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5,646 words
This entry is going to be long, and more biographical/confessional than usual. There's no message involved; I'm just trying to write things down that I want to remember about the Patrick (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
marveloustrick) divorce, and about the beginning of things with Ciro (liquidmorpheme). I'm actually being fairly restrained about it. It's probably a good story, but I don't have the emotional distance to be sure, and as I've said, it is long - and so it gets a cut tag.
A week after I returned from Boston, Patrick and I were sitting in bed naked, reading before going to sleep. I looked up from my book, turned to Patrick, and without knowing what I was about to say, said, "you love me, but you love our cat." There was no meanness in it, and we both knew immediately that it was true. It had been a month since we'd successfully slept together, and much longer since he'd initiated anything sexual instead of comforting. Days before, I'd been stunning - one of the most beautiful days I'd ever had, and I look pretty on an ordinary day - and he hadn't noticed. Exhaustion only goes so far as an excuse for unattraction.
I asked why he wanted to come to London when he wasn't interested in me. He didn't even like spending time with me - not in practice; I sound cool on paper, but my presence was enough to make him anxious - even terrified.
"I guess we should get a divorce," he said. So we finished our chapters, turned out the light, and went to sleep; he had an early morning.
I woke Patrick at around three a.m., having not slept. Having instead cried and then gotten angry.
"What are you doing?" I said. "Have you really thought this through? How can you not love me? I'm beautiful, smart, creative, funny, talented, and in love with you. I keep you entertained, put up with your craziness, drop everything to make you happy, and still manage to create works of art. If you leave me, you're never going to get me back again, or anyone like me - have you ever even heard of anyone like me, let alone met them? You chased me for years. Are you sure this is what you want - that you're not just ill, or tired, or going through some kind of crisis?"
"You're still in love with me?" he said. "After everything?"
Of course, I said. But as I said it, I was sickened by the way he perked up under my approval, the way he deferred in judgments of what was or wasn't pleasing. I never wanted to be the dominant partner - just an equal. I'm not being fair to Patrick - everyone wants to be loved, or to be loved best, and we like people more when they like us. Yet I was nauseated by his passivity in this most important decision, his wanting me not because I mattered, but because he wanted to be loved by someone who mattered. In that moment, it was painfully clear that neither of us thought he deserved me.
"If you still want me," I said, "you'll have to prove it - to win me back, to convince both of us that you're worthy - convince yourself maybe more than me. I'm sorry; I don't mean to jerk you around, or make you feel inadequate, but we can't go on like this. Something - a grand gesture, a proof of affection. I don't know if it's possible, and I am only letting you try because I love you."
"I know," he said.
This conversation took much longer than the summary, and it was now almost five in the morning. Patrick left for work; I slept for a few hours. When I woke up, I listened to "Let Go" by Frou Frou, cried a little, and calledvalancy. We were shooting part of a music video that day, at her house. I sat on the edge of Val's bathtub while she fixed her hair, and I told her that my marriage was probably over, that Patrick didn't want me any more, and that I might need to stay with her for a while. She finished with her hair; LeAnne arrived; we all put on makeup, even though I would be behind the camera. Ciro arrived at the bus station; I picked him up; and we had a marvelous shoot - smooth, exciting, effective. (Confidential to everyone: Invent projects that allow you to look at beautiful women all day.)
Afterward, Ciro and I went back to my place to watch the footage; either Patrick was there when we arrived or he arrived shortly thereafter. We all agreed that the footage was very good. We chatted about miscellany; then I gave Ciro a ride to the train station. Ciro doesn't have a car - hasn't in years - and in Dallas, with Dallas public transit, that's debilitating. I shortcut things when I can. Before he left the car, Ciro looked up at me, seriously (which is impossible - he's taller than I am - but that's how I remember things), and informed me that he'd be moving to Italy in a year and a half - to a town just south of Rome. There was something about his body language that was vulnerable, diffident.
Well then, I said, I'll join you there.
Excellent, he said.
I do not believe this diffidence - this intimate half-request and ensuing relieved smile - was in reaction to the Patrick situation, of which Ciro may or may not have been aware. This was the same week I heard back from the London Film School - was only days afterward. It's hard enough to be separated from your creative partner for two years; harder still with the worry that she won't come back, or that you'll be gone when she returns. Of course I'd come to Italy, invited or not. Still, it was nice to be asked.
I drove home. Patrick used his usual Patrick technique of behaving as though nothing of note was occurring. Nothing important enough to divert him from habit and cheerful indifference. Patrick likes routine; it makes him feel safe. I found out later that he'd meant to pick up flowers, but hadn't - the florist he passed by each day was closed, and being Patrick, he could not imagine going to another one. I sat down on the sofa and cried in a loud, indelicate way - large bawling sobs with almost silent hiccoughs, like the sound of a dry motor turning over.
"I can't do this anymore," I said, and I couldn't. This was at least the fourth time that year I'd been told absolutely that we were divorcing, and then, a few hours later, that we were not. Each time, Patrick would convince me that he still wanted me, still wanted my life; that he would get involved in my projects, adventures, and schemes, instead of always keeping me at a distance; that he was just scared, sad, or tired, reverting to his suburban background and the fears of his parents' generation. Then his behavior would remain exactly the same, I'd get angry about something, and again he would say it was over, that he couldn't handle the pressures of being with me.
All of this makes Patrick look like a terrible villain, and me like a dishrag, but it's really just the way unequal partnerships go - no words, no amount of love, could make it otherwise. It's a pattern I've been through before, many times. People aspire to me for various reasons, and work to convince me and themselves that we are similar. Then, once they've got me, they realize I really am this way all of the time, about everything. They can't handle me; they feel inadequate; they get angry, even though I was always up front about who I am. So I compromise for them. Then they get upset because they've "broken" me - made me less exciting, less vital, than I'd be without them. (Nobody ever gives me credit for my choice in the matter.) Usually, this ends with them cheating on me flagrantly, and/or denying we were ever romantically linked - which, although it always hurts me, never seems like an act of cruelty so much as an attempt to erase themselves from me - to undo the defacement.
