Wednesday, March 31, 2010

The Various Shades of Longing

So I’ve been speaking to Scott, and there’s a distinct possibility he may be coming in early summer to visit. I won’t exaggerate and say that I’ve suffered every day that he’s not with me—I’m not that dramatic. But I have felt strangely off-balance and that feeling hasn’t gone away. I’ve simply learned to ignore it.

I think about seeing him again, and part of me wants to say—“You can’t imagine how I’ve missed you,” but that rings oddly to me. Barring an excellent act on his part, I presume he’s missed me as well. I would suppose he can imagine it, or something like it, though it’s not exactly the same.

Which is worse, doing the leaving or being left? I went across the world, to a new country, new culture, where I’d have to do things I’d never attempted before even in California: balance school and work, budget, remember to pay rent on time, etc. Pretty much everything was unfamiliar and scary and the one thing that always calmed me down was missing. I’m not one of those solitary travelers; for me, an experience is most satisfying when it’s shared with a friend, and I was so alone. I’d see something new that would spark my interest, but there’d be no one to tell the story to. The solitude was at times...crushing. I couldn’t stand to be left alone with my thoughts. That’s why I was always in a hurry though I rarely actually wanted to get to wherever I was going, why I was constantly plugged into my iPod, why I purchased a ton of ebooks and why I refused to write on this blog for so many weeks. Scott can’t fully understand that. I can explain it, and he’ll listen and probably understand as well as anyone who hasn’t done it can, but until you’ve lived it you can’t grasp it.

And yet, I’m sure I can’t fully understand what he’s been going through in my absence. He could explain and I’d probably understand as well as I can, but it’s not the same. I hopped on a plane and he was left alone in a world we’d shared for almost 5 years, probably wondering if I’d fall in love with a Frenchman or Paris or both and never come home again. Or come home a polite stranger who'd once dated him for a while before figuring her life out. Familiar things, our things….do they feel the same if the person you shared them with is gone? Can you stand the dichotomy between the memories of peace and happiness when paired with the terrible lack, the unassailable sense that the most important element of the experience is missing? As interesting and helpful and rewarding as this experience has been, my world hasn’t been right since I left. I suspect I’ll only be able enjoy Paris fully when he’s here with me and I can show him ten months’ worth of Scott would like that...

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