve learned to use. I feel like sleeping with you would be a battle. I’d be too concerned with telling my brain to shut up, while attempting to keep my head above water. And let’s face it. I’m a hot mess.

Talking to you is like being forced to dance in front of a floor to ceiling mirror. I love dancing–just don’t make me watch.

But I am very thankful to have met you. You have made me think about my life in a new way. And when you talk about integrity, it made me realize something very important. I never want to act in a way that I have to make unnecessary excuses for.

Since we started talking, I’d be lying if I said I’ve gone an hour without thinking about you. I’m telling you this with the caveat that I’m a level-headed woman and you don’t have to reiterate that it’s foolish to “have feelings” for you. I get it. I know the rules. You’re not my hero and you can’t fix things, blah blah blah. You’re just a beautiful escape. You aren’t fully real to me, so I want to know more.

The day will come when we go 2, then 3 weeks without a text or call, and you’ll eventually be a fond memory or someone I could call for an honest appraisal of life. No hard feelings.

And maybe, who knows, we’ll meet and it’ll be one of those moments when we see each other and it’s like waking up after a drunken hook-up and the person you thought you met doesn’t match the memory. Unfortunate, but fun while it lasted.

It’s 12:57. And I’m sleepy. I’ll read over this once, but know it’s the best draft you’re gonna get. I’m not writing to be nearly as witty as you. You win. ;)