Bygone love letter

I still feel a flicker. It's dim and very occasionally offers brief waves of warmth. Sometimes, an echo of what I felt for you glances off of another memory shrinking in the distance behind me. I can't help but compare what I feel with others today and what I felt with you back then, though that comparison becomes more hazy with distance, which is sometimes frustrating, other times relieving. Sometimes, a place, a person, or a song reminds me of something about you, and for a crystal clear instant, I remember what it felt like. I smile at the joy I felt and fondly embrace the scene...to give it a hug goodbye. I think of you still, but I feel at peace with moving forward. It feels right. We've grown apart, and there is no starting where we left off, if there is ever any kind of relationship at all in store.

Goodness knows I see things, including you, differently now than I did when I hoped so fully that you were the one. Call it irreconcilable differences. But that doesn't change the fact that you--the version of you I perceived--are woven into my psyche, and I see no need to defensively extract you from my fabric. I may always be a little in love. I don't know how much time must pass before my eyes stop occasionally moistening at the wish that you had been the one, the thought of how at home I used to feel with you. I try not to ask myself "what if," a mostly successful effort. I felt what I felt, which seemed right at the time. I don't need to justify those feelings or explain them away. And I'm distant enough now that I can look back without defensively leaning away or longing for what was.

I could try to prove my old feelings right by clinging to what I hoped they meant, against evidence or reason. I accept that what I felt filled a need in my life and gave me something to invest in, belong to, hope for, serve, and be lifted by. It made sense with what I knew at the time. It animated me with a feeling that whatever else happened, what mattered most was being with you. Now that I've lost what I once thought I most wanted, I'm re-learning what I want and need and how to find it. I'm determining whether I can expect to feel that again or whether it's a beautiful but illusory memory which I should not even want to repeat. Is it foolish to hope for the same feelings but with something which proves itself? Is it a loss of faith to move forward more soberly without expecting the same emotional experience?

I'll just move forward and cope without pretending I can completely shut you out. My friendships remind me of you. My journal reminds me of you. Who I am today reminds me of you and how you imprinted my life, for better and for worse. Sometimes I'll almost instinctively say something I picked up from you, and I'll smirk that you're still in my head that little bit. But I wasn't one to leave when staying was hard, and I'm not one to go back when nostalgia pricks a tear duct. I accept the feelings, but I choose not to fight for you because you do not want to be fought for, and you are not, on paper, what I need or want.

I will not be a doormat and pretend you did nothing wrong, but I also believe you were doing your best. We grew apart. Maybe I'm wrong and should have changed. Maybe you're wrong and should have changed. But we came together under a certain agreement, knowing what each other was, and in time, it became clear that it wasn't a fit. I could try to stay and change you, but I saw that was not your goal, so I said my piece and forced myself away on reluctant, trudging feet. I have since gained clarity and insight to what I believe and want, so even though I loved what I felt with you, and would love to feel that again and be satisfied with what we had, there could be no going back even if you did somehow change. I'm afraid if you tried to bend as far as I'd need, you'd break entirely.

The you I thought existed might not ever have been quite real, but the you I believed in was good, and our relationship was good for me in many ways. It gave me opportunities to serve and grow and love and learn, and I felt like I was part of something special. I believe that even though we ended up disagreeing and parted on somewhat cold, detached terms, you generally mean well and are good-hearted, and I appreciate our relationship for the good it brought and the lessons I learned.

So let's acknowledge the experiences, the memories, the ways we impacted each other and what we learned from it, and move on towards our separate horizons. I don't agree with everything you do or believe, as you don't agree with me, but I will probably always have a bit of a tender spot for you, what I once felt for you, and what I still do feel for you. If I feel anger or resentment towards you at times, it probably comes from a pain which can only be inflicted by those I've cared about. You were once my home, and though I don't want us to disrespect each other by "holding on" to what is bygone, that's not something I can bring myself to fully disregard as part of the whole of myself and yourself. I wish you well on your quest for truth and joy. I'll see you when I see you.

"Would you take him back?"

A few people have asked me this. I met up with someone recently for lunch, and as part of the get-to-know-you, I mentioned the brief dating relationship I was in last summer and the breakup due to his sudden decision to "fight it". The fellow I was speaking with shook his head and said he knows so many cases like that, and almost all of them have eventually realized the futility of the effort, so surely he'll regret having broken up with me. Most gay guys I talk to about it say this. I said I understand that's what happens with many, but it's not always so simple, and he may have needed this effort of "fighting it" regardless of his eventual decision, and I have at least a friend or two who have probably dumped people similarly to how I was dumped and who are now happily married to women. I said even if he does eventually drop whatever effort he may be engaged in, I can't wait around to find out, nor do I think it's likely to happen soon if at all for a few reasons, and I can't place my hope in it, for my sake and for his. I can't tease my heart, and I can't disrespect his decision. Then he asked a question others have also asked and which always gives me pause, "Would you take him back if he ever did change his mind?"

My reply has been a simple one in most cases, "I would want to. If it happened now, I would definitely want to." I've been afraid to vocalize the second part of that, though, lest it should ever get back to him, that I don't think I could. Why did I not want him to know I'd said that? Part of it is that I wouldn't want him thinking I was vindictive or didn't truly, deeply highly regard him (as much as I knew him when we were together) and what I felt for him. But did I actually want him to ask to try again? Was I only saying I couldn't out of defensiveness to keep myself deluded into believing I wouldn't take him back to avoid the pain of knowing I still do want him back? Was I afraid I actually would take him back despite objectively believing I "shouldn't", that I'd lack the strength to stick to some resolve? Was I just keeping my options open? Screw it, I decided, I'll say it: "I don't think I could. Not without at least some changes and maturity in him, things which weren't there before." And as I said it, it seemed to solidify my resolve, and I thought, "No...no, I wouldn't." Testimony is found in the bearing of it, after all.

I was trying to "hold on to my heart" while we were together because I knew the risks, the likelihood that it was going to end in pain if I let go. I didn't realize how deeply I wanted to see if "we" would go somewhere until he suddenly went cold, and there was no longer a need for me to keep the brakes on, no need to keep things moving at a measured pace when there was nothing to move.

But looking back, I know there were things about him that concerned me, and while I hoped we could grow through those together, and they weren't dealbreakers (with the possible exception of one main thing), I don't know how I could trust his stability or self awareness at this point, having already had my concerns confirmed once, and right after I'd begun to...stop holding on to my heart. But regardless--and this may seem harsh--judging from his one, short response to a heartfelt (even if seemingly overindulgent) e-mail I sent, I don't respect or like some big parts of the person he has chosen to become, or the traits he has nurtured, and while I still would love to believe I knew him as he truly was, I've admitted to myself that even if I did, I just don't know who he is anymore, and there is no picking up where we left off. If we were to "try again," it would be from scratch, and facing that reality, trying again is not appealing to me right now. Looking back, and from what little I know of his current life, I'm actually quite turned off by some significant things, and though I felt so readily connected with him, so naturally "fitted" with him, I can't help but wonder if someone like him is totally wrong for me, if I wouldn't lose patience with and respect for such a person over time as the blinding influence of the initial affection wore down.

And yet...I love him still, in some way. I care about him as a friend. I love the memory of him. I love 'us' as we were. I love the person I saw in his eyes, heard in his voice, and felt in his touch. I love how I felt towards and with him. I still respect the traits which drew me to him. But he's a mere memory to me now. In the worst case scenario, he was intentionally using me as an experiment to satisfy his curiosity and intentionally deceiving me to try a beta relationship on for size before choosing social security and family approval and tossing me aside as the plaything I was, someone he never really cared about except to flatter his own ego or satisfy his curiosity. In the best case scenario, if others are right to speculate that he surely has had trouble getting over feelings and can only move on by completely disconnecting, then he has chosen defensiveness, detachment, and callousness over vulnerability, openness, and sensitivity, which is the opposite of what I thought I saw and valued so much in him and which, though understandable and expected from someone of his age and situation, reflects a type of emotional functioning I don't care to deal with in a potential partner. Either way, he's gone, if he ever was as I imagined, a fact I accepted pretty quickly after his last message to me.

I expect I'll never know familiarity with him again. Most of the time, that's just a fact I acknowledge and shrug at since I can't change it. But a couple of weeks ago, as I was not far north of his hometown and not too far from where he lives now, I found myself dozing off at the wheel and was startled to realize I had just fallen asleep for an instant, and I was grateful it was on a straight stretch, and I hadn't flown off the road. In my melodramatic drowsiness, I wondered which hospital I might have been taken to, who would get news of my critical condition, and who would come visit me when they heard. And if my condition were critical, would he visit me before the chance was gone? Would he even care? Amid these thoughts, I wept a little, which I knew was a sign that I will probably always love him in some way, whether or not I 'like' what he's chosen or what traits he has magnified or stifled. I didn't know if he would ever again care about me, but I knew without a doubt that if he were ever in critical condition, unless I was explicitly forbidden, I would be at his side in a heartbeat, as an old friend who never stopped caring even though I had to move on from the romantic attachment or feelings for my own well-being.