So from my perspective, Patrick's behavior was uncommonly honorable, hopeful, and courageous. He's a good man.
Unfortunately, being a good man was not, and never could be, enough. I need to believe that I am loved, wanted - even if undercomprehended. I told Patrick again that I needed a grand gesture - something that he originated, not something I coached him through - something to convince me he was serious. I couldn't trust him any more. I said this through tears and shaky breathing, through wailing, sitting on the sofa, staring at the floor. I think this is the first time it got through to Patrick that he was hurting a person - not just an idea, or an angel, or a faery queen. He said at the time that he'd never seen me in such intense pain, and he is right. There was only pain.
Nevertheless, I cleaned myself up and went to Clinton House for family night; I still had to tell them I'd gotten in to London Film School. They asked where Patrick was and whether he was following me to London; I said that it was still under discussion. From this point on, Patrick's inconvenient work schedule operated in our favor, as it could always provide a convenient excuse for why he wasn't with me - either he was at work, he was resting after work, or he was sleeping because he had work the next day.
Patrick picked me up and brought me back to the apartment. In my absence, he had transformed it into a church with a bare floor and an altar filled with candles. Christianity has been important to both of our lives, although neither of us identifies as Christian - but more essentially, Christianity is based around the idea of forgiveness, the powerful belief that no matter who you are or what you've done, you can start anew, with a clean slate.
"I'm not trying to force your hand, or pressure you into forgiving me," Patrick said, "but it would mean a lot to me if you could say the words - even if you don't mean them." I couldn't speak, so I just nodded. He said that the five candles on the altar stood for Romie; although five has never been my lucky number, or my favorite, it has always represented me - I'm not sure why. I re-baptized Patrick in our living room; then we took communion together - bread and grape juice, because grape juice is what I drank as a child, and still drink when I'm very ill and need to be comforted.
"Patrick," I said, "I do forgive you; I already had. I don't hold the Guildhall against you, the debt, the fact that you're not who you told me you were - who you thought you were or could be. I know none of it was malicious or deliberately deceptive. I still love you. I hope this has helped you forgive yourself. But do you realize that a clean slate is a clean slate? The only thing that's been holding us together is that we've been together for the past four years. With a clean slate, that doesn't count anymore. What's left?
"We don't share property, goals, children; we want to live in different places, doing different things, sleeping at different times; you don't want me - may not even like me; we don't even share our mental life anymore - we go to other collaborators. As moved as I am by this re-baptism, it demonstrates an important point - I'm not your partner; I'm God. You love me; are awed by me; hate me; are afraid of me. Your self worth depends entirely on my approval or disapproval. I never wanted that responsibility.
"I think...I think if we approach this as a new start, it means you have to date me, woo me, convince both of us that you can be your own person, which I know you can. We can spend months on this - however long it takes. I'm not trying to run away - we just both need all our energy to pull this off, and we can't be relaxed around each other right now."
You may think because I am writing this down that it is a summary of what I said; that it is more direct and more dense than what actually occurred. It is not; it's as close as I can come to what I actually said. I tend to make spontaneous speeches at times like these. I can't help it - I don't think in words, but in image/concepts, and unless I can say the words, I can't make the thoughts concrete, can't make them as precise as they need to be. So I monologue, sometimes for hours. I hope it isn't entirely tedious, entirely egotistical.
In any case, Patrick agreed with me. We decided I would leave for Valancy's before he got home from work the next day, and that he could call me for a date if he liked. He went to bed; I, being shorter, slept on the sofa. I woke to find Patrick had laid out a breakfast for me before he left. I ate, packed my reliable traveling backpack (the same one I lived out of my senior year of college, and unpacked when I married Patrick), and killed time until Val got home - I can't remember how. She ran a couple of hours late; Patrick got home a few minutes before I left. We occupied the time with strained, light chat.
I was a wreck for the next week, and Val, as ever, was gracious about caring for me - making sure I ate, and slept, and had someone to cry to. I don't know whether she realizes I call her "Val" not just for "Valancy," but for "invaluable."
On Tuesday, I called Ciro and asked him to inform the Boys (Chad (achates), Ciro, Merlin) of the separation. I later held a roundtable at Rivendell to further detail the situation so that they could support Patrick, and in case one of us needed to stay with them. They were as gallant, restrained, and accepting as anyone could have hoped for.
Meanwhile, I saw Patrick every day - sometimes just for dinner and conversation, sometimes for Scrabble, and once for a performance of Shakespeare in the Park. Throughout this time, we pretended to everyone outside the inner circle (Val, the Boys, and my mother but not Patrick's) that we were still happily living together. This was not hard - it was what people wanted to see, and they had no reason to doubt it. We are both highly experienced actors. It also helped that I was staying at Val's - I always have a reasonable excuse for being over there, whether it's gossip, taking care of Val when she's sick (which she was), or updating Reflection's Edge. This pretense grew not from embarrassment, but a combination of politeness and good politics - had we reconciled as hoped, there would have been no need to worry everyone with how close things had come.
Sadly, it was pretty apparent from a few days in that there would be no reconciliation. We still had fun together, as always; but no matter how fun it was, Patrick was relieved to go home alone at the end of the night. As for the fun, it was the fun friends have - although Patrick was nominally trying to win me back, he didn't put much effort into it. I had to remind him to make himself look presentable before he came over, to bring me gifts, to think of romantic activities.
We discussed the White Stripes, the idea that we could be family but not a couple. After that, it was just waiting around for Patrick to work up the nerve to genuinely leave me. The waiting was miserable - having to pretend I saw two possible futures instead of one, and being unable to act on either of them. I suppose I could have ended things myself, but I owed it to Patrick to let it be his decision - and I would have accepted either choice. I made a promise.
On the Fourth of July, we slept together for the last time, and I asked Patrick if it was a test; he said it wasn't. I asked if it was a goodbye, and he said it wasn't. A few hours later, at Rivendell, he realized it had been. I could see it, so I picked a fight with him - I can be very exasperating. Using the fight as an excuse, I pulled him on to the porch.
"You've made your decision," I said. "Just tell me. You know. Stop fucking around and tell me."
