the disorientation of freedom

beyond words

Joan Mitchell, Land, 1989

It’s hard to accept the limits of language. I’m thinking of an old friend, B, whom I loved very much, though the crux of it isn’t loving him but liking him. We got along on every level. There’s a lot to say about it, but in the end there’s nothing relevant other than that I very, very much wanted to make the friendship work, and ultimately he didn’t. For a long time I just kept thinking: if I’d said the right thing, he would’ve understood, and we could’ve bridged the gap between us.

But that isn’t true. The reason I never sent a long, heartfelt email to B in an attempt to repair was because during our friendship, he at one point showed me a long, heartfelt email from someone else attempting to repair and told me: you know, I want to answer it so much, but I just don’t. My understanding of him was that he was conciliatory in spirit but avoidant in action: I’m very sure to this day that he thinks of the friendship exactly the way I do, and misses it exactly the way I do. And yet.

I don’t know if I’m referring to the limits of language or the limits of character. It’s difficult to accept that people have their own desires, judgments, and abilities, and saying I want to meet you in the middle is sometimes all you’re able to do. It does not guarantee they will meet you in the middle. It does not guarantee anything at all, except that you said it.

*
I made up with another friend recently, E. The reason we made up was that they were ready to make up. I bring this up because I texted both B and E at the same time last year: the friend I eventually reconciled with and the friend I didn’t. With both, I just reached out to say: I want to meet you in the middle.

I couldn’t have predicted the outcome. It seems just as plausible that I could’ve made up with B and not E, just as plausible I could’ve made up with both, just as plausible I never heard from either.

*

I have good instincts. There are many times in my life when I’ve met someone and knew instantly we would be close, even if they were reluctant or we had barely exchanged a word. It’s a nervous system thing: sometimes you just know. That knowing, I’ve found, is generally mutual, and there’s nothing more satisfying than when they eventually say: The truth is, I felt it too.

But feelings don’t always translate to actions. People are where they are, and they make progress at their own pace, and you can support them but you can’t force them. You have to give them their freedom, disorienting though it may be, sad as it may be.

*

I believe too much in words. That must be why we have the same exchange over and over again. I say something, you listen, we try, it repeats. But then we try to talk about something else, and it always comes back to this. And when we don’t talk, it always comes back to this.

Connection is what makes things hard. After all, with everyone else I have no trouble checking back in after six months or a year. C told me about running into an ex of mine from many years ago and how completely different he seems now. We agreed that sometimes you get frustrated by how little someone changes in one year, but over 10 years they often change radically. That’s a thought I find immensely comforting.

For other people, not you. For other people, life is long.

*
Life is long. When I fight with my friends, I know for the most part we’ll work it out. Heather: “Long-term relationships thrive when you can set aside your shame enough to take responsibility for the storm inside of you, and forgive the storms inside of the people you love the most. When two storms collide, it doesn’t have to be catastrophic. It can be miraculous and hopeful instead.”

Freedom is disorienting because there are no guarantees. I don’t know when someone will come back, or if. Half the time I don’t know what I’ll say, and when. Love persists even when language doesn’t.