Knowing I care and may always care and not knowing whether he has convinced himself to hate me, the temptation is to decide to convince myself I don't care. That's the pop culture cry: be strong and stop caring! No, I think there's better: to fully acknowledge I care, and let it hurt a little now and then, but to let go of the desire to know whether he cares, to let go of my own desire for affirmation. I definitely believe pining away for what was is not an option, nor is hanging on to some hope that he and I will change in all the ways we need to and will magically be together someday to justify my feelings of fondness for the time we were together, but I think to convince myself defensively that I don't care or that I shouldn't remember whatever we had fondly would be the weaker choice, and dishonest.

So why write all of this? I've recently had a couple of conversations with people regarding exes and found that my questions and pain are not exactly unique. I've also found that many people do downplay past feelings or relationships either to quell pain or to validate current relationships as if you have to demean the old to value the new. What a tragedy. Parents don't have to love dead children less to love their living ones, though they do have to "let go" of them. I don't have to invalidate an entire friendship just because we grew apart, as if feeling affection for what we had demeans my current friendship with a "best friend". I don't have to poo-poo what I felt to be open to someone else.

And yet...I've been trying to figure out whether I'm ready to trust someone again, whether I'm emotionally available. The fact that I've been trying to figure it out tells me I'm not but am trying to convince myself I am. Talking about it still induces tender emotions sometimes. Just this morning, a train of thought had me on the verge of tears and simultaneously frustrated that I could possibly still be so affected. But there's no sense in denying it. I just have to figure out what to do with it, and how to keep moving on and letting go.

I may even still be in love with the version of [him] in my memory even though I believe I'm not in love with the [him] who now exists. But he has made his choice, and I have accepted it, and though I would gladly be loyal if there were a relationship to be loyal to, I can't healthily hold myself emotionally hostage to a pipe dream. What has concerned me is that I can't honestly promise any of my current potential interests that I could never conceivably love [him] again if he came back changed and more ready for the kind of relationship I thought we could have, even if I could tell him that I just am not willing to do it again. As I consider some other present potential interests, I at least want to be able to tell them, with confidence, that if he came back now, wanting to try again, I'd tell him, "No, I have someone now, and what we have is worth more to me than trying to pick up where you and I left off." I suppose it would be poetic justice, in a way, but that would certainly not be my aim because, as I said, I care about him and always have, and emotional revenge isn't strength.

Right now, I intellectually am firm in my resolve to move on, to find fulfillment and happiness elsewhere, and to put away whatever we had. But emotionally, when I'm really honest with myself, I haven't yet found someone or something in front of me which is clearly a better option than the fantasy possibility of him coming back and proving undeniably that he has changed in all the ways I'd need him to have changed, and he has matured intellectually and emotionally, and he wants a relationship with me, and me believing it's actually possible. What am I supposed to do with that? Even believing that will almost certainly not happen, what am I supposed to do with the knowledge that even though a new prospect is growing more interested in me, and I in them, if that fantasy scenario occurred, my choice would likely be to 'take him back' in a heartbeat? I don't want anyone to be a consolation prize, but I don't want to stifle what could become better than that fantasy option if pursued. I know that the scenario is only a fantasy. He couldn't prove to me that he has changed enough to make me trust him again right away. And the probability that he'd want round two with me even in the off-chance that he did decide to be open to a relationship with a guy is anything but high. I guess my answer is that I let go of that scenario, too. "What ifs" are pretty useless in that sense.

So I choose to recognize that I still care about him and have feelings for him beyond a casual acquaintance, and I probably always will, even though he has clearly stated he wants to retain no form of friendship whatsoever. And I learn from the experience what I can and focus on what's present and what's to come. I explore other options without comparing them to my time with the guy I thought I knew but increasingly understand I know very little, which is difficult at times but surprisingly natural most of the time. I accept that I wish things had worked out differently but remind myself that they probably had to work out this way, and he and I are both the type to try to make it work out for the best. I remember the things I loved about us so that I can help myself not settle for less but remind myself that if whatever we did have were perfect, we would still be together, and other people will have traits and strengths and values he didn't and will complement mine in ways he couldn't, as is always the case. And in a turn towards the extraordinarily sappy, when I think of him, I send a little love and light, and I let go a little more and look ahead.

Free

OK, so maybe the problem is that I was as "right" as I feared, that I hoped my fears were wrong. That I had faith something would override the self-defenses, that my intent would be clear, that...[he] would say anything but what he said. Here's the deal: I wrote [him] an exceedingly long e-mail last Tuesday.

Ha, I can hear half of you groaning and smacking your foreheads. It was time: just trust me when I say I wouldn't take back that decision or edit down the letter, making it either relatively pointless or masking certain realities for fear of misinterpretation.

About three weeks ago now, a few conversations and circumstances brought [him] into the forefront of my mind again, and I had an emotional relapse as I let go of some lingering hopes I hadn't realized I was holding on to. But I also felt like the unknown was now worse than knowing the truth. I was ready to clear the air and move on. I started writing the letter, but about a week later, I had stopped. About two weeks later, even though I no longer felt the need to finish it or hear from him, I also knew that it was probably time to say what I needed to, and to offer the opportunity to clear the air a bit and set up future boundaries just in case he, too, could use some closure. To assume he didn't would be as presumptuous as assuming he did.

The only (or maybe 'best'?) way to know is to ask, and I decided that if I was going to contact him at all, I was just going to lay it all out there and get it out of the way, so there was no regret over things not said, no hidden agenda, no hidden motives, and no endless back-and-forth to try to get out what I really wanted to say. It seemed too trite or transparent to just say, "I hope we can be friends someday." There was so much more to it than that, and I didn't want to hide behind a noble face and put on airs about having only the simplest, purest intentions. Better to show my hand than to play politics. I laid it all on the table. And it felt right when I clicked "Send". "It's in his hands now. Either he can hurt me one last time with a final blow, or he can offer some closure, or we can have a brief exchange to clear the air and push 'reset' and allow the possibility of future contact of some kind at some point, or there can be misunderstanding...but something is better than nothing, even if it ends it."

I opened the letter by acknowledging I didn't know how he'd receive it, that I hoped he was well and had heard he was. I mentioned a gift I'd left in a sealed yellow USPS envelope placed in a grocery sack on his porch in December and how I hoped he'd received it without trouble from roommates. It included a brief recorded message of an upbeat "goodbye" nature, telling him clearly that I did not expect a response but wanted to say I kept coming back to a place of peace about our relationship, and a copy of the song "I Wish You Love". I had thought that might be my last contact, but I knew I might hit a point where I'd be ready to say more and invite a response, but only when I was ready to hear the worst, or to hear nothing even after inviting a response. That time had come. I was ready.

I explained the difficulty I've had with coming to terms with his decision, with knowing I want him to be happy and wishing I knew how to share in his journey but recognizing that may not be possible. I explained my emotional journey in that regard, so as to not hide any possible underlying motives and to explain that my distance hasn't been out of hatred or disregard but out of self-preservation. I explained how hurt I was by his coldness when he broke things off, not to punish him but...well, part of it was for me, of course. Part of my healing was to let him know how his actions affected me and seeing if he would offer any clarity, even if painful to me.

Part of it, though, was so that he would have an idea, for the future, because I had been in his shoes, where I'd been emotionally detached and had hurt someone without realizing how deeply I'd done it or how it had affected her. Had I known, I would have done it differently, and I would have been more responsive to her. But we all learn these things at our own pace. At his age, I had never had my heart broken, and I had never been in the position I've now found myself in, so I didn't know how to respond to it. Now, I'm still far from perfect, but I at least have a better idea of what a couple of girls went through with me, and if I could now go back and handle it differently, I would. I would communicate less defensively (though I didn't have any idea how defensive I was being), I would be more clear about boundaries but also more clear about the reasons for them and my sincere appreciation for their friendship without the fear of them "misconstruing" it as a hope for more, and I wouldn't be so damned clinical...or maybe I would in the moment.

All I know is that I am so very grateful that a couple of girls in my life wrote me, at great emotional risk, to tell me how our relationship had affected them, how deeply they'd felt, and how hard it had been for them to cope with the emotions they were feeling. Looking back, I'm so grateful they gave me the opportunity to respond to that, to understand what I couldn't grasp firsthand, and to prepare for the day when I, too, would feel something similar, and I would see that these otherwise really great, level-headed girls weren't so crazy after all. I figured it's my turn to be in the vulnerable place.

I told him how confusing his turnaround was, and how I had wondered, briefly, if he had led me on all along but how I hoped I was correct to believe I knew him well enough to know he'd never intentionally do that. I expressed what my fears and insecurities had been, in possibly too much detail but not wanting to disguise anything, and I said that, in the end, I believed he had genuinely done the best with what was a very new and difficult situation for him, and we both probably handled the break-up the best we knew how. I said all of this so he'd know I saw past even my own emotional reactions to who I truly believed he was, to show that when all is said and done, despite the pain and anger and confusion, I've always come back to a place of peace and have no regrets about having taken the risk and gotten to know him because beyond all of the romance, our friendship was special to me and was clearly something good.