"I want a divorce," he said.
"Finally," I said. We went back inside and ate barbecue and lima beans (both courtesy of Merlin), crashed a bunch of video game cars into each other so there would be some Independence Day fireworks, and told the Boys that our marriage was over. For me, the Independence Day thing was a coincidence; it may have been more significant to Patrick.
I drove Patrick home; he asked whether Ciro and I would now hook up. I told him I didn't know, and that it wasn't exactly my decision to make.
It's important to mention at this point that I have been in love with Ciro almost since I met him - since before I married Patrick, although I didn't recognize it until a few months after I married Patrick. Patrick has never held this against me, and I have never held it against him; it was just one of those things. We occasionally considered curtailing my access to Ciro, but both of us thought that was wasteful - Ciro and I are too good together. Instead, I made sure that Ciro and I were never alone (easily done; we're both social and have roommates), and that absolutely nobody knew how I felt, most especially Ciro.
This secrecy broke down a few times in September of this year - I told Val and Kristina, and suspected that James (narcolepticcat) had figured it out; and in order to resolve a series of frustrating situations that are outside the scope of this entry, I had to tell Ciro that I was physically attracted to him, at least sometimes. Patrick was sitting next to me when I explained this to Ciro; even then, I was circumspect in presenting a united front. I also managed to make "I am attracted to you" seem as non-sexual and unexciting as possible - you'd be amazed how dry and insignificant it can sound, how much like a dead end.
If you've wondered why I disappeared from livejournal a few years ago, this secret is why. Anything I wanted to write about involved either Ciro or Patrick, and one overly fond word could have given the game away. Even as it is, some of the few entries I posted skated too close, if you knew what to look for; I only posted them because I had to say something, even something that wouldn't mean anything to anyone, that would be eminently deniable if it did. It was that or go crazy. Ciro couldn't find out. If I'd thought he could reject me clean, maybe I'd have said something and settled things. I was never sure enough that he could.
Thus, for several years, Patrick and I have simply accepted that the great love of my life was not my husband, but my fellow artist, and that it would remain a chaste love which was at least not openly reciprocated. I still loved Patrick; I still chose Patrick; I still thought Patrick was beautiful. That was enough for us. It was often hard on me, and sometimes on Patrick, but it was the best I could do. I was happy as often as I was sad.
I cannot stress enough that this was not the reason for the divorce, although Patrick and I sometimes joke that it was. If it had been the reason, we would have divorced years ago. Toward the end, Patrick did sometimes compare himself to Ciro, but Patrick also compared himself to me. Patrick spent a lot of time figuring out who he wanted to be, and Ciro and I are great (and terrible) examples of passionate integrity.
More worrying was Patrick's growing certainty that he'd circumvented destiny by marrying me - that he had, in fact, motivated me to oppose the forces of the universe. The words "you were meant to be with him" were stated with gravity, which put me in the awkward position of having to say things like "yeah, but it's irrelevant - I am with you."
(I try not to talk about destiny any more, or fate. I still believe in them, but I try not to let people know that. If I do, they ask about direct evidence, which I really don't want to talk about, because it makes me sound schizophrenic. I made my break with all that when I married Patrick, which is what he was alluding to. Maybe I'll wind up back on fate's payroll, but I wouldn't count on it.)
In any case, I was pretty sure Ciro was in love with me; equally sure that he either didn't know or had decided against it; and equally sure that I wasn't interested in persuading him or anyone to be with me. I'd hit my tolerance for that. Moreover, I wasn't sure what I had to offer - penniless, divorcing, en route to London.
Patrick was absolutely certain that all of this was foolishness and that Ciro and I would get together immediately, and a good thing too, because all this sexual tension was driving everyone crazy. Besides, it was too good an idea not to happen.
For the next week, I house sat Clinton House. Sometimes Scarlett was there. Since Uncle Rex and Stretch were on vacation, Patrick and I waited to announce the impending divorce to them. During this period, there was a lot of effort put in to tracking who knew, who didn't know, and who should be told by whom, when. Patrick told his mother, who immediately concluded that I must have been having an affair (with, of course, Ciro), and it took a few weeks to really convince her that Patrick had left me and not vice versa, that neither of us was having an affair, and that we genuinely still view each other as family.
Patrick and I continued to see each other every day, partly because we like each other, and partly because we share a car. Sometimes, Patrick was inconsiderate in his use of the car, which is actually mine; sometimes he was inconsiderate in other ways. We adjusted to the new situation.
Chad and I hung out in the days immediately following the breakup, and I asked him whether things were still cool on his end - whether there was likely to be awkwardness next time I visited Rivendell, particularly with Merlin, Patrick's best friend and a gentleman with a refreshingly strong sense of propriety.
"Why would anything be weird?" asked Chad. Chad, though awesome in many ways, can be oblivious to social dynamics.
"Well, Chad," I said, "this means that I am a non-lesbian single woman in a friend group of unattached males - and although I say 'single,' the reality is more complicated than that. Things can get weird."
"I just don't think it'll be a problem," said Chad. "I mean, none of the guys are remotely your type."
I would like to note at this time that Ciro, Merlin, and Patrick are all about six foot, extremely slim, and pale, with strong noses and nice lips. So was Will. So were Rory, Chris Blacker, and Diggs, although Chad couldn't know that. And Thomas had been, back when I was crazy over him. With the exception of Merlin and Thomas, all these men - all the men I've ever been interested in - have blue eyes. With the exception of Will and Rory, all of them have fair hair. Few wear glasses; fewer still have beards or mustaches. In short, they are of a type. In particular, it would be next to impossible for Patrick to be my type and not Ciro (although the opposite might not be true). I had already dated Merlin.
"Hmmmm," I said.
A few days later, Chad turned to me and said, "Ciro. You're attracted to Ciro." I was very proud and told Chad that Patrick, Val, and I had been laughing at him for days. Lovingly, of course.
"God, you and Ciro. That's perfect," said Chad.
"It hasn't happened yet, and I'm not sure it's going to. I'm leaving for London, you know."
"Talk to him," said Chad.
"No."
