Yes, this newsletter is late. While I did warn last time that there’d be no November 4th edition, as I’d be busy with my duties as a representative of Her Serene Highness Princess Grace of Monaco (pictures here) and subsequent trip to Buenos Aires, this missive is still a week late. Part of it was that I was too busy coming back from my trip, and part of it was not knowing what it was gonna be about (a recap of the trip? a revisiting of the short stories that started this newsletter, which I’ve been re-reading for some reason?)
But, ultimately, the truth is in the title: I’m too sad.
I’ve noticed lately that when I say that to people, answering their unsuspecting “how are you?”, it makes them feel like I’m saying it so that they’ll do something about it—the underlying assumption being that sadness is a state no one should find themselves in, and that we should eradicate it as fast as possible, like a roach that signifies the beginning of an infestation. So let me put you at ease: you don’t need to do anything about it. I’m just sad. I’m saying it because I don’t wanna lie and say I’m okay when I’m not (which is new for me—more on that later) and because I too struggle with feeling like sadness is undesirable and should be banished. So, I’m trying to get me and everyone else used to the idea that sometimes we are sad. That’s just how it is.
I’ve also noticed that when I say it, people ask “why,” which I guess is normal—it’d be a little psychopathic to hear someone say they’re sad and be like “cool” (though that’s exactly what some people have done, which I think comes from a place of wanting to respect my privacy, and I get it—I can be a private person). So if that’s what you’re wondering right now, why am I sad, the long and short of it is: my heart is broken. Yes, me, Francisco, someone who could’ve easily traded places with Tilda Swinton to play the Snow Queen in Chronicles of Narnia: I fell in love and it didn’t work out.
“Didn’t work out” makes it sound like it was way more off my hands than it actually was, although I’m still struggling to take a full account of what happened and pinpoint the stuff I was responsible for. It’s fair to say I’ve been in a personal crisis for the last couple of months, frustrated with myself and exasperated at how much all my work does not seem to result in the growth I expect. Eventually, I threw up my hands, said “fuck it,” and proceeded to do what so many before me have done (and for which I judged them very harshly, I should add): let someone else fix my problems.
Dating was an insane experience, parts fun in an unintended way (you get a bunch of funny stories to tell later, even if they are uncomfortable to live through) and parts discouraging, making you lose faith in humanity at an alarming rate. It’s a wild pool to wade into. I know I’m part of the problem, but still—it felt like I was the sane one and everyone else was crazy. (I was also, surprisingly, made to feel like an attractive person, which I kinda feel just speaks to how little is available out there, but I can sense you on the other side of the screen being all like “just take the compliment.” Don’t tell me what to do!)
And then, after a bunch of terrible dates, and completely against the odds, I met someone and there was an instant connection. It’s frustrating how outside of our control it is, that spark. We can filter people in the apps for gender, height, political beliefs, whatever—but we can’t filter for “chemistry.” It’s either there or it isn’t, and when it is… I had not felt like that in years (and I mean years). It’s a little impossible to describe it—when you know, you know. It has very little to do with your fantasies, your likes and dislikes, or anything that can be planned. It seems to come from a different place altogether.
For me, it was exhilarating to show someone my guts knowing full well that they could stab me, but also somehow knowing they wouldn’t. That I was safe with them. That’s not a feeling I get often. I am the one who keeps me safe, period. To suddenly not have that responsibility (or at least all of it)… it put everything else in perspective, made me realize exactly how meaningless every encounter before it had been.
It also made me realize, sadly, that I couldn’t handle it. The train to Feelings Town started boarding before either of us could put a stop to it, but the closer we got to our destination, the more it was clear I wasn’t ready. My problems were right where I left them, and I realized (yet again) that I’m the only one who can, and has to, fix them.
So I broke it off. I almost typed “had to break it off,” because it didn’t feel like a choice but rather a necessity. But I guess I didn’t have to. Some of my friends assured me I did the responsible thing, and I can’t get on board with that, because it didn’t feel altruistic; the amount of fear and pain I was feeling was unbearable, and I felt like I was saving myself. But then another friend offered: what if instead of seeing it as the responsible thing, I instead tried to be grateful that my brain is wired in a way in which I can’t ignore the alarms that other people would relegate to the background? That I don’t let it become a much more painful and messy situation in the future? Maybe that’s true. Maybe I should feel grateful that it ended before someone got seriously hurt.
Except I do feel seriously hurt.
I’m resisting learning any lessons from this because it’s too soon and the idea that this pain had a didactic reason to exist feels repulsive at the moment (even if, long term, that is probably true). BUT it strikes me that my crisis was perhaps not just about someone else fixing my problems, but about me learning to be a different way—the sort of person who exposes his guts more easily, who is less afraid of getting stabbed. In fact, that is the very thing my therapist pointed out to me, in our first post-breakup session: that I had been very vulnerable both in the relationship and in its aftermath, heavily relying on my friends and family. It seems that is so rare that he even teared up while pointing it out. (Therapists: they have feelings too!)
It’s just hard for me. I do not feel comfortable asking for help. I do not even feel comfortable bringing up that I maybe possibly am not doing well. My go-to is to feel bad, not tell anyone, and secretly hope people notice—and when they don’t, which is 99% of the time, resent them for it. What’s not to love about that MO? The alternative is coming across as needy or potentially asking for help and not receiving it, and either sounds terrible.
That being said, of the whole terribleness of the situation, the only good thing is that my loved ones did rally around me, without any expectations or complaints, just wanting to help in whatever way they could. Some of them noted the oddity of the situation, of them getting to take care of me instead of the other way around—which only reinforced the message that yes, maybe I am too closed off.
So there you have it. This is me being vulnerable with you: there is no recommendation this week because I’m too sad to think about stuff I like. “You didn’t need to tell us that, you could’ve just skipped a few of these until you felt better. No one would’ve noticed,” you say in my mind, and I tell you to shut up and let me be vulnerable, damn it. Just kidding. I know you probably like me and wish I wasn’t sad. And thank you for that. “It’ll pass,” as the Hot Priest says in the series finale of Fleabag (which is something that sounds too sad to watch after a breakup, and yet, surprisingly, I found it very healing.).
I’m not sure when the next edition will come—maybe in two weeks, maybe more, or maybe never. Right now I’m in a sort of limbo where the future doesn’t exist, because it’s unbearable to think about. But until then, Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate, and keep showing your guts to people (in a consensual way)!