I explained that yes, we probably had to agree to disagree about certain philosophies and decisions. I thought maybe I should gloss over this, but then I decided that, no, if we were to have any kind of friendship, I didn't want it to be with masked disagreements, so I was very frank about it, but I also made a point of the fact that I knew he was probably determined, and I understood he has beliefs and contexts within which to make his decisions, and I ultimately hope for his happiness. I said this was not intended to sway him (I didn't believe he could be swayed anyway). I explained that I had refrained from sharing certain details and disagreements out of fear that he might one day accept the ideas and look back disdainfully at me, believing I tried to steer him away from truth. I explained that I also didn't want to be the enemy of the parents of someone I loved, so I couldn't position myself as one who convinced their beloved son to pursue a path to hell. I explained that I didn't want to lure him away for my own self interests. I left it at that and told him if he ever got curious--and I acknowledged he probably wouldn't--he could read my blog for my evolution of thoughts on certain therapies of homosexuality. I also invited him to let me know, if he ever did read my blog, if he was uncomfortable with anything I'd written, though I'd tried to be respectful. I wanted to make it clear my blog wasn't meant to be a gossip column at his expense. I still don't want that, even though my feelings for who he now is are very different from my feelings for who I thought he was last summer.

I talked about the things I appreciated about him and about our relationship/friendship. I wanted him to know that what I most loved about him wasn't the fluffy stuff but was his deeper traits and qualities. When I used the word "love", I meant it in the purest sense I know of, not just a romantic sense. But I did also tell him that I am now unafraid to tell him I was falling in love with him, that there wasn't any psychoanalysis that convinces me otherwise, and that I am also now unafraid to say, as pathetic as it may seem at my age, that I believe what we had was the best relationship I've had with anyone I was romantically interested in. I acknowledged that I may have better someday, but I appreciate what we had, and I hope we each individually find what works best for us and believe we will.

Yes, I said those things partially because I wanted to "testify" to him about what I believe to be true while I had the chance to do it and while I still felt it in my heart, before it was snuffed out completely. That may have been a mistake, but I'm not convinced it was, and I don't yet regret it. I also said those things to come clean as to where I'm coming from and to go on to explain that whatever disagreements we may now have, and even though 'partnership' or romance is clearly no longer an option, we had the foundations of a great friendship I don't think should be completely discarded, even if it must be on hold. Even if we don't know what to do with each other right now, or how to fit into each other's lives, I invited him to share his thoughts or feelings on it, and I would respect his desires. As I said,

"I value the connection we had too much to leave the door completely closed out of self defense, pain, ease, insecurity of belief, or fear that you no longer reciprocate even the desire for friendship. Even if I don’t know what to do with you, I care about you and wouldn't want my silence to communicate anything different."

I knew the frankness of my email, including my feelings and thoughts about the quality of our relationship and some specific memories which made me remember last summer more fondly than sadly even as I tucked those memories away and moved on, might be misinterpreted as a last-ditch effort to sway him, which I acknowledge may have played a small emotional part, but I consistently told my emotions that no, he was set in his path, and even if he did somehow change his mind, I knew I wouldn't have gotten back together with him. I couldn't trust his commitment, even though I wished I could trust it if it were, by some remote chance, offered. That's the thing: I acknowledged to myself that yes, even if I was almost emotionally tidied up, there were still some messy nooks and crannies, so I wasn't going to pretend there weren't. After thinking a lot about it, I decided I had reasons for writing it the way I did, and I couldn't have a clear conscience if I didn't say exactly what I felt and thought in case it would ever be of benefit. I figured I had little to lose in putting it out there and trusting that he'd understand my intent, knowing my heart pretty well (I hoped), even if it rubbed him the wrong way somehow.

I admitted that most of my fears and hang-ups about contacting him seem to be in the past now and that I feel good and am moving on but confessed (again, so as to not hide possible less-conscious motives) that some part of me might still feel like a regular friendship wasn't enough, so I wasn't talking about reconnecting in a personal way now, not for a while, and that I was just touching base. I told him I hoped he was taking care of the 'him' I loved even while becoming a better version and seeking out his goals. I told him that I was pretty sure he had good friends to rely on now, but if he ever found himself needing someone to talk to, I hoped he'd know he could contact me, and that I wouldn't read anything into it other than him needing to talk to someone (I only make such promises when I'm confident I can keep them).

I closed my thoughts by saying:

"Even though I may still, for now, see you through the eyes of someone who was in love, and who was hurt, the attachment and defensive detachment will pass in time and may have largely passed already. Time will tell. When all is said and done, whether or not we're in contact, I think it’s safe to say that I can’t imagine not always loving you as a brother and friend."

Then I ended with a light-hearted quip to let him know what I was feeling wasn't all heavy and somber and that I had to laugh a bit as I move on.

His response? One short paragraph: he doesn't want any contact with me. Don't contact him anymore. He won't respond to any future emails. He doesn't want to retain any form of friendship. He will not seek out any form of communication with me.

It was maybe the worst possible response. I had been ready to face the probability that he didn't want to--or needed not to--stay in touch, at least for now, but there was no way to fully prepare for his response. There was no way to stoically watch my faith in the kindness of someone I so strongly hoped would be responsive to the vulnerability I struggled to place in front of him be completely obliterated without so much as an, "I cared about you, but I'm moving on and can't look back." I hoped for too much, even though I told myself not to expect much, just in case. Even after having explained my reaction to the coldness last time, only more coldness in return. More daggers. No sensitivity. No willingness to discuss anything. No friendship whatsoever. Nothing personal in it. No value. No signs of [him] in it. Surely he's not still so fragile that he needed to be so cruel out of self defense. No, he has killed whatever true love, friendship or otherwise, there may have been, end of story. There's no way he could not know how wrong that response would be to someone you ever cared about. I mean nothing to him now, if I ever did. What I thought I saw in him was a mirage, or has been made into one. I was wrong. There's something more important to him than his own humanity. What a fool I was. I never knew him as I thought I did. But the truth is that whatever anger I've experienced, it's because this hurt so intensely.

I felt broken but relieved and oddly strong as I wrote, through sobs and blurry eyes, the last thing I will ever send him and would ever want to, since I felt like I was writing to some jerk I didn't know who had murdered [him]: a brief e-mail apologizing, clarifying that this response of his was the first time he ever defined any boundaries other than agreeing to the few months of no contact I had proposed during our last conversation, but that now that boundaries were defined, I would respect them. I told him I certainly never meant him any harm or confusion and will consider my friend to be completely gone. And I do.

A close friend confessed to me, last night, that he felt responsible for my pain for a while because the night before the unexpectedly sudden break-up, he told [him] that I, more than any other single person, have made him question his orientation and his testimony so much that it has forced him to really get to the heart of some issues and find out what he believes, and that it's been challenging. I knew our interaction had challenged him, as we'd discussed that, but I didn't know he had said it quite so bluntly to [him]. I also know that my own convictions have always developed and grown because I was challenged, and I think the greatest conviction comes from challenging and questioning to penetrate the fluffy stuff and get to the real core of matters, yet I don't consider it my role to go around challenging people's beliefs and have been careful to respect others' beliefs even while articulating my own when questioned or pressed. But suddenly, with this new information, [his] statement to me during our break-up conversation that he "can't question everything his whole life and wants conviction" seemed to make that much more sense, coupled with the strong airs of "conviction" you find at Evergreen Conferences. I thanked my friend for finally telling what he's been afraid to tell me, told him I clearly wasn't thrilled with the apparent presentation though I figure he was only telling [him] what he believed to be true, and said I didn't singly blame him for the break-up but that it might make some sense of a couple of things [he] had given me as reasons and might have played into his sudden apparent distrust of me which hurt so much.

Whatever the reasons for [his] curt response, I have never felt so disappointed by someone. I know now that I could never be with someone who could be so cold to someone they supposedly cared about so much. Even if we did ever have contact again, I couldn't entrust my feelings to him again or believe what he says he's feeling. Even if he was just following the guidance of a parent or some shit-for-brains counselor or mentor, I couldn't be with someone who follows that kind of loveless counsel, even for self preservation. Immaturity and confusion are understandable excuses, but I was once immature, and I was once confused, and I never did anything so devoid of heart, at the very least not to someone who had never really earned such distrust. Or have I? Shoot, we've all been confused and made decisions we either regret or would regret if we remembered them. I've been an ass, too. Right, deep breath, let it go, forgive.

In any case, I see that he never really knew me or truly cared as I thought he did, or nothing could have convinced him to so completely distrust and coldly shut me out. I see that so much of what he said to me while we were together is now made invalid, whether or not he thought he meant or believed it at the time, no more than a passing fancy and experimentation. It was so convincing, though, that I couldn't trust him on any level of vulnerability again. Ha, so his aim is accomplished: no friendship. And mine is accomplished: I don't wonder.