The next week was frustrating and made me feel unpleasantly adolescent. I saw Ciro continually, and each time, he stood closer to me. Eventually, we were having conversations with our lips about two inches apart - for hours, with no acknowledgement that this might be in any way meaningful or indicative of intent. I became more and more certain that I wanted to be with him immediately and forever, despite London, despite any limitation I had to accept; that he was indeed in love with me; and that he wasn't going to figure it out in time.
Most problematically, it was clear to him that he wanted to sleep with someone...but not that he wanted to sleep with someone specific. I was terrified that he'd relieve the tension by hooking up with somebody at a party, the type of person you date for a month and then leave. Before the end of the fallout, I'd be an ocean away.
You know how there are times when all the forces of the universe line up? When you can feel that luck is with you, that everything is going to work perfectly if you act in exactly that moment?
Ciro avoided me in those moments.
It was tremendously distressing. I felt like I was out of my mind. Lovesick, even. Easy to laugh at; hard to live through. And what with the Ciro situation being sub rosa, acquaintances assumed I was upset over Patrick, when Patrick and I were doing just fine.
I should explain now that this wasn't and isn't a crush, or a rebound - Ciro was and is worth this obsession. I've known Ciro for years, loved Ciro for years, and he is incredible. He's gorgeous, not just in body and face, but in style and carriage. His voice is arresting, both singing and speaking - low, rich, and lively. He has the most beautiful hands I've ever seen. He smells wonderful, stalwart and invigorating. He's passionate and intelligent, opinionated and well reasoned. He's the life of the party; he motivates everyone around him to be more interesting, witty, charming. Like me, he is conspiratorial.
He is more awake than other people, not only because he rarely sleeps, but because he pays attention. I love hearing him describe things I've already seen, not just because he is exceptionally eloquent, but because his perceptions are so clear and vivid. His instincts are impeccable, yet he doesn't rely on instinct - he is a perpetual student, an intellectual in the best sense. If a controversial scientific study or congressional bill turns up, Ciro hasn't just read about it - he's read it, and thought it through.
I admire him enormously. For years, he has been my example of what human beings can be - ought to be. He's the ace up my sleeve in every argument; he's the only person who has ever seen and understood all of me at the same time. Being around him makes me my best self; knowing he exists as an audience motivates my best work. I've had the good fortune to know a great many brilliant people. Ciro tops them all. He's extraordinary.
Most astoundingly, he is not arrogant about any of this, or even really aware of it.
On Thursday, July 13th, we picked up a copy of Thom Yorke's solo album, The Eraser. Radiohead is my favorite band, but more essentially has always formed my soundtrack. When a new album comes out, it is inevitably emblematic of my life at that moment; Patrick always joked that Thom Yorke and I were connected via a psychic link. I was curious whether that would be borne out by this new solo project - and if it was, whether the result would be destructive or therapeutic. In case it was the former, I was careful not to disclose to Ciro this more personal relationship to the album - from which I had not yet heard a single song.
Patrick, Merlin, Ciro, and I arranged ourselves in Ciro's room, which has the best sound system (Ciro being a devoted audiophile). We started the album. Within a few songs, Patrick and Merlin left silently, feeling restless. This left Ciro and me alone, side by side on his bed, in a darkened room, listening to the music of my internal landscape.
Nothing happened.
We listened to the album three times, silent and motionless. I realized Ciro was never going to figure things out, and perhaps had never understood me in the way I thought he had. My heart broke. You always hear that expression, and it seems trite. But the center of my chest, the place I keep my soul, felt empty. Crushed and flayed, all at the same time. I felt as though I was about to collapse, even though I was lying down. It occurred to me that I wasn't going to be able to be friends with Ciro any longer. I couldn't bear to put myself through it.
I managed to stand up, stumble out of the room, and sit on the sofa. Merlin asked if I was all right, and I told him it was a really intense album. Merlin walked off to attend to something; Patrick sat next to me and asked again whether I was okay.
"It's not going to happen," I said. There was no hope left in me.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Do we need to leave now?"
"Yeah," I said. "Just give me a little while; I can't stand up yet." Patrick hugged me and went off to say his goodbyes.
Ciro came out of his room looking frustrated and vulnerable. Like, as it happened, someone who'd spent hours in the dark, awake and listening to Thom Yorke. He sat next to me, heavily, radiating nervous energy.
"It's not..." he said. "I don't want you to think that you make me uncomfortable. It's just that I have roommates, and I care about their opinions, and about not hurting my friends. Do you understand?"
"Ciro," I said, grinning broadly (and I suspect I was actually emitting light at this point), "I think it's going to be okay."
"Yeah?" he said, delighted and almost laughing.
"Yeah," I said. "I've already talked to Chad and Patrick, and I'm pretty sure Merlin's fine too."
Then I think he did laugh.
After that, everything worked itself out. We went for a walk and stayed out until six in the morning, talking in the alley behind Cafe Brazil. It's beautiful there at night, the railroad tracks and the way the light plays off the buildings. There's a parking lot so smooth it looks like an ice rink. I watched Ciro process this new knowledge about us, what it meant. I filled in the gaps of the past few years - the times when my feelings and motivations had been hidden from him.
We returned to Rivendell, slept next to each other, woke up, and kept talking. I never did go home; rather, Ciro became my home - I have spent each night since then in his bed, save the days I revisited Boston. At first, we tried not to push each other; I was afraid I'd move too quickly and scare him off. But he's never been scared of me, and thankfully he commits as quickly and completely as I do. It's a great relief to be able to say "I love you" freely; to be allowed to take up his time and attention as greedily as I like; to take for granted that we will still be together in a year, or ten years, or fifty. He treats me wonderfully, with great attention and obvious enjoyment. He loves me passionately, with no shred of compromise. Time spent with him is both thrilling and intensely rejuvenating.
There's a poem by Rumi (translation by Coleman Barks and John Moyne) -
"The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
They're in each other all along."
