dumped: a free-love story (the end)

1. moments misinterpreted

‘my bed smells like you,’ i texted you a week ago, our blissful weekend together still warm in my memory.

“is that good or bad?” you responded, a little joke to keep it light, always.

my winking smiley face emoticon said it all.

*****

“we’re in this undefined relationship,” you confessed unabashedly to my friend you just met, hopped-up on Red Bull and tipsy from the night. “but she’s leaving soon. it’s sad, isn’t it?” you held my knee for moral support and laughed. i smiled, a little embarrassed at the volume of your voice, but reassured that i wasn’t alone in feeling. my heart was all like ‘awww.’

“i’m really gonna miss you,” you had told me earlier that afternoon between bites of Bull Taco breakfast burrito.

“i know, i’m gonna miss you, too,” i said. we had been spending hours and days and nights together for weeks now, soaking it all up. “we don’t have to think about it yet. we still have some time.” 

we had two weeks. 

we ate our chips and guac in a few long moments of uncharacteristic silence before changing the subject and going to Best Buy.

“i really like you,” you said later that night, transparent eyes centimeters from mine. “what’s gonna happen when you leave?”

i wasn’t expecting that question. we’d done well to be living in our moments, enjoying each other’s presence, not getting attached. i had been taking cues from you, this whole modern-dating-USA thing new to me, foreign feeling. if we were in Costa Rica, we’d be living together with a dog by now. not so in the real world where people take things slow, i learned.   

“let’s just have fun and not try and make this something it’s not,” you had said six weeks ago.

sure, i thought. that’s safe enough for me, too.

i listened as you listed your priorities, your rationale for not getting emotionally involved – family, surfing, friends, work, and then everything else, including dating. you didn’t want to have to text someone every day. i lied and said that was fine with me. i wasn’t looking for anything serious with you either. how could i be? i was leaving soon, anyway; gone before you know it, another friend to stay in touch with on facebook. because that’s what this is, right? friends. anything else would just be too inconvenient.

so apparently it wasn’t the right moment to tell you i was in love with you. and it wasn’t the right moment to tell you that i felt it in the parking lot when you hugged me goodbye after you took me to surf at Blacks. it wasn’t the right moment to tell you that i felt it when you kissed me on the cliffs in the new moon after i allowed myself to be atypically vulnerable to you at the Padres game we weren’t watching, the hours drifting by as you talked about relationships of power and systems of oppression, name-dropping Foucault as my jaw dropped in awe, our parallel universe where time stood still as we sat surrounded by people who don’t get it.

it wasn’t the right moment to tell you that i felt it every time you reached for my hand or kissed me goodbye, walking to your truck after sleeping and not sleeping on borrowed air mattresses in other people’s spare bedrooms. it wasn’t the right time to tell you that i felt you feel it, too. when you took me to the airport and said you’ll be missing me. and kissed me goodbye like you meant it. when you were nervous showing me where you grew up, driving fast up the mountain to impress an adrenaline junkie like me. it wasn’t the right moment to tell you i felt that, too.

“what do you want to happen when i leave?” i asked, handing back the baton, trading heavy for light again.

you said you didn’t know. that you felt conflicted now and that this is what you were trying to prevent when we had our ‘let’s keep it simple’ conversation a few weeks back.

“we can skype…” i offered, knowing we probably wouldn’t. you started snoring on my chest as i stared up at the ceiling, wishing it wouldn’t hurt.

*******

two days later, i cooked you dinner for your birthday. we talked about your priorities again.

“but you’re my friend, and you surf, so…” now you seemed unsure where i fit in your comfortable scheme of things. i was grateful you had given me some time, for all that we shared and how special it felt to know you; honored that you had been texting me every day because you wanted to, not because you felt like you had to.