I'm not going to speculate on his reasons. The answer was heartless, almost cruelly cold, and I have to accept it at face value. The bridge is burned, and I'm walking away from the chasm, the charred remains of what I hoped. I know he may have had all kinds of reasons for protecting himself, for seeing warning signs in the email I sent, for not knowing how to respond, etc. The reasons don't matter to me. The friend I trusted with my emotions would have found a better way to cut it off than this. The guy I fell for is dead to me, even if for forgivable reasons, now possessed by some heartless, self-serving ass I don't want to know. The truth is I knew I was giving him one last opportunity to really, truly hurt me, and the truth now is that he can never hurt me any more than he has now, and I feel free because of it. It's nice to have the closure, painful though it was. I've always preferred to know that someone doesn't want to waste their time with me than wonder if they do. And once I know, I'm pretty good at letting it go and moving on. Communicate with me. It might hurt. It might destroy me for a day. But it's so much better in the long-run than withholding the truth.

After all is said and done, even though I've dealt with some pretty raw pain and hatred since yesterday, and I don't know how I'll trust anyone's supposed love again, I somehow think I will. I'm not ready to give up on that yet.

So utterly mistaken

How am I so consistently so very wrong about the people I'm attracted to? I'm becoming increasingly sure that I can never trust my heart again in matters of romance, and though I'm not yet ready to settle for the safety of less passionate stability without the wonders of what I've felt, I'm a step closer. Is this awakening to reality?

Where I saw tenderness and sensitivity, only selfishness and cruelty remain. Where I saw love and affection, only a mirage. Where I saw the most beautiful friendship with potential for more, nothing but a demand for no contact ever, and no form of friendship whatsoever. Where I perceived trust, absolute distrust. But I know what I felt, and it was true. How am I supposed to recognize when it's genuinely returned after this?

I was about as wrong as you can get about the person who mattered so much to me. How am I supposed to ever trust what I feel again?

All Figured Out

In my dream tonight (the early morning of 4 Feb 2011) I found myself walking into a large church building, more like a corporate-style building than a church, really, like one of the Institutes of Religion. I sat down in the back of a large Elders' Quorum meeting next to several male friends from my past and present. There were probably a hundred or so men in the meeting, and I felt both at home and like a visitor. The discussion felt empty, organized but devoid of the meaning it once held. They joked about how good the lesson was and tried to relay it to me, since I'd missed it, but I didn't really care to be caught up. It sounded like it had been very canned with a few typical sports analogies and pop culture references to make it funny/relatable but without any real depth.

I knew there was a likelihood [he] would be there, probably towards the front, but I didn't look for him or hope he'd find me in the second-to-last row. I didn't hide, either. I just was there. I realized this was not home, nor was he any longer, and it was OK: I was just visiting.

I found myself wondering if he'd received my extremely long e-mail message in which I laid out what I'd been through emotionally/mentally before and after the break-up and inviting some clarity from him if he was willing, or at the very least leaving the door open to some kind of future friendship when/if possible, or whether it had gone into his Spam mail because he'd marked my e-mail address as Spam when we said goodbye.

The meeting adjourned, and everyone was to head downstairs for a huge ward meal. They called the downstairs the 'restaurant,' which I thought was funny. Even ward meals had taken on a corporate aspect. A female friend walked into the cultural hall, where the Elders' Quorum meeting had been held, and asked if I would be joining them for the meal. I both was uninterested and figured that just in case [he] was there, I'd encroached quite long enough, and I informed her I wouldn't, that I was heading out right now. And that's when I saw what I knew was the back of his head. My friend and I said good-bye, and I made my way out of the nearest door of the cultural hall. And I heard faint footsteps approaching behind me.

I thought it might be him. I didn't want to look like a pathetic lurker who had hoped to be spotted, so I tried to quickly but casually make my way outside of the building. But as I exited the cultural hall into the foyer, my legs went rubbery, kind of like when you're being chased by a madman with a gun or by a monster (something I haven't experienced in many years). There was no terror or dread, just rubber legs whose uselessness I cursed as the footsteps drew nearer. By the time the footsteps reached me, I was scooting along an interior wall towards the doors on my rubbery knees, legs flopping as I tried to stand on them. It was quite a sight. Then the footsteps passed me, and their owner walked on by. It was him. He didn't stop. He was on his way to a drinking fountain. I thought I should probably be sad, disappointed, or hurt that he didn't even bother to say anything or didn't notice me, but I was OK with it. I didn't want to force contact, anyway.

My legs recovered their strength, and I open the doors to step outside just as he came back around the corner. I looked forward so he wouldn't feel obligated to stop, not knowing I'd seen him, but he spotted me and followed me out. Now, his hair was clean-cut, and his face and features more slender or delicate than in reality. He was actually more "my type" in the dream. He looked at me with a fairly blank expression and held out his hand with arm fully extended for a handshake. I was not surprised, and I was not hurt that I could see that he genuinely didn't want a hug, that he was not fighting any desire for one. I shrugged inside and gave him a quick handshake and kept making my way to the staircase down to the parking lot. He walked beside me, keeping a distance, with his hands in his pockets, very businesslike, very composed, very plastic. Other than that, he seemed like his usual, kind self. He just seemed more 'together', more 'mature' in that phony 'quiet dignity' kind of way which I am never quite convinced by, but it was OK. He seemed well, and that was good to see. And I could see that he wasn't angry and apparently hadn't thought I was trying to win him back, which was good. Then he simply said, "You really wanna get everything figured out, don't you?"

I gritted my teeth as I knew the subtext behind that statement, the assumptions and the belief that I was trying to "control" my emotions or the situation. I replied, "I don't have any illusions about figuring everything out, but yes, I like to figure out what I can. Most things, I may not ever know. But it's not just about knowing it all: I believe in communicating my thoughts and feelings, tentative though they may be, and giving others the opportunity to help clarify or add their perspective to fill in the picture for understanding if they're willing. I believe you can learn and improve from things like that. I believe in trying to lay out the pieces and try to put them together in a way that makes the most sense rather than trying to make the pieces fit into a canned answer, even if that would be easiest for me emotionally."

I glanced over and saw that his face showed he maybe hadn't thought of it quite that way because he had tried to fit what I was doing into preconceived molds he had, but that he was still quietly, confidently self-assured about his own perspective. I was fine with that; I'd expected it. And I knew that I was likely making just as many assumptions about his perspective by 'expecting' a certain response from him, which had been one thing I wanted to clarify about my email: that while I was concerned that he might be thinking certain things, I recognized that those concerns might be completely misdirected or off-target...and I decided it doesn't matter at this point. So I let go of the irritation at that having been the only thing he said to me.

I felt like I was walking with a shell of an old friend for whom I had no more romantic desire and towards whom I now felt something like indifference, with whom I now had some clearly irreconcilable differences, and it was OK. I didn't need to figure it out or resolve anything anymore. I had shared my thoughts and feelings, and that was enough. As I continued descending the stairs, I realized he was gone. He had simply faded away as we walked. And I wasn't relieved or sad. I just kept walking home, at peace.

As I awoke prematurely, a bit puzzled by the whole scene, I thought, "How strange that this is my first-ever dream of him."

And So It Goes

I've always really liked this one. Now I feel it, too.

Yeah, I still think of him often...but it's different...

Well, it's been a while since I've broken down into tears over the break-up. I've gotten teary-eyed thinking about things a couple of times in the last couple of weeks, but not even that in the last week or more. I'm no longer always thinking of it, of him, wondering what we could have been, wondering what he thinks of me or how he sees our short relationship, whether we'll ever talk again, whether we'll be friends in some way or come together again in a fantasy love story in the future.

But it's not all settled yet. The last week or two, I've still felt an occasionally strong urge to contact him. To reach out just to touch base, to tell him how I feel about him, that I'm finally OK with things even if I wish they could have been different, that I miss him, that if he ever wants or needs someone to talk to, I'm here and have moved on enough that I don't think it would make things harder emotionally to talk, even if only to touch base, or even if only to part, for now, on less messy terms.

But then I've thought, "Why? What am I really looking for? Would I really be doing it for him or myself? Am I ready to hear, 'Please don't ever contact me again' if that's how he feels? I don't think I am, so that's probably an indication that I should wait. But I also would like to know where I stand with him rather than guess and wonder, even if it's only an occasional thought. So I guess contacting him might be more for me. But I really do want him to know I care, lest he think I don't. Who am I kidding? I always do that: try to make sure they know I care when I'm the only one who's at all distraught and am just projecting. Or is it that I just want him to know I wouldn't reject him if he tried to contact me? I wonder if he is open to contact but thinks I'm not because I said I needed to get over him and he needed to focus on his 'new direction' in life." Reminding myself to face the probability that he is not going through all of this or that he is the one who called it off and is the one who will decide when or if we'll re-initiate contact. Then I thought, "No, he's probably not even thinking about me anymore. Let's be honest, he probably remembers 'us' as a summer fling." "Shoot," I thought, "the fact that I even am thinking this way means I should probably wait." So I am.