That almost gets it right, but I'd given up on finding him - such a person does not exist. Yet there he is. He is mine. Love doesn't seem like a strong enough word. I just can't find a better one. I feel honored and grateful - and obnoxiously smug. For the first time in my life, I am not lonely.
marveloustrick) divorce, and about the beginning of things with Ciro (liquidmorpheme). I'm actually being fairly restrained about it. It's probably a good story, but I don't have the emotional distance to be sure, and as I've said, it is long - and so it gets a cut tag.A week after I returned from Boston, Patrick and I were sitting in bed naked, reading before going to sleep. I looked up from my book, turned to Patrick, and without knowing what I was about to say, said, "you love me, but you love our cat." There was no meanness in it, and we both knew immediately that it was true. It had been a month since we'd successfully slept together, and much longer since he'd initiated anything sexual instead of comforting. Days before, I'd been stunning - one of the most beautiful days I'd ever had, and I look pretty on an ordinary day - and he hadn't noticed. Exhaustion only goes so far as an excuse for unattraction.
I asked why he wanted to come to London when he wasn't interested in me. He didn't even like spending time with me - not in practice; I sound cool on paper, but my presence was enough to make him anxious - even terrified.
"I guess we should get a divorce," he said. So we finished our chapters, turned out the light, and went to sleep; he had an early morning.
I woke Patrick at around three a.m., having not slept. Having instead cried and then gotten angry.
"What are you doing?" I said. "Have you really thought this through? How can you not love me? I'm beautiful, smart, creative, funny, talented, and in love with you. I keep you entertained, put up with your craziness, drop everything to make you happy, and still manage to create works of art. If you leave me, you're never going to get me back again, or anyone like me - have you ever even heard of anyone like me, let alone met them? You chased me for years. Are you sure this is what you want - that you're not just ill, or tired, or going through some kind of crisis?"
"You're still in love with me?" he said. "After everything?"
Of course, I said. But as I said it, I was sickened by the way he perked up under my approval, the way he deferred in judgments of what was or wasn't pleasing. I never wanted to be the dominant partner - just an equal. I'm not being fair to Patrick - everyone wants to be loved, or to be loved best, and we like people more when they like us. Yet I was nauseated by his passivity in this most important decision, his wanting me not because I mattered, but because he wanted to be loved by someone who mattered. In that moment, it was painfully clear that neither of us thought he deserved me.
"If you still want me," I said, "you'll have to prove it - to win me back, to convince both of us that you're worthy - convince yourself maybe more than me. I'm sorry; I don't mean to jerk you around, or make you feel inadequate, but we can't go on like this. Something - a grand gesture, a proof of affection. I don't know if it's possible, and I am only letting you try because I love you."
"I know," he said.
This conversation took much longer than the summary, and it was now almost five in the morning. Patrick left for work; I slept for a few hours. When I woke up, I listened to "Let Go" by Frou Frou, cried a little, and called
valancy. We were shooting part of a music video that day, at her house. I sat on the edge of Val's bathtub while she fixed her hair, and I told her that my marriage was probably over, that Patrick didn't want me any more, and that I might need to stay with her for a while. She finished with her hair; LeAnne arrived; we all put on makeup, even though I would be behind the camera. Ciro arrived at the bus station; I picked him up; and we had a marvelous shoot - smooth, exciting, effective. (Confidential to everyone: Invent projects that allow you to look at beautiful women all day.)Afterward, Ciro and I went back to my place to watch the footage; either Patrick was there when we arrived or he arrived shortly thereafter. We all agreed that the footage was very good. We chatted about miscellany; then I gave Ciro a ride to the train station. Ciro doesn't have a car - hasn't in years - and in Dallas, with Dallas public transit, that's debilitating. I shortcut things when I can. Before he left the car, Ciro looked up at me, seriously (which is impossible - he's taller than I am - but that's how I remember things), and informed me that he'd be moving to Italy in a year and a half - to a town just south of Rome. There was something about his body language that was vulnerable, diffident.
Well then, I said, I'll join you there.
Excellent, he said.
I do not believe this diffidence - this intimate half-request and ensuing relieved smile - was in reaction to the Patrick situation, of which Ciro may or may not have been aware. This was the same week I heard back from the London Film School - was only days afterward. It's hard enough to be separated from your creative partner for two years; harder still with the worry that she won't come back, or that you'll be gone when she returns. Of course I'd come to Italy, invited or not. Still, it was nice to be asked.
I drove home. Patrick used his usual Patrick technique of behaving as though nothing of note was occurring. Nothing important enough to divert him from habit and cheerful indifference. Patrick likes routine; it makes him feel safe. I found out later that he'd meant to pick up flowers, but hadn't - the florist he passed by each day was closed, and being Patrick, he could not imagine going to another one. I sat down on the sofa and cried in a loud, indelicate way - large bawling sobs with almost silent hiccoughs, like the sound of a dry motor turning over.
"I can't do this anymore," I said, and I couldn't. This was at least the fourth time that year I'd been told absolutely that we were divorcing, and then, a few hours later, that we were not. Each time, Patrick would convince me that he still wanted me, still wanted my life; that he would get involved in my projects, adventures, and schemes, instead of always keeping me at a distance; that he was just scared, sad, or tired, reverting to his suburban background and the fears of his parents' generation. Then his behavior would remain exactly the same, I'd get angry about something, and again he would say it was over, that he couldn't handle the pressures of being with me.
All of this makes Patrick look like a terrible villain, and me like a dishrag, but it's really just the way unequal partnerships go - no words, no amount of love, could make it otherwise. It's a pattern I've been through before, many times. People aspire to me for various reasons, and work to convince me and themselves that we are similar. Then, once they've got me, they realize I really am this way all of the time, about everything. They can't handle me; they feel inadequate; they get angry, even though I was always up front about who I am. So I compromise for them. Then they get upset because they've "broken" me - made me less exciting, less vital, than I'd be without them. (Nobody ever gives me credit for my choice in the matter.) Usually, this ends with them cheating on me flagrantly, and/or denying we were ever romantically linked - which, although it always hurts me, never seems like an act of cruelty so much as an attempt to erase themselves from me - to undo the defacement.
So from my perspective, Patrick's behavior was uncommonly honorable, hopeful, and courageous. He's a good man.
