what doesn’t kill you

Remember when I baked lussebullar with the Swedish teachers last year? Well, this year we made it into a tradition! This year, just like last year, we also made pepparkakor and I thought I’d share a photo of that process for reasons of diversity.

Today I did something I’ve never done in the United States of America before – I broke up with someone. [Even though he was a non-american I think it still counts as an American Experience.] It wasn’t like we were a couple or anything but we had been dating for over two months – the longest ‘relationship’ I’ve been in with a man in this country – so I think I’m entitled to sense a loss. I do think he’s a great guy and I do think we shared some lovely times together – especially that beautiful Sunday afternoon drinking wine and making out on the beach followed by dinner in Sausalito in the evening will remain with me – but I had to be honest with him, myself and my feelings. It has been a long time since I’ve been on the other side of a break-up and perhaps that’s why I don’t really understand why I feel sad when this was my choice. Perhaps I’m sad because saying no to the romantic side of our friendship might also mean that I won’t be able to have him as a friend for a while. It was nice to keep in touch with him frequently and meet up with him every now and then. Now I just feel lonely and like I don’t really know what it is I have done yet. I’ve been in and out of relations with men for a large part of this year: first a month of sleeping at C.’s place in the spring, falling for the Russian basketballplayer in June and July, hanging out with S. in July and August, then I started seeing the non-american in September which lasted until December. Even though I didn’t have strong feelings for any of these men – except perhaps for the basketballplayer who really got a hold on me because he was probably the most beautiful man I’ve ever had who thought he was the one ‘leveling up’ through being with me – they were all a part of my life [and my blog] for some time and I shared an intimacy with them that is difficult to just forget about and move on to the next [though that’s often what I tend to do]. This week I went to see the gynecologist – since I wanted to see the doctor I thought I’d start with the truly agonizing part of being a woman – and when she asked me how many men I’ve slept with this past year, I wasn’t particularly proud of the number I pronounced. She wasn’t impressed either but that’s another story. But the thing is that I’m not a slut. Contrary to popular belief, I must care about a man before I let him into my life and that’s why I couldn’t continue seeing the non-american and being honest at the same time. I do care about him. I didn’t exactly ‘meet’ another man, but I shared an experience with someone else recently which would have constituted ‘cheating’ if I would have been in a relationship to begin with. So that’s the state of affairs right now – as another year is coming to an end, I find myself strangely in almost the same position I was in last year: alone. This year, however, I will be smarter than last year and not end December by cultivating a crush on someone utterly unattainable. Because to be truly honest about everything, throughout most of this year I didn’t really want to be with any of the men I was with – I wanted to be with someone else. I didn’t feel anything like what I felt for him for any of the other and perhaps that was a sign for me to ‘keep it in my pants’ as Critical Companion likes to repeat. But that was a dead end street and I only began the process of burying my ill-fated crush when I started dating the non-american.

As always, Sartre is the one around to pick up the pieces when I break into them. I walked straight into to him after the break-up and ended up sitting with him holding me for an hour. “So I’m your teddybear now?” he asked and answered his own question: “I can be your teddybear whenever you want to for as long as you need to.” Sartre stroked my back and read my palm and concluded that my ‘emotional line’ was too intense for him to figure out my love life. Perhaps I didn’t really need him to tell me that – I kind of know by now – but it was nice to feel his skin against mine and to watch the striking contrast of his rough dark hands against my pale small fingers. Ever since I first came to Berkeley, Sartre has been there for me in all the ups and downs and despite this I am sure that he and I will never be more than this; we will never be a couple. He will simply hang around and turn up when I need him to be there, hug me, tell me how good I look and how much he wants to rip my clothes off, and listen to me patiently and try to make some sense of what I’m saying and give me the never-ending intellectual’s point of view. I guess that’s what friends are for. They’re there for you when you need it and sometimes you need the kind of friends that you can forget all about until the moment you bump into them on campus. The thing with Sartre is that I have never hid any part of myself from him but always said everything exactly the way it is and he’s never been afraid of doing the same for me. I guess that’s also what constitutes a friendship – when you can tell all of your stories to someone who already know all of your stories but still are willing to listen as if it was the first time.

As I feel kind of like an emotional mess at the moment, it is nice to know that we’ve officially entered ‘paper writing mode’ in the academic world and I can now focus on the professional side of my life. I think that’s what I need. And a lot of sleep.