I feel pretty "sobered up" from the whole thing, but I obviously still think of him, care about him, and appreciate his friendship, not just his affection. I more confidently realize I can find someone else at least as good for me, just as good a person, with traits he lacked even if lacking some he had. There will be others if I'm open to them. I'm not ready to start looking, for various reasons. But I'm mostly over the feeling that moving on now would be to disrespect what we had. I've accepted that I valued what we had, and if I thought I could revive it by making changes in my life, saying the right things to him, or sacrificing certain things, I am confident I would, but that doing things I think he would want or which I wish I had been better about doing or expressing while I was with him, in case he quietly drew conclusions I didn't realize he was drawing, simply won't change it. So I move on, look ahead, try to be who I believe I should be, and continue trying to become the kind of guy with whom I think a healthy person who would be good for me would want to form a lifetime companionship and future family. But knowing there's more and probably better ahead doesn't mean I'm glad to leave him behind.

Watching (mock me if you will, and let's be honest: some of you will) Harry Potter and the Half-blood Prince last night, he came to mind during the scene where Ron is dazed in the infirmary and, in his delirium, asks for Hermione and not his little psycho-stalker girlfriend. I thought, "Ugh, I wonder if he thinks of me as the stupid girlfriend who thinks she's a part of his life but was just a passing fancy. I wish I were his Hermione. I felt that kind of bond with him, the desire to be there as a friend above all else. Great, I am the stupid girlfriend." Then I chuckled to myself, shrugged, and went back to enjoying the movie. We don't have years of history for me to be that tried-and-true friend, and he has other friends who are going down the path he wants, and they may build the friendships I wish I could have built with him. They're good people. We each have our own friends. So it goes with break-ups. Yet part of me wanted, last night, to contact him to say, "I want you to know that I will always love and care about you and wish we could be friends even without the romance, and I hope maybe we still can, if not now then someday. And if you don't agree, or do, just let me know, and we'll move on accordingly." But...for all the above reasons, doing that doesn't seem like the best idea, so I wait.

Yeah, I know that to some (many?) of you, this will sound like the ramblings of a lovestruck teenager getting over his (her?) first breakup. It's not that, but I can't prove that to you, so you'll believe what you want. I've gone through similar feelings to varying degrees with other friends, male and female, so I know this isn't unique to this kind of relationship. It's just intertwined with what were very intense feelings of bonding, romance, love, affection, whatever. It's not a huge thing, just a nearly automatic thought process that happens from time to time.

When I stop being all conflicted over it, that will be the time to contact him. ...or let it go. ...or something. It's funny: I've been through a few "break-ups" of different kinds, and they all share common threads and different situations, so I learn from each one to apply it to the next, wonder how much of what I'm feeling is "normal", how much is indicative of issues I should learn to resolve, how much is completely neurotic without my knowing it. Hopefully someone out there benefits from my ranting, and maybe some of you have input. Meh. I have Halloween festivities to attend to. Pardon me while I take off my angsty dumpee moho costume and put on my cider-making, game-playing uncle costume.



Side note: to commemorate Halloween, I added my last-year Halloween post to "Highlights from the past". Happy Halloween!

You have been loved

This song is one of my favorites from a really talented Australian artist, Sia, who is one of the most evocative singers I've seen live, despite her initially bubbly, girlish demeanor. It played in my mix of music tonight while driving home from a friend's house where part of the discussion was about my summer romance. I found myself thinking, "Hm, it's late, and I'm tired, and I've talked about the breakup tonight and listened to this evocative song which is apropos (minus the substance use references), but I've not broken down at all and feel tenderness for what is in the past, healing over with optimism for whatever's ahead. Good sign." I won't go into details of conflicted feelings over letting go vs. holding on "just in case" (which I remind myself is a fantasy) or having had a rough day last Sunday: those don't matter because today has been good, and I see no option but to keep letting go and moving on. And tomorrows will be better.



You shot me up, yeah
You filled my cup, oh
You sailed my boat
You were my last hope
You took my very last hope away

Oh you, you have been loved by someone good
And you, you will be loved by somebody good
You have been loved

You dropped the bomb
And now you’re gone
I held you dear
You swallowed my fears
And now I’ve drunk my last beer with you

Oh you, you have been loved by someone good
And you, you will be loved
Oh will you ever know
That the bitterness and anger left me long ago
Only sadness remains
And it will pass

Yeah you you will be loved by somebody good
By somebody good





Incidentally, if you aren't familiar with Sia's music but are interested, get familiar with it and her earlier work with Zero 7. Hers was one of the most enjoyable, emonerdindietastic concerts I've been to. It opened like this but on a stage like the one in the above video:

Choosing fondness

It's about time to begin closure, so this is a long post to get a bunch of thoughts out, and a dedication of sorts. Over the last couple of weeks, since the breakup, I keep rediscovering that everywhere I go, something reminds me of some memory we shared or something I appreciate about [him]. Forgetting him or our brief time together just because we've broken up seems not to be an option, nor do I think I would want to forget if I could. I've been through a range of emotional responses: sadness, tenderness, anger, resentment, sorrow, longing. I'm more even-keeled lately, not back to 100% and may not be for a while, but I'm feeling better. The question I've struggled to answer is in what way to remember the experience.

There are a lot of ways I could tell myself to look at what we had. I could romanticize it as absolutely perfect in every way and cry "woe is me" all over the place. I've been tempted to redefine it in a way that's easier to let go. I could remember the whole thing as a brief imitation of a relationship and downplay my "feelings" as romanticized childishness. I could remember it as his experiment, using me to "play house" or try on a gay relationship for size, like someone who can't afford the jacket they're trying on and has no intention of buying it but just wants to wear it a little longer before putting it back on the rack because it feels so nice. I could remember primarily the bitter ending, focusing on my sadness and disappointment about how he ended things. I could remember it as a summer fling that was just fun and outlived its usefulness. I could remember it as my own experiment or attempt to distract myself from more important matters, like building my own life in employment or further education. I could remember it as a starter relationship. I could remember just the aspects that my current emotions magnify.

I don't know how I'm going to look back at this in the long run, but what I do know is that it clearly meant something to me, and none of the above fully describes how I see it now. I also don't know how he looks back on it. I could tell myself all kinds of stories about what he really thinks of what we had, but I don't know, and I almost don't want to because I don't want his perception of it to affect mine. I'd rather remember it my own way rather than react to his perception, real or imagined.

The truth is that I still light up a little inside when I run across photos of him or of us together (I'm filing them away on a backup drive today to stop "running across" them) or think of the moments we shared, conversations, or looks in his face. And I like lighting up a little. I melt a little to think of his cheek in my palm, or the look in his eyes, and I reflect on the conversations we had and laugh at the silly moments or mischievous smirks. I love those memories. When I feel that familiar glow, it's followed by a slight ache, a reminder that it's now "the past", only a memory. But I've accepted that. Maybe I'm still in the process of accepting it. I feel worn out from grieving, though, so it almost seems easier to be angry or dismissive, but that doesn't feel right. So I'm left with a messy mix of emotions which are calmer and quieter than the days immediately following the breakup but still not neatly tucked away. This is to be expected: classic breakup stuff. It generally takes a while for me to really heal and move on from these things, but I think I'm ready to really move forward. Most of the time, the sting of the loss is now outweighed by the happiness of how I felt with him, patting his cheek goodbye in my head, and letting that feed a hope that I will feel that again someday with someone, though I will work on building my life without it for now.

If there is any great cosmic purpose to anything, I'm confident that for whatever reasons, we were meant to be together for that time. When we met, there truly were "fireworks" for me, and the stars seemed to align, and as I said, it felt right. Maybe we would have been amazing together if we'd stayed together, and that destiny was thwarted by theories which will prove to be a mirage of happiness. Or perhaps we were meant to be together to learn a thing or two and to help clarify what we really want and believe. Maybe the Church is right, and he needed it so that he could choose to give it up to prove his obedience. Maybe I needed to experience it to prepare me for better to come. Or maybe there's no "meant to be" about it, and that belief is just a reflection of how much I loved being with him. I am pretty sure we both have learned a lot and grown a lot from it. I'm not big on the idea of "destiny" in the predetermination sense, to be honest, but all I know is that I have no regrets about having invested in that relationship.

So why muddy that with negative emotions around the relationship? After all, part of what motivates me to weather this well is that the relationship felt basically sacred to me, and to trade the sacredness of it for the profanity of a rebound, or the destructive influence of bitterness, feels like dishonoring what it was to me.

After he called things off, I wanted to remember and honor what I loved about "us", so I made a journal entry of my specific memories. I was amazed how many there were. I don't think I've ever so clearly remembered so many specific moments, gestures, expressions, conversations, and places with such unsullied fondness. There were poignant memories, memories of hesitation, or recognizing points of conflict, or awkward memories, or mild regrets about things said and done, but these were far outshone by the happy, uplifting, grateful, fun, and tender memories. We built a lot of memories for such a short time dating. Maybe it's his personality, maybe it's the way we interacted and complemented each other, maybe it's the amount of time we spent together, or maybe it's a reflection of my own feelings, but whatever it is, I have a small treasure trove of memories to quietly file away.