Unfortunately, being a good man was not, and never could be, enough. I need to believe that I am loved, wanted - even if undercomprehended. I told Patrick again that I needed a grand gesture - something that he originated, not something I coached him through - something to convince me he was serious. I couldn't trust him any more. I said this through tears and shaky breathing, through wailing, sitting on the sofa, staring at the floor. I think this is the first time it got through to Patrick that he was hurting a person - not just an idea, or an angel, or a faery queen. He said at the time that he'd never seen me in such intense pain, and he is right. There was only pain.
Nevertheless, I cleaned myself up and went to Clinton House for family night; I still had to tell them I'd gotten in to London Film School. They asked where Patrick was and whether he was following me to London; I said that it was still under discussion. From this point on, Patrick's inconvenient work schedule operated in our favor, as it could always provide a convenient excuse for why he wasn't with me - either he was at work, he was resting after work, or he was sleeping because he had work the next day.
Patrick picked me up and brought me back to the apartment. In my absence, he had transformed it into a church with a bare floor and an altar filled with candles. Christianity has been important to both of our lives, although neither of us identifies as Christian - but more essentially, Christianity is based around the idea of forgiveness, the powerful belief that no matter who you are or what you've done, you can start anew, with a clean slate.
"I'm not trying to force your hand, or pressure you into forgiving me," Patrick said, "but it would mean a lot to me if you could say the words - even if you don't mean them." I couldn't speak, so I just nodded. He said that the five candles on the altar stood for Romie; although five has never been my lucky number, or my favorite, it has always represented me - I'm not sure why. I re-baptized Patrick in our living room; then we took communion together - bread and grape juice, because grape juice is what I drank as a child, and still drink when I'm very ill and need to be comforted.
"Patrick," I said, "I do forgive you; I already had. I don't hold the Guildhall against you, the debt, the fact that you're not who you told me you were - who you thought you were or could be. I know none of it was malicious or deliberately deceptive. I still love you. I hope this has helped you forgive yourself. But do you realize that a clean slate is a clean slate? The only thing that's been holding us together is that we've been together for the past four years. With a clean slate, that doesn't count anymore. What's left?
"We don't share property, goals, children; we want to live in different places, doing different things, sleeping at different times; you don't want me - may not even like me; we don't even share our mental life anymore - we go to other collaborators. As moved as I am by this re-baptism, it demonstrates an important point - I'm not your partner; I'm God. You love me; are awed by me; hate me; are afraid of me. Your self worth depends entirely on my approval or disapproval. I never wanted that responsibility.
"I think...I think if we approach this as a new start, it means you have to date me, woo me, convince both of us that you can be your own person, which I know you can. We can spend months on this - however long it takes. I'm not trying to run away - we just both need all our energy to pull this off, and we can't be relaxed around each other right now."
You may think because I am writing this down that it is a summary of what I said; that it is more direct and more dense than what actually occurred. It is not; it's as close as I can come to what I actually said. I tend to make spontaneous speeches at times like these. I can't help it - I don't think in words, but in image/concepts, and unless I can say the words, I can't make the thoughts concrete, can't make them as precise as they need to be. So I monologue, sometimes for hours. I hope it isn't entirely tedious, entirely egotistical.
In any case, Patrick agreed with me. We decided I would leave for Valancy's before he got home from work the next day, and that he could call me for a date if he liked. He went to bed; I, being shorter, slept on the sofa. I woke to find Patrick had laid out a breakfast for me before he left. I ate, packed my reliable traveling backpack (the same one I lived out of my senior year of college, and unpacked when I married Patrick), and killed time until Val got home - I can't remember how. She ran a couple of hours late; Patrick got home a few minutes before I left. We occupied the time with strained, light chat.
I was a wreck for the next week, and Val, as ever, was gracious about caring for me - making sure I ate, and slept, and had someone to cry to. I don't know whether she realizes I call her "Val" not just for "Valancy," but for "invaluable."
On Tuesday, I called Ciro and asked him to inform the Boys (Chad (
achates), Ciro, Merlin) of the separation. I later held a roundtable at Rivendell to further detail the situation so that they could support Patrick, and in case one of us needed to stay with them. They were as gallant, restrained, and accepting as anyone could have hoped for.Meanwhile, I saw Patrick every day - sometimes just for dinner and conversation, sometimes for Scrabble, and once for a performance of Shakespeare in the Park. Throughout this time, we pretended to everyone outside the inner circle (Val, the Boys, and my mother but not Patrick's) that we were still happily living together. This was not hard - it was what people wanted to see, and they had no reason to doubt it. We are both highly experienced actors. It also helped that I was staying at Val's - I always have a reasonable excuse for being over there, whether it's gossip, taking care of Val when she's sick (which she was), or updating Reflection's Edge. This pretense grew not from embarrassment, but a combination of politeness and good politics - had we reconciled as hoped, there would have been no need to worry everyone with how close things had come.
Sadly, it was pretty apparent from a few days in that there would be no reconciliation. We still had fun together, as always; but no matter how fun it was, Patrick was relieved to go home alone at the end of the night. As for the fun, it was the fun friends have - although Patrick was nominally trying to win me back, he didn't put much effort into it. I had to remind him to make himself look presentable before he came over, to bring me gifts, to think of romantic activities.
We discussed the White Stripes, the idea that we could be family but not a couple. After that, it was just waiting around for Patrick to work up the nerve to genuinely leave me. The waiting was miserable - having to pretend I saw two possible futures instead of one, and being unable to act on either of them. I suppose I could have ended things myself, but I owed it to Patrick to let it be his decision - and I would have accepted either choice. I made a promise.
On the Fourth of July, we slept together for the last time, and I asked Patrick if it was a test; he said it wasn't. I asked if it was a goodbye, and he said it wasn't. A few hours later, at Rivendell, he realized it had been. I could see it, so I picked a fight with him - I can be very exasperating. Using the fight as an excuse, I pulled him on to the porch.
"You've made your decision," I said. "Just tell me. You know. Stop fucking around and tell me."
"I want a divorce," he said.
