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| a letter i could never send! |
| 05.13.04 (6:01 am) [edit] |
May 8, 2004
Kathleen,
I am writing openly because I cannot imagine writing in any other way. As you know, I have philosophical troubles with truth and trust, so I try as best I can to be honest with the people I care most about. And that isn’t easy. Openness and honesty are dangerous, as you know, because they tell us about things we aren’t ready to hear. But I think we’ll be okay.
Kathleen, before you left the party with that boy last night, you whispered into my ear and asked me to call you later. I called twice that night, and once more in the morning. It was evident that you weren’t there, and in fact, that you never arrived home.
And if you slept with that boy (as I am fairly certain you did), I shouldn’t have minded. He’s a good looking guy, you’re a strong, young person, and you have every right to do whatever gets you off as you can justify it in your heart.
But I did mind; I minded very much. And it hurt.
I imagined that you had led me astray; I imagined that my conversations with you, the ones that seemed so ‘real’, really weren’t.
After I called your room in the morning, I decided to take a drive. I ended up at a state park a few miles past Bennington. I found a bench, stepped on top of it, paced slowly back and forth, and did what I always seem to do in existentially confusing moments… I called my mom.
It was five am in Los Angeles, but she didn’t mind. She wanted to hear everything… from the beginning. So I told her about a friend that I had lately gotten to know better. I told her about dinner at my house, the first time, and the whatever-it-was special that I felt then and that I think this friend felt too. I told her about this friend’s boyfriend, and her disregard for him the second time we had had dinner. I told her that we drank too much over wine, and I that I had said something that maybe I shouldn’t have, something that perhaps I didn’t mean to say. I told her that this friend and I had planned to go to Boston today, together, but that she never came home. I told her that I had seen a different side of this friend, and that I was confused.
The first words out of her mouth were, “what’s new?” She reminded me that things with me never seem to change. “A new girl but the same problem,” she said. And I pleaded with her. I told her that this time it was different. She agreed that it was probably different. I told her that it was painful and I didn’t know why. She said that she once felt that way too. I told her that this friend is a slut, a whore. And she stopped me. She said something like, “Life is too short and too complex to demean yourself and someone else by making silly judgments like that. You know better; you’ve told me so.”
And I knew she was right. So I apologized, told her I loved her, promised to call her later, hung up, and stepped down off the bench. I realized that life, for all of us, is confusing and full of misguided and misinterpreted signals. The least I can do for you, for me, is mitigate my own confusion and maybe yours (but also maybe not), by processing my thoughts, putting them into words, and giving the words to you.
I walked through the park until I stood beside a river. I stared into the water, which reflected a distorted image of myself, and I asked questions. Is her relationship open? Did she really hook up with that boy? Did she sleep with him? Has she hooked up with others during the course of her relationship as well? Does she question her reasons and motivations for doing the things she does? What drives her explicit sexual behavior on the dance floor? Is it a feminist thing… or maybe a rejection of feminism? Is it cultural… or maybe personal? Does it boost her confidence when guys look at her that way, or feel that way about her? Does she need to be one step ahead? Is she trying to constantly reaffirm her strength… her power over boys? She likes that power, I know, but why?
And somewhere on route 7, I stopped my car, stepped outside, jumped onto my trunk, lied down, looked up at the clear blue sky, and realized, like I often do, that my thoughts and emotions were wholly hypocritical.
(I am about to tell you something, Kathleen, than I have not said to any girl)
As you know, when I was fourteen my father sat me down, gave me a beer, and said, “Greg, sexuality is expansive. You can learn to like anything. And I encourage you to do so. Just remember two things. First, never have sex with a man… that just makes things too confusing. And second, never do a girl in the butt… that’s just gross.” I laughed at the time, but later, I took his advice.
And I’ve been… umm… lucky enough to experience a lot in the realm of sexuality. Like my father, I am not classically handsome or overly manly, but I have a funny sort of intuition with life and with girls. I tend to understand needs or desires better than most people, and my responses are automatic. I talk the way a girl talks in conversation, so that she imagines we are on the same page, I move the way a girl moves on the dance floor, so that she imagines she is good, I kiss the way a girl kisses in bed, so that she imagines we fit together well, and I do whatever she wants or fantasizes about in bed (as long as it has nothing to do with butts or boys), so that she feels comfortable sharing herself with me.
I could tell you stories, Kathleen, and I’m sure you can do the same. But that’s the problem. Sexuality can be a very slippery slope. On the one hand, I believe (and I’ve been taught) that experience and openness is a good thing. On the other hand, sentimentality, for me, is so much better.
I’ve usually resolved this conflict by experimenting inside the realm of relationships… but all-to-often, those boundaries have been stretched. What happens when a girl wants to bring another girl into the mix? Or when a girl says that it would turn her on for you to kiss a guy? Or when you develop a strong emotional bond with someone else while in the midst of a relationship?
Or…. you get the point. Sadly, or maybe not, when difficult questions like these have arisen, I’ve trusted my heart… and done what feels right.
I jumped off of the trunk, got in my car, and drove home. I was still sad, but I wasn’t upset with you anymore. Because Kathleen, I don’t know as much about you as maybe I should know… I don’t even know what happened last night. (If I did, it wouldn’t change the content of this letter at all.) I only know that it's my place to understand and not to judge, and that if I had imagined something between us, it was probably nothing at all, or at the very most, alcohol.
When I arrived home, I put on my workout clothes and went to the gym. I worked out for too many hours. But when I finished, I knew how I wanted to end this letter.
Kathleen, I feel good about writing to you because these words are an honest and open representation (whatever that means) of me, and because there are no frills attached. I’ve realized, over the years, that I can’t and won’t play games with the people that matter most in my life. Games are silly, counterproductive, and very tiring… unless both people know the rules. Honestly and openness, on the other hand, create and sustain friendships like ours.
And so Kathleen, for you, I end this letter with the truth:
I am upset with myself for thinking good things about you. I am upset with myself for thinking bad things about you. I am upset with myself for judging you. I am upset with myself for not being able to understand that most things in life require understanding….
I am upset with myself for giving you a piece of my heart. I am upset with myself for giving a piece of my heart to you, a great girl with a nice boyfriend. I am upset with myself for not following through, finding the things that turn you on, and giving them too you. Mostly though, I am upset with myself for not being as good a friend as I should have been.
-Greg
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