One thing I know: this relationship felt so right at the time, so disarmingly right it felt almost like summer love from one of those disgusting Nicholas Sparks novels. This was my best prospect for a relationship so far, while it existed. We had our differences, don't get me wrong. I could conceptualize the idea of someone being "better for me" in ways, and I may look back a year or two from now and see our compatibility as lacking in ways I can't see now, despite my current feelings, but I considered myself lucky to have him, and I was ready to pursue more and deal with challenges as they came. The differences or challenges seemed insignificant compared to being with him, with all of his beautiful and positive traits and character and the way we meshed.

However imperfect a match we might have been in a few ways, it was clear to me that this was someone with whom I could work through challenges remarkably well, with whom I felt "at home", a really good guy at his core, responsive and sensitive so far, with values and goals I respected and identified with, and that was more than enough to take a risk and move ahead, come what may. There was plenty on which to build: circumstances, beliefs, interests, values, principles, leisure preferences, mutual openness to each other's interests, tastes, and ideas which differ, certain complementary personality traits, the ability to have fun no matter what we're doing, bringing out the best in each other, communication styles, conflict resolution, mutual sensitivity and overriding concern for the other's welfare, a joint eye to the future of the relationship and presence in the moment, apparent emotional compatibility and understanding, and a passion and affection which brought feelings I had begun to think I might not be able to find again...

So even though there's probably valid or at least understandable negativity about certain issues incidental to the end of the relationship, I've decided I find the most peace in looking back fondly, remembering the good times we had and the love and affection we shared, even if briefly, letting go of the unpleasant end and the desire to answer every lingering question, and mourning the loss of something beautiful rather than trying to make it into something easy to let go of. Focusing on the positive--on how good it was (for me, at least) while it lasted--feels right. And even though that initially made me hopeless that I'd ever find something that good again, it now leaves me with a sense that maybe there's another such relationship or better around the bend: that if the stars aligned once, maybe they'll align again. And for that, I thank him: for being the guy he is, for setting a new standard of care, affection, communication, and give and take, for renewing my hope that there might be someone out there for me after all.

I will count myself fortunate if I again find someone who feels so much like coming home each time I see them, with whom I feel absolutely comfortable being myself and being vulnerable, who makes me want to be a better person and brings out positive parts of me I had begun to doubt, who makes me want to sacrifice and make lasting changes, who makes me feel cherished and supported as I am while spurring me towards goals and fulfillment they know I want to work towards, with whom I want to make goals and visions to improve each other, our relationship, and the world around us, with whom I can freely laugh out loud or cry without reservation, who doesn't seem to care any more than I do whether each other is fashionable in dress, appearance, or preferences, with whom everything feels more enjoyable and meaningful just because we're doing it together, with whom I have great personal and physical chemistry and passion but who also genuinely wants to put off sex until we're in a committed, monogamous relationship, to make it special and develop emotional intimacy first, someone who I'm quickly confident would love me just as much if I were deformed, and I them, for whom I feel such tenderness, respect, appreciation, enjoyment, and passion that when they kiss me with such a loving look in their eyes, I can't help but be overcome by gratitude for what we have, let alone what it might become if allowed, and I am moved to tears by the prospect of committing to them and the simultaneous prospect of losing them, a relationship which may be a work in progress but occasionally gives me the urge to shout for joy into the sky to express what I'm feeling, though I hold back because it would seem foolish for such a short time dating, someone who brings all these things and more to enrich and uplift and excite and challenge me...

So, thanks to [you], who may or may not ever read this, for bringing that into my life, even if I foolishly got a bit carried away but didn't express all of that to you, and for sharing with me a glimpse of what we each might have someday, for helping me truly feel like I deserve that kind of happiness and affection (I profoundly hope you felt something similar or experienced joyful realizations as well, that I brought something to cherish to the relationship too), for showing me that someone great can feel for me in return as much as you seemed to. I love what we shared, I love what I felt for and with you, I love the guy I was falling (or had fallen) for, with all his faults and shortcomings and strengths and beauties, and I hope you felt something even close to what I did because you deserve to be and feel fully appreciated and loved and buoyed up. Whatever our paths, or however we decide to look for it, and whomever with, I hope we both find that and more with someone with whom we can each pursue it to a more developed and seasoned love on which to build a lifetime of adventure and challenges, because to risk and invest to achieve that kind of love and companionship in life would be, pardon the vomitous sappiness, a dream come true. That's a dream I'm not ready to give up on quite yet.




Funny how, through the grief and pain and confusion and anger, my heart has kept bringing me back to this place of bright remembrance and a tender goodbye. So to maintain the corniness, I'll express that by dedicating these two videos to you with love, Sapbutt:

Making it sacred

I mentioned, in a recent post, that I felt like a sacrifice being placed on an altar I don't believe in. It was a sort of fulfillment of a fear I'd had going into the relationship, though I'm grateful it happened very early rather than a year or five into a relationship. I found myself in a situation in which I could protest and try to change his mind, or get angry and leave on bad terms, or cling to a hope that he'd change his mind, thereby defying his wishes to move on, or quietly relinquish the relationship to be laid down out of a desire to respect his wishes and free him to pursue his path because part of me always knew he would probably need to experience it for himself.

If I were a better man, maybe that would have been the end of it, and I might not have looked back, and I might not have posted all of these many things I'd say to him if I could but instead will say to others who might find themselves in similar situations in the future, so at least someone might thereby benefit from my experience or thoughts (but really secretly hoping he'll one day read all of this and know what I was feeling and thinking). Maybe I'd not have fought severe bitterness towards those who pushed for and glorified this particular sacrifice made for a belief system which I believe is incomplete or possibly even quite wrong. Maybe I'd not have resented our relationship being a casualty in a war for disciples or souls or have struggled (less-so recently) to not contact him (even just to say that I miss him and love him and that I still hope he's happy or will be) and not bother our mutual friends who are now my only connection to him. But I'm nowhere near perfect, so...

In my mind, I had "loved him enough" to risk losing him by encouraging him to hear both sides of the story and perspective which I knew would likely be seductive because I knew what kind of commitment and changes he would have to make to be with me, and I wanted him to make them the right way if he were going to make them. I felt wholly betrayed when I didn't even have the chance to rebut because after listening to the folks at Evergreen, the discussion was done, presumably in the name of conviction or commitment. It seemed an ugly sort of sacrifice, compelled, in my emotional mind, by tyrants who would remove him from beautiful, healthy intimacy, burn it as an offering, and relabel its charred remains as "temptation" and "damning". Rejection can be messy.

From my pained perspective, it was easiest to see his dissolution of our relationship and withdrawal from certain friendships as a cult-like isolation necessary to reinforce the beliefs of a newfound brotherhood which wouldn't stand up to the scrutiny of outsiders. It seems so many are needlessly trying to prove their goodness and moral courage not for eternal truth but out of intense emotional drive for the praises of men, the comfort of flowing with society, and the sense of mission, purpose, and courage one feels when doing something difficult for what they think of as a higher cause. In my pain and frustration, that sort of commitment seemed more, to me, like the detaching fanaticism of religious extremists or communal hippies than the courageous dedication of one breaking an addiction. I was finally understanding, emotionally, the bitterness and anger so many seem to feel towards organizations like Evergreen.

But I also knew how empowering it can feel to be motivated to something so strongly that you are ready to give up friendships, memories, or your own will in order to pursue it, and how such sacrifices only feel like giving up something you want or might "like" for something you want even more or in which you believe. Such willful relinquishment catalyzes the concretion of commitment to and increases one's investment in a decision or philosophy. With so much at stake, one naturally hopes, that much more fully, that the sacrifices one is making are "worth it", and one convinces one's self that they are, because...well...they'd better damn well be. It's hard to tell, sometimes, whether the thing you are sacrificing for and investing in, is inherently worthy of that or whether you believe it's worthy because the cognitive dissonance of seeing that it's not worth it, after all you've invested, is too great. And I had to acknowledge that such could be true for anything, including my investment in the relationship.

If current, predominant LDS thought isn't correct about same-sex relationships, then these grand sacrifices, despite indeed showing one's dedication, are nothing God has demanded or would demand but something we made up to make ourselves feel righteous and to make "the plan" fit into our current level of understanding of the way the universe and eternity operate. But if the LDS Church is right, then they're doing exactly what they should be, aren't they? If there is no God dictating what relationships are sanctioned, or there is a God who doesn't actually care what sex you build a life with or whether kids have two dads and a mother figure or an actual mom and dad, as long as you do it healthily and with pure love, then the sacrifices people are making to build life as they believe it can be are worth it. If it's all bunk, and men and women are just naturally or divinely supposed to always be together, without exception, then they're wasting a lot of effort on something which isn't truth.