"Finally," I said. We went back inside and ate barbecue and lima beans (both courtesy of Merlin), crashed a bunch of video game cars into each other so there would be some Independence Day fireworks, and told the Boys that our marriage was over. For me, the Independence Day thing was a coincidence; it may have been more significant to Patrick.
I drove Patrick home; he asked whether Ciro and I would now hook up. I told him I didn't know, and that it wasn't exactly my decision to make.
It's important to mention at this point that I have been in love with Ciro almost since I met him - since before I married Patrick, although I didn't recognize it until a few months after I married Patrick. Patrick has never held this against me, and I have never held it against him; it was just one of those things. We occasionally considered curtailing my access to Ciro, but both of us thought that was wasteful - Ciro and I are too good together. Instead, I made sure that Ciro and I were never alone (easily done; we're both social and have roommates), and that absolutely nobody knew how I felt, most especially Ciro.
This secrecy broke down a few times in September of this year - I told Val and Kristina, and suspected that James (
narcolepticcat) had figured it out; and in order to resolve a series of frustrating situations that are outside the scope of this entry, I had to tell Ciro that I was physically attracted to him, at least sometimes. Patrick was sitting next to me when I explained this to Ciro; even then, I was circumspect in presenting a united front. I also managed to make "I am attracted to you" seem as non-sexual and unexciting as possible - you'd be amazed how dry and insignificant it can sound, how much like a dead end.If you've wondered why I disappeared from livejournal a few years ago, this secret is why. Anything I wanted to write about involved either Ciro or Patrick, and one overly fond word could have given the game away. Even as it is, some of the few entries I posted skated too close, if you knew what to look for; I only posted them because I had to say something, even something that wouldn't mean anything to anyone, that would be eminently deniable if it did. It was that or go crazy. Ciro couldn't find out. If I'd thought he could reject me clean, maybe I'd have said something and settled things. I was never sure enough that he could.
Thus, for several years, Patrick and I have simply accepted that the great love of my life was not my husband, but my fellow artist, and that it would remain a chaste love which was at least not openly reciprocated. I still loved Patrick; I still chose Patrick; I still thought Patrick was beautiful. That was enough for us. It was often hard on me, and sometimes on Patrick, but it was the best I could do. I was happy as often as I was sad.
I cannot stress enough that this was not the reason for the divorce, although Patrick and I sometimes joke that it was. If it had been the reason, we would have divorced years ago. Toward the end, Patrick did sometimes compare himself to Ciro, but Patrick also compared himself to me. Patrick spent a lot of time figuring out who he wanted to be, and Ciro and I are great (and terrible) examples of passionate integrity.
More worrying was Patrick's growing certainty that he'd circumvented destiny by marrying me - that he had, in fact, motivated me to oppose the forces of the universe. The words "you were meant to be with him" were stated with gravity, which put me in the awkward position of having to say things like "yeah, but it's irrelevant - I am with you."
(I try not to talk about destiny any more, or fate. I still believe in them, but I try not to let people know that. If I do, they ask about direct evidence, which I really don't want to talk about, because it makes me sound schizophrenic. I made my break with all that when I married Patrick, which is what he was alluding to. Maybe I'll wind up back on fate's payroll, but I wouldn't count on it.)
In any case, I was pretty sure Ciro was in love with me; equally sure that he either didn't know or had decided against it; and equally sure that I wasn't interested in persuading him or anyone to be with me. I'd hit my tolerance for that. Moreover, I wasn't sure what I had to offer - penniless, divorcing, en route to London.
Patrick was absolutely certain that all of this was foolishness and that Ciro and I would get together immediately, and a good thing too, because all this sexual tension was driving everyone crazy. Besides, it was too good an idea not to happen.
For the next week, I house sat Clinton House. Sometimes Scarlett was there. Since Uncle Rex and Stretch were on vacation, Patrick and I waited to announce the impending divorce to them. During this period, there was a lot of effort put in to tracking who knew, who didn't know, and who should be told by whom, when. Patrick told his mother, who immediately concluded that I must have been having an affair (with, of course, Ciro), and it took a few weeks to really convince her that Patrick had left me and not vice versa, that neither of us was having an affair, and that we genuinely still view each other as family.
Patrick and I continued to see each other every day, partly because we like each other, and partly because we share a car. Sometimes, Patrick was inconsiderate in his use of the car, which is actually mine; sometimes he was inconsiderate in other ways. We adjusted to the new situation.
Chad and I hung out in the days immediately following the breakup, and I asked him whether things were still cool on his end - whether there was likely to be awkwardness next time I visited Rivendell, particularly with Merlin, Patrick's best friend and a gentleman with a refreshingly strong sense of propriety.
"Why would anything be weird?" asked Chad. Chad, though awesome in many ways, can be oblivious to social dynamics.
"Well, Chad," I said, "this means that I am a non-lesbian single woman in a friend group of unattached males - and although I say 'single,' the reality is more complicated than that. Things can get weird."
"I just don't think it'll be a problem," said Chad. "I mean, none of the guys are remotely your type."
I would like to note at this time that Ciro, Merlin, and Patrick are all about six foot, extremely slim, and pale, with strong noses and nice lips. So was Will. So were Rory, Chris Blacker, and Diggs, although Chad couldn't know that. And Thomas had been, back when I was crazy over him. With the exception of Merlin and Thomas, all these men - all the men I've ever been interested in - have blue eyes. With the exception of Will and Rory, all of them have fair hair. Few wear glasses; fewer still have beards or mustaches. In short, they are of a type. In particular, it would be next to impossible for Patrick to be my type and not Ciro (although the opposite might not be true). I had already dated Merlin.
"Hmmmm," I said.
A few days later, Chad turned to me and said, "Ciro. You're attracted to Ciro." I was very proud and told Chad that Patrick, Val, and I had been laughing at him for days. Lovingly, of course.
"God, you and Ciro. That's perfect," said Chad.
"It hasn't happened yet, and I'm not sure it's going to. I'm leaving for London, you know."
"Talk to him," said Chad.
"No."