'you’re a breath of fresh air,' i told you once. you’d say things i’ve thought in my mind forever that i’d never expressed to another living soul. you spoke my language. i sometimes wondered if i created you, a figment of my imagination gifting me with your perfect blue-eyed presence in all its dark, human imperfection. childlike, we told bedtime stories and invented sing-a-longs we’d be embarrassed to share in other company. 

you’d let me in for a second, feeling safe. you’d close up again, insecure. i liked that. i felt like myself in all of my dimensions and wanted to share them with you in exchange for yours. i wanted to explore. it felt warm. and comfortable. and real.

your sense of humor felt like home. your intellect appealed to my sexuality. my heart went along for the ride.

your birthday texts started just after midnight, your ex-girlfriend among the first to wish you well. you didn’t want to talk about her. i didn’t let it go. i told you i valued honesty and openness in relationships and that i just wanted to understand.

“relationship? you’re leaving in ten days.” you turned toward the edge of the air mattress, away from me. i kissed the back of your neck in vain.

i wrapped my leg around you, trying to climb over the wall you built in that insurmountable instant.

“i like your legs,” you said. “they’re my favorite.” i let it go, probably a second after it was already too late.

i wrote you a birthday haiku you hated kindly. you kissed me goodbye and left for work. i wiped away a few tears you’d never see. that was Wednesday morning.

******

it’s Friday now, my morning headache predictable, escape by wine my Halloween poison of choice. i thought it would help me forget you hadn’t called, and probably wouldn’t.

my bed smells like you. unsure whether that was good or bad now, i rolled over, squinting into the uninvited sunlight at the window.

an hour later, i peeled myself off the air mattress, stripped the bed and washed the sheets, my hands, my heart, of you.

******

i never found the right time to tell you.

so i guess you'll never know.

i love you.

…you had me at Foucault. 

******

so this is what free love feels like. maybe in my version of it, anyway. sometimes it feels a lot more like free pain, if you ask me. but at least it's real. and honest. and maybe that's the point of this top 5 list after all. when i started writing it, i wasn't sure it even had a point (vulnerabilities exposed, frozen in time - for what?). but now that we've reached the end, it seems the openness in sharing, the rawness in authenticity, the subjective truth in real-life story, are what resonate most. when you can feel your heart through my heart. my words in the infinite abyss of cyberland finding a home in you and your story.  

the funny part about this last one, though, is that i still cry when i read it. even when i know it isn't true. even when i know he actually didn't dump me. and the four days i didn't hear from him were a mercury-retrograde mix-up of missed texts and moments misinterpreted. even when i know i created that story in my head and it isn't even real, it still makes me cry when i read it. how can it be that i got so attached to the idea and the feeling of being dumped, that even after being un-dumped and really and truly loved instead, that the story i feel is the one that isn't real?

we ascribe meaning to our experiences, to the cycles of connection, vulnerability, love, pain, letting go, healing, learning, re-creating and starting anew. our stories give life to those feelings, the lingering memories fingerprints in our hearts, minds, shaping where we go and who we let in and why. we share our truths and we feel our pain and others recognize it and feel it, too. because that's what this humanness is all about: being, feeling, sharing, healing.

falling in free-love, getting dumped in free-pain. we can feel that, so we know it's real.

right?

or maybe, in the end, they're all just stories in our head. 

dumped: a free-love story (part 3)

now no cheating. so if you're just checking in now, you have to go back two posts and read from the beginning! 

3. sooner than later

it was a schoolgirl crush-come-true as i held you tight from behind, our helmets in close conversation, my hair tangling long in the fast wind around the curves. six years of waiting in the wings of our more-than-friendship while your serial girlfriends took center stage, it was finally my turn.

you picked up the pieces from my freshly broken nose; i wove the stitches in your heart on the mend. you laughed at the hospital when i tried to will my crooked bones straight; i cried on the picnic blanket when i felt your tired soul still raw in your chest. 

our bodies liked eachother. a lot. our minds and hearts did, too. they still would, i think. if we had let them. maybe if i wanted what you wanted - a beautiful life, the security of stability, comfort in New England – we’d be each other’s dream come true. i still wanted to feel it though, even when i knew it would end. it was perfect in impossibility. 