Sacrifice can be both a powerful investment and a beautiful manifestation of love and dedication to a person, cause, or path in life. It can show one's commitment while simultaneously solidifying and adding meaning and investment to that commitment by what is given to achieve it, whether or not the commitment is intrinsically worthy of the sacrifice. I think it's most often a noble idea and respectable action. There's a reason Joseph Smith taught that "a religion that does not require the sacrifice of all things never has power sufficient to produce the faith necessary unto life and salvation" (Lectures on Faith [1985], 69). There's a reason religious adherents worldwide practice various forms of fasting and self-denial. There's a reason Jesus is quoted as having told the rich man to give away his belongings. There's a reason successful relationships involve mutually giving up individual wants in favor of what's best for each other and for the relationship.

Merriam-Webster online: Sacrifice
1: an act of offering to a deity something precious
2: something offered in sacrifice
3a: destruction or surrender of something for the sake of something else
b: something given up or lost

I've made sacrifices in my life. I've done very uncomfortable things and taken leaps of faith for what I believed to be the truth, or the will of God. I needed to prove that to myself. I've never given as much trust to what I believed were the philosophies of men, and I've always been wary of and resistant to those who would demand more than is reasonable or which would enslave my will or compromise personal conviction or principles. But when I believed God was behind a command, or I found conviction, I found in myself a willing and humble servant of truth, and I needed that. I needed to know I was willing to lay it all down for what I believe, or that I gave something an honest, full-hearted try. I've known the beauty of proving faithfulness by giving my will, or by walking lonely or dark paths to ultimately feel supported and confident that, at the very least, my motives were right, I learned something, and I was capable of dedicating myself fully to a cause or mission. And even when the outcome was no grand manifestation, or I later looked back and saw the thing I had committed to in a different light, I saw my own sacrifice and commitment as a journey of personal growth, a sacred sort of experience.

According to many Bible scholars, the word "sacrifice" means "to make holy", and it's easy to understand what that means when you've freely given of yourself for a cause or belief or relationship: it feels holy, or sacred. That's what sacrifice is for: making holy, making meaningful, committing one's self through demonstrated dedication and prioritization. The more you invest your energy and time into something, the more meaningful it becomes to you, and the more interest you have in seeing it through. The more you give up to get something, the more likely you are to complete what it takes to get it, and the more likely you are to see rewards (call them blessings, if you prefer) from it.

So it would seem that anything can be "made holy" with enough investment and sacrifice, but if I don't want others questioning the worthiness of something I found sacred, don't I owe the same courtesy to those who have chosen where to place their energy, trust, and dedication, as long as it's not harming anyone else or themselves? When you think something is potentially hazardous or deceptive, when do you warn, and when do you silently let go? Fortunately, I think I know what hands he's going to be in, and even though I disagree with many of their foundational beliefs and think there's some pretty subtle but influential psychology behind what they do, I trust them to care about him and not endanger anyone or force them into anything. It's not like he's a vulnerable, blank-slate teenager being preyed upon. He's an adult, and obviously makes his own decisions, choosing his path. I admit that I've feared [he] might set himself up for an emotional crash if things didn't work out on this path and find himself feeling like a failure, desperate, and without the comfort of friends he left behind, and either harm himself or give in to a desperate lifestyle. To have lost the happiness we felt to that end would be absolutely devastating. But such speculative fears, which might selfishly satisfy my hope that he chose incorrectly, and which most likely are the furthest thing from what he's actually experiencing right now, can't dictate my reactions, despite strong emotions.

And strong emotions they have been. Much of what I've expressed has been unfiltered by the objective analysis and detached moderation I strive for. I lost the energy for it and felt a drive to vocalize what I was having to work through. This is probably one of the last in that series of posts. I've come to a more stable place. For all I know, his breaking things off cold-turkey had to do with a hundred things not including making me into a sacrifice on reparative therapy's altar. This, along with many other thoughts posted over the last couple of weeks, was my emotional reaction based on my experience and my pain, but the memory of this relationship is too tender to shroud it in bitterness. That seems the opposite of "making it sacred".

When I step back, I have to acknowledge that it all comes down to what's actually true or what we believe is true, and it may be that even our relationship became falsely magnified in my own mind because of my investment, my risks, my dedication to what I hoped was true, not what actually was true. And maybe, just maybe, it's OK for each of us to find what works for us, what we believe, what makes us happy and rings true, and to "make it sacred".

Only in my dreams

It's been over two weeks, and just when things are really starting to look up, my dreams try to sabotage my peace. Last night, I dreamed I was hanging out with the "ex", if he can be called that. We chatted, we drove around (and somehow saw a lane of traffic with a couple of semi trucks driving backwards, which was pretty cool), we watched TV just as buddies, on separate couches even, and it was fine and comfortable. He even left funny little corny, slightly inappropriate messages scribbled into the dust on the TV screen. I chuckled when I saw them, which I only noticed after he left abruptly without a word, leaving me wondering where he'd gone and missing his friendship. <sarcasm>Gee, could such a dream mean anything?</sarcasm>

On the brighter side, I also dreamed, before all of this, that I was at a tropical, Disney-style theme park waiting to see the dolphin show (which, incidentally, was more aware of and responsive to the well-being of the dolphins than any show I'd seen--leave it to my brain to throw in that detail) and trying to figure out which rides I could get in before lunch. Then I was infiltrating a research facility to retrieve a miniature batmobile and a teleportation portal, shooting up droids, laser cannons, and Darth Vader in a shower of "bew-bew" laser fire and rescuing from a closet a mad scientist who was going to help us unlock the teleportation module. So that was pretty awesome.

Tempted to Believe

Note: I wasn't going to blog about this. It was a very personal experience, and I didn't want to have to explain myself to anyone. But it was an experience I think is very much worth sharing as part of this whole process, so here it is.


When [he] suddenly called off our relationship and said goodbye after attending an Evergreen Conference, I was devastated (if my devastation surprises you, please take a few hours to catch up on this week's reading, and return to this post). I had knowingly assumed the risk, since he wasn't fully settled into the idea of dating men when we met, but we had overcome some significant hurdles. I had been tempted to bail a couple of times to avoid getting too invested, or because it seemed so unlikely to work out long-term, or because I was afraid he was more invested than I was, but I chose to stay and see things through, and I had been glad I did because I felt great about where we were going and what we were like together, and I'd started to fall. Things were looking better and better between us. He had initially surprised me--after we had decided to keep our friendship 'platonic' and I had decided to move back to the northwest--by calling me to ask me out "on a date" (I cried a little out of happiness, not gonna lie), and again with his apparently increasing conviction that he was where he was supposed to be, with me. So I half expected we would continue to clear the hurdles, and when this particular hurdle of the Evergreen Conference left me flat on my face as he left the race altogether, I felt utterly bereft and broken.

The week leading up to it had also tried my resilience in another way. I had had conversations earlier in the week with two separate married couples, friends from college, in which I explained to them that I no longer attend church and don't believe in it like I used to, or at all, and proceeded to patiently withstand the rebuttals and questions they couldn't help but level with urgent righteousness to try to slap some sense into me, which I explained I understand and used to do, myself. But with each couple, there was a time when I thought, "This may be our last conversation." But in each case, we left on a friendly note, agreeing to disagree but reaffirming that we still liked each other and respected the good characteristics each had. But since one conversation was Tuesday night, and the other was Wednesday morning, by the time I met up with [him] midday Wednesday, I was emotionally drained and so glad to be with him, where I felt unreserved love and acceptance and open attempts to understand.

I think this compounded my frustration when he turned fully from me to pursue a "new direction" in life, apparently towards the very belief system strictures I've been moving away from and from which he had seemed to be as well. The one I'd felt so safe with had now turned coldly and abruptly away, and I was left behind, confirmed as the sinner who wouldn't "change". More than that, I was weighed down by a sense of weariness that left me wondering if I had foolishly believed in a fantasy that things could all work out for me. Had I imagined myself somewhat as the hero in Wicked, abandoning her quest to change the world in favor of quietly pursuing happiness with her love (OK, so some Wicked songs on my mp3 player yesterday had me thinking about that)? I guess I had started to entertain that notion a bit too much. I had faith in us, so much so that by the end, I had not held on to my heart quite enough to save me from the pain. For various reasons, the breakup left me in pieces.

He lives in different town than I did, and I was passing through on my way northward to see our mutual friend in a play. Being in the town where I had just had my last beautiful day with him less than a week prior was hard, and the new distance between us felt all the harsher as I slept just blocks from his apartment with no certainty that we'd ever see each other speak again. Only a strong conviction, I figured, or at least a strong emotion that felt like conviction, could have compelled such a sudden turnaround for him, and I couldn't fault him for wanting that kind of conviction that feels so good at the time. I can't stand the thought of losing him to some one-sided rhetoric and an emotionally charged weekend hurrah. I can only hope that he had a "spiritual" manifestation at least as strong as any he had regarding us or his previous assurances. He must have. And if he did, then for me to try to talk with him about it in any way other than affirming it makes me a literal enemy of God from his perspective, and who can compete with that? I had to just let go, to let him follow his new direction. I was trapped between the "if you love them, let them go" pain of desolation and the bait of confirming that getting in the way of his exaltation proves I couldn't have truly loved him.