The next week was frustrating and made me feel unpleasantly adolescent. I saw Ciro continually, and each time, he stood closer to me. Eventually, we were having conversations with our lips about two inches apart - for hours, with no acknowledgement that this might be in any way meaningful or indicative of intent. I became more and more certain that I wanted to be with him immediately and forever, despite London, despite any limitation I had to accept; that he was indeed in love with me; and that he wasn't going to figure it out in time.
Most problematically, it was clear to him that he wanted to sleep with someone...but not that he wanted to sleep with someone specific. I was terrified that he'd relieve the tension by hooking up with somebody at a party, the type of person you date for a month and then leave. Before the end of the fallout, I'd be an ocean away.
You know how there are times when all the forces of the universe line up? When you can feel that luck is with you, that everything is going to work perfectly if you act in exactly that moment?
Ciro avoided me in those moments.
It was tremendously distressing. I felt like I was out of my mind. Lovesick, even. Easy to laugh at; hard to live through. And what with the Ciro situation being sub rosa, acquaintances assumed I was upset over Patrick, when Patrick and I were doing just fine.
I should explain now that this wasn't and isn't a crush, or a rebound - Ciro was and is worth this obsession. I've known Ciro for years, loved Ciro for years, and he is incredible. He's gorgeous, not just in body and face, but in style and carriage. His voice is arresting, both singing and speaking - low, rich, and lively. He has the most beautiful hands I've ever seen. He smells wonderful, stalwart and invigorating. He's passionate and intelligent, opinionated and well reasoned. He's the life of the party; he motivates everyone around him to be more interesting, witty, charming. Like me, he is conspiratorial.
He is more awake than other people, not only because he rarely sleeps, but because he pays attention. I love hearing him describe things I've already seen, not just because he is exceptionally eloquent, but because his perceptions are so clear and vivid. His instincts are impeccable, yet he doesn't rely on instinct - he is a perpetual student, an intellectual in the best sense. If a controversial scientific study or congressional bill turns up, Ciro hasn't just read about it - he's read it, and thought it through.
I admire him enormously. For years, he has been my example of what human beings can be - ought to be. He's the ace up my sleeve in every argument; he's the only person who has ever seen and understood all of me at the same time. Being around him makes me my best self; knowing he exists as an audience motivates my best work. I've had the good fortune to know a great many brilliant people. Ciro tops them all. He's extraordinary.
Most astoundingly, he is not arrogant about any of this, or even really aware of it.
On Thursday, July 13th, we picked up a copy of Thom Yorke's solo album, The Eraser. Radiohead is my favorite band, but more essentially has always formed my soundtrack. When a new album comes out, it is inevitably emblematic of my life at that moment; Patrick always joked that Thom Yorke and I were connected via a psychic link. I was curious whether that would be borne out by this new solo project - and if it was, whether the result would be destructive or therapeutic. In case it was the former, I was careful not to disclose to Ciro this more personal relationship to the album - from which I had not yet heard a single song.
Patrick, Merlin, Ciro, and I arranged ourselves in Ciro's room, which has the best sound system (Ciro being a devoted audiophile). We started the album. Within a few songs, Patrick and Merlin left silently, feeling restless. This left Ciro and me alone, side by side on his bed, in a darkened room, listening to the music of my internal landscape.
Nothing happened.
We listened to the album three times, silent and motionless. I realized Ciro was never going to figure things out, and perhaps had never understood me in the way I thought he had. My heart broke. You always hear that expression, and it seems trite. But the center of my chest, the place I keep my soul, felt empty. Crushed and flayed, all at the same time. I felt as though I was about to collapse, even though I was lying down. It occurred to me that I wasn't going to be able to be friends with Ciro any longer. I couldn't bear to put myself through it.
I managed to stand up, stumble out of the room, and sit on the sofa. Merlin asked if I was all right, and I told him it was a really intense album. Merlin walked off to attend to something; Patrick sat next to me and asked again whether I was okay.
"It's not going to happen," I said. There was no hope left in me.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Do we need to leave now?"
"Yeah," I said. "Just give me a little while; I can't stand up yet." Patrick hugged me and went off to say his goodbyes.
Ciro came out of his room looking frustrated and vulnerable. Like, as it happened, someone who'd spent hours in the dark, awake and listening to Thom Yorke. He sat next to me, heavily, radiating nervous energy.
"It's not..." he said. "I don't want you to think that you make me uncomfortable. It's just that I have roommates, and I care about their opinions, and about not hurting my friends. Do you understand?"
"Ciro," I said, grinning broadly (and I suspect I was actually emitting light at this point), "I think it's going to be okay."
"Yeah?" he said, delighted and almost laughing.
"Yeah," I said. "I've already talked to Chad and Patrick, and I'm pretty sure Merlin's fine too."
Then I think he did laugh.
After that, everything worked itself out. We went for a walk and stayed out until six in the morning, talking in the alley behind Cafe Brazil. It's beautiful there at night, the railroad tracks and the way the light plays off the buildings. There's a parking lot so smooth it looks like an ice rink. I watched Ciro process this new knowledge about us, what it meant. I filled in the gaps of the past few years - the times when my feelings and motivations had been hidden from him.
We returned to Rivendell, slept next to each other, woke up, and kept talking. I never did go home; rather, Ciro became my home - I have spent each night since then in his bed, save the days I revisited Boston. At first, we tried not to push each other; I was afraid I'd move too quickly and scare him off. But he's never been scared of me, and thankfully he commits as quickly and completely as I do. It's a great relief to be able to say "I love you" freely; to be allowed to take up his time and attention as greedily as I like; to take for granted that we will still be together in a year, or ten years, or fifty. He treats me wonderfully, with great attention and obvious enjoyment. He loves me passionately, with no shred of compromise. Time spent with him is both thrilling and intensely rejuvenating.
There's a poem by Rumi (translation by Coleman Barks and John Moyne) -
"The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
They're in each other all along."
That almost gets it right, but I'd given up on finding him - such a person does not exist. Yet there he is. He is mine. Love doesn't seem like a strong enough word. I just can't find a better one. I feel honored and grateful - and obnoxiously smug. For the first time in my life, I am not lonely.
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