“thank you for all the love,” you said when i left.

you went home to your family in winter, settling in. i shopped plastic surgeons in the tropics, surfing instead.

i visited you once there, too. 

the fire in us made the snow feel warm when my toes went numb in your white wonderland. i met your friends; the quirky bookstore, the local coffee shop where everybody knew your name. your mom made us dinner with the turmeric i had brought as a gift; your dad was impressed by our conversation, your arm around my shoulder. you liked how i felt there with you.

my suitcase slept in your brother’s empty room.

“come see me again soon,” you said as i left, our twenty-four hours of wintry bliss winding down to seconds at the station. i was eager to feel like this with you again.

when I got home, i booked a flight.

a few days later, you changed your mind.

i knew it would end sooner or later, but when you chose sooner, i had still been betting on later.

sad in understanding, i wandered Boston alone.

*******

2. but what about the moonlight?

your face was my vision in the sweat lodge on the full moon. dark skin, wide nose, thick lips, long dreds braided down your back. of course it was a sign of cosmic validation when i saw your missed calls, text messages asking me where i was. it was probably the exact same moment you were on my mind as i dripped hot sweat into the cool, prickly earth. we’re that connected. i was ready for us to be together. you felt ready to me, too.

i made you soup when you were sick. and ginger tea with lemon and honey. you came over for dinner like every night for a week. we watched bad movies and i rubbed your back on the couch. i really liked your skin on my skin. and we’d make a beautiful baby someday. we still might, actually.

i was excited to tell you how i felt.

but you folded first; my cards forever hidden in my hand. 

“i don’t want to hurt you,” you said, pushing tofu to the side of your plate of mystery vegetables soaked in low-sodium soy.

i was confused. i thought things were going well, like we’d finally made that transition from soul-friends-with-benefits to soul-mates forever and ever. it would be nice if our future rasta baby had parents who loved each other and lived happily ever after. i liked how that story went.

“i could never fall in love with you,” you said.

i smiled. i almost laughed. i wanted to cry.

“why’s that?” i asked, intrigued more than anything.

i thought you’d say something along the lines of “i like you better as a friend.” or “i only believe in true love, One Love Jah Bless.” that would have made sense.

instead, you said, in the simplicity of all seriousness:

“we eat different food. you hate TV. and you don’t like air conditioning.” you wanted carne en salsa, flat screens, surround sound and subzero in the bedroom.

this time i actually laughed.

then i cried. in the pool. by myself. just me and the moonlight.

i hoped you’d be gone by the time i went back inside. instead, you were on my couch skype-ing your internet girlfriend you had known for like a week.

by then, i was all out of tears. i really, really, really, really wanted you to leave.

unimpressed by my passive, cold shoulder silent treatment, you said to me: “you still have a long ways to go, Tara.” you meant spiritually.

i meant get the fuck out. like now.

dumped: a free-love story (continued)

4. day zero

i met you on my birthday at the Malcom X drum circle, beckoning you in my divine visualization across the sea of dancers, my yellow jeans fancy-free in Sunday afternoon.

“i’m Tara,” i said.

“of course you are,” you replied, tiger eyes glowing in intrigue. “Tara, goddess, you are devi,” you said to me, “dancing us all into the light.” i melted into your spiritual poetry.

10 minutes later, we had known each other for millennia. 

you were the most unique circus of a person i had ever met – yoga, surf, capoeira, thai massage, stunt acting, intellectual, entrepreneur, urban, suburban, travelled, spiritual, cultured, interesting; interested. 15 years my senior, your experience and passion a lesson in every conversation, i mostly listened.

you liked my touch, the chemistry in our spirits.

we braved DC’s version of the hurricane for breakfast, present in each other’s gaze as the wind howled. oblivious to those around us, hours passed in seconds. later, we sought shelter from the storm in warm embrace. mesmerized, i was into you, but something in me wasn’t. i couldn’t put my finger on it, but i was invested to find out.

it was a weeklong romance ripe with possibility, the two of us nomads by destiny, content to float like feathers in the wind.

“come to Mexico with me for Mayan 2012,” you said before I left. i had been planning to go anyway, of course. we started planning the trip, and then your visit to Costa Rica, and then our travels to Bali.