And letting him go, I knew he'd be gaining what I felt I'd been losing this past couple of years, in addition to now losing him. I had known, in the past, what it felt like to be a part of a family of supporters who feel like they know powerful truths nobody else dares to speak. I remembered that feeling, that motivating sense that I was giving up my will to a greater purpose and eternal goal, supported and praised for my conviction and diligence by those who likewise believed joy was found in this particular brand of self-denial and dedication to a more excellent way than mere mortal exaltation-forfeiting contentedness. And his sudden goodbye made me long, in a way, for the kind of camaraderie I knew he'd likely found, for the cheerleaders and sense of grand, overarching purpose he must feel, for the sense of meaning brought about by sacrificing what we had, or thought we had. Because what I was left with was mostly sympathy (even if sincere and heartfelt) from friends who quietly believed he made the doctrinally right choice, the notion that I was a sort of sacrifice left on an altar I don't believe in, and a feeling that we needlessly and senselessly lost a beautiful thing.

In my ache to see some kind of hope in this, or my longing not to let go (of him and of my friends who maintain that the only path to eternal joy is avoidance of all romantic or sexual relationships with members of the same sex), I faced a feeling I hadn't experienced in a long, long time: a desire to believe, to believe that this was for good, that there was some meaning to it, and that I could confidently hope for eternal joy in exchange for the happiness I had lost. That would've made it sufferable or worth the loss. I knew in my mind that this was likely the desperate grasp of the guy who has lost everything, a kind of desire for belief I've never respected much or given much credence to. But I also knew I was feeling some intense emotions and losses, feeling broken to the core, like I'd lost all hope of the happiness I wanted to find and thought I might have found had we continued. I was ready to give up on that road if this is going to be the pattern of it, loss after loss, and was now open to anything. For the first time, I suspect I clearly tasted what the flip-flopping mohos who've baffled me by running in and out of the church have been experiencing all along.

I thought of the fellowship he would enjoy with people I used to feel at home with, but with whom I'd felt increasingly distant due to the new gaps between our beliefs. I imagined "being home" again with them and in the church I used to love, having a community again. I imagined what it would be like to be in his shoes now, confidently starting a journey of self denial and self discovery with the promise of eternal joy and the possibility of the kind of marriage I'd always imagined: procreative, eternal, free of social disapproval, familial strain, or legal limitations. I admittedly fantasized about being able to join him in his journey, to believe again the things which I believed before, to rejoice in each other's prodigal return, in a friendship which could continue in its more eternal form, unfettered by romantic or sexual complication. I could still be with him in that way, in some way, rather than this painfully final-feeling goodbye. I yearned for the confidence that even a lifetime of choosing to be single was exactly what God, if he exists and cares about this in the way LDS doctrine and tradition claim he does, required of me if I never found a woman with whom I could "make it work".

In short, and despite having other good friendships, I still missed the full fellowship I'd had with a few good guys, and I longed to assuage my pain with a belief in a grand, overarching purpose for my loss. Surely this suffering might have meaning. I was a mess of emotions and longing, and I was open to believing there was possibly "more" to my longing than what I'd been able to identify. I felt a powerful drive to go back to the path I'd left, but I knew it would take more than feelings of social ease and belonging, the desire to be near [him], and comforting stories to tell myself about why this loss was worth it. I knew it required being able to set aside the knowledge, questions, and years of church attendance, prayer, and scripture reading with no success in salvaging my "testimony". It required believing that familiar path was a true path, not just an attractive one at the moment.

Tuesday morning (the 21st), in a very humble, almost desperate state of mind, I decided there was no harm in being open to being called back, or to rekindle faith in LDS doctrine or at the very least in a real, personal God. I've always been sure I could comply again with whatever was required if I felt it was true. I drove to the Logan temple to sit on the grounds and reflect. As I walked up the grassy hill, my stomach flipped as I thought, "What if this is it? What if this is where I recommit to the path I used to be on? Am I ready for that?" Looking up at the temple, thinking of what it represents, it felt like a memory, like something you find in storage which you know used to be deeply meaningful to you but which you now feel ready to give away because it's just an object attached to an increasingly distant memory.

Nevertheless, I sat on a stone bench, and I buried my face in my hands as I prayed silently through sobs and sniffles, saying, "I haven't done this in a very long time, and I maybe can't expect to have everything be magically restored, and if you exist you know I doubt your very existence and tend to think of 'you' as 'truth' and 'prayer' as 'meditative, reflective, open thought', but if you are there in the very real sense I used to believe in, please help me. Please help me begin to understand what I'm supposed to do with all of this. Please help me remember what I need to if this is true and whether you would ask of me what he seems to believe you're asking of him. I'll give it. I think you know I will. This has hurt so acutely, but if it's your will, I want to accept that."

I blanked out my thoughts. I pushed out my friends and family. I pushed out church culture. I pushed out my possible 'explanations' for past spiritual experiences. I pushed out thoughts of [him]. I exerted all the effort I could to wipe the slate clean, to 'receive' truth, to extend my energy upward and outward in search of spiritual reception as I used to do so often. I felt a familiar slight chill upon that exertion, a very familiar feeling. But as of yet, no revelations or confirmations to speak of. I felt trepidation and fear as I dared to ask, "If there's something I haven't seen or understood, or which I haven't been prepared to receive, which will be hard for me, please help me prepare or understand. I know I'm a tough sell in some ways, but I have been contrite before, and I feel so now, that old familiar readiness to do whatever it takes, to learn whatever I'm supposed to, so please...I'm open...help me be more open..."

My hands were tired and full of tears. I didn't want to show my puffy, pathetic face to the few passers by entering and leaving the temple, and I wanted to just "listen" for a while. I don't know how long I was there, but I decided to take a break and walk around the grounds once, which I did. And I returned to the bench to listen a while longer. In the end, I said, "OK, not now then. I'm not sure I'm ready to give up, though. I may be back soon. In the meantime, if there's anything you want to reveal, feel free, OK?" I decided I would re-assess a few things, try to be open to the possibilities, take a few steps of my own here and there, and explore my options for re-organizing my life according to some realizations and resignations. It was time to move on in many ways, with or without a divine intervention or manifestation.

Aside from the slight chills which didn't exactly bring fruits of the Spirit, I hadn't noticed any sensations or inspiration, which reminded me of a few things about prayer in the past and realizations I'd had about it. But I still figured I'd not be the proud guy who commanded God to answer me and threw my hands up in atheistic defiance when I didn't experience angelic ministry. And I certainly understand that if God's real, then it's probably not about me giving him another chance, but the other way around. So even though I wasn't about to ignore everything I've thought and felt over the past several years in favor of "wanting" to believe in the midst of an emotional crisis, maybe I'd just leave the jury out a while longer. Certainty, after all, is overrated...isn't it?

Post-mission blues

When my time as a missionary was done, and I was to take the lessons I'd learned and move on with life at home, I felt a strange mix of emotions. I had left my mission to "come home," but it felt just as much like "leaving" home, so returning home and seeing my family was tinged with homelessness. I also saw my vague, future life with a distantly hopeful heart while regarding my tasks at hand with a sort of comparative emptiness. I couldn't shake the feeling that it seemed a bit hollow to be focusing on "me" and the comparatively menial chores of school, finances, and career. I knew they were necessary, but they seemed so relatively insignificant to what really mattered, what I'd been focusing my attention on.

I knew that others had served missions and had been through this, but only missionaries I served with really knew what my mission was like, and nobody in the world could see even those shared experiences through my eyes. Only I knew exactly how I interpreted them, or what they meant to me. I wanted to share everything in my head with my friends and family after the mission, the many things I'd learned and experienced and felt, but no amount of journal-writing could keep up with my thoughts, and no amount of explanation could put into anyone else's mind or heart anything approaching the complexity I'd experienced or perceived. No, that experience was mine and mine alone, and though I wished I could share it or express it, I settled on sharing the snippets I could which seemed most appropriate to my audience.

I was happy to be back among the few old friends who remained in my home town, but I experienced an intellectual loneliness and the vaguely melancholic sense that I had changed in ways I could never fully explain, and I could never fully "return" to how I was or how I had previously viewed life. I really struggled with the reality that nobody really understands me fully, and vice versa, and probably nobody ever will, and I have to accept understanding "enough". When people (such as friends of other faiths) would try to relate to my mission experience using their summer exchange programs to foreign countries, I would nod patiently while thinking to myself, "That's on a completely different level and in a different context, without the deeply spiritual meaning, so it's not nearly what I'm talking about, but OK, we'll just say you relate somewhat."

Tonight, I was thinking about my life now, and I wondered why I felt so intellectually alone, and funky about starting fresh in building a new life, struggling to see any of it as meaningful or important compared to where I've been, or what I had. It struck me in clarity: this was a familiar feeling. And it gave me hope that the pieces will come together, enough, in time, and home will redefine itself, and I will re-learn that sometimes I just have to accept, even though it's hard when those close to you can't relate or think you're on a questionable path, that nobody will fully understand what's inside of me and what I see. Maybe it will even all work out in the long run, in a progressive cycle with good times along the way. One can hope...