“i keep looking at travel magazines,” you told me. “and all i think about is where would Tara like to go?” i would have gone anywhere.

weeks passed and i still hadn’t booked my flight. you had passport issues postponing your trip. i broke my nose in Colombia and spent the solstice at home. you went, and we lost touch.

nearing the first of the year, i finally heard from you.

“i met my mate on Day Zero,” you wrote me, letting me down graciously, grateful to me for opening your heart to the possibility of soul-level connections you had written off in years past. 

i smiled when i read your words, happy for you. and not that sad for me, really. i now understood my inexplicable hesitance when we were together: you were a beautiful fantasy of my own design; a ghost, fleeting by nature, impossible to hold. 

my soul content in knowing you again, my heart didn’t resist letting you go.

dumped: a free-love story

when i tell people i’ve been dumped six times this year, the reactions are diverse - ranging from sorrow (oh no, sweetie, are you okay?) and scorn (nobody dumps YOU, what’s wrong with these guys? they must be total losers!) to shame (well, what are you doing wrong?) and sisterly support (at least you’re putting yourself out there, girl!). strangely, i can’t relate to any of these sentiments, and instead i almost celebrate the many times i’ve been dumped as a constant practice of love-and-let-go; validation of the free love philosophy i have been cultivating in recent years. i’ve found the lessons revealing, the love meaningful and fulfilling, the loss oftentimes heartbreakingly real. but instead of closing my heart up more and more with each successive ending, i think it’s helped open me up more to letting love in and not being scared of the inevitable pain in letting go. i would never forego the fleeting moments of eventual sadness if it meant forsaking the bliss of heartfelt connection with those i’ve loved and let go, this year and always. you never know when it will end, or how, but someday it will, and that’s okay. just because you know it will end, doesn’t mean you can’t love it while it’s there. sometimes, you love it even more. 

in High Fidelity, Rob gives us his “all-time desert-island top 5 most memorable break-ups”. in keeping with that tradition, and because everybody loves a good top 5, here are my top 5 most memorable break-ups of the year: free-love lessons from my heart to yours.  

5. the district sleeps alone

“i’d rather talk to you than sleep with you.” not exactly the words you want to hear from the adorable object of your affection while he’s buying you drinks at the bar. he thought it was a compliment. i wasn’t thrilled, but decided that was better than the alternative.

he made my trips to DC exciting and romantic, our chemistry magnetic and fiery from the start. we could talk for days.

his family’s Christian values made me seem exotic; my mind appealed to his thirst for debate, solution. i thought he lived a little too inside-the-box, a fun challenge for me to break him free from his chains of right-and-wrong and rigid sense of obligation to duty. i loved his smile, bright with innocence and wonder.

he took me to lunch for my birthday. 

he’ll be a great doctor, i remember thinking, embarrassed by my eggs florentine to his vegan ravioli as i looked at him across the table.

…and an amazing father.  

he was everything i wasn’t looking for.

we walked together downtown to our separate activities; his a med school lecture, mine a book release at the US Institute of Peace.

we met later on his study break at a friend’s, pausing for a kiss hello, awkward in novelty. we planned our next sleepover – how DC of us. before he left the apartment, we looked at our reflection together in the mirror.

“couple of the year!” he said, grinning. my reflection raised her eyebrows. i had to admit, we looked good.

“couple of the week?” i wanted to slurp my words back in as they dribbled down my chin. fuck.

my reflection took an interest in the carpet.   

i saw him again at a friend’s birthday dinner; he eyeballed my steak and ate grilled portobellos. he left early to study for exams. we kissed goodnight.

there were no more sleepovers.

“i’ll give you some of my sweet Shiva nectar, baby.” i texted him some racy Hindu humor from Baltimore, my chakras glowing from a spiritual weekend of chanting meditation with the legend Baghavan Das filling my soul with mantra delight.

no response. no explanation. i didn’t need one, i guess.

weeks later i wrote him to clear the air, hoping we could manage a friendship.

nada.   

now, a year later, he’s engaged to be married. i imagine she’s everything he’s been looking for.

…i bet her nectar is sweet.

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