I want to remember the good times

[Spoiler alert (last paragraph in italics): quote from the end of the novel (& movie) “Call me by your name”]

I want to hold onto the good memories. And that might have to be partly also an active exercise stemming from an active choice. 

In the past week my focus as well as my pain have been mainly on anger and disappointment. Maybe because in some ways it’s easier (for me). 

In the situation with my special genderqueer European friend, for instance, I’ve been dwelling on the unusual silence that there has been between us for nearly two weeks now, probably due to their boyfriend visiting from Europe. I’ve focused on how badly we handled this polyamorous situation, blaming both myself and them for poor communication, blahblahblah. And while that might definitely be a lesson for me to learn from this relationship, this is really NOT what I want to remember, what I want to take away, from it — nor what I want to leave behind with them, if possible. 

I want to remember the good times. Actually, the wonderful, lovely times. Because that’s what we had not only during the month of sexual & romantic intimacy but also during the previous months of profound platonic friendship both this spring and last year. I want to remember our deep, spontaneous, instinctive connection. Our commonalities, our enriching differences, the almost immediate recognition between us. I want to remember the profound, open, sincere conversations. I want to remember how we learned from each other, how we helped each other grow and find ourselves, how our paths crossed in moments of our lives that were fundamental turning points, both professionally and on each of our gender journeys, for both of us. I want to remember how serendipitously we were there for each other, and how we embraced it, stepped into it, and embraced each other. I want to remember how we held each other, intellectually, emotionally, and physically. I want to remember how they held me even when I wasn’t “at my best”. I want to remember how they embraced me and soothed me. I want to remember all the times they made space for me and my feelings, even for my difficult emotions — not the only one time that they didn’t. I want to remember how safe I felt with them — safe enough to explore sexuality again for the first time in over a year and for the first time ever after my gender-affirming top-surgery. And I want to remember how wonderful sex felt with them, how attuned we were, how much we reveled in each other’s touch, how much full consent there was with hardly any words needed. I want to remember the bliss, the joy, the sense of connection and wholeness and healing from those moments. 

Of course, all these beautiful memories are also — precisely — the cause of the intense pain I am feeling from our forced separation, in the forced ending of our relationship. But this pain is worth it to the very last drop. And this, for now, can be hard for me to hold, so I need to actively remind myself. Because I want to. 

Recalling Mr. Perlman’s words to his son Elio when the latter is pining over his “lost love” (also, at least partly, for geographical reasons): “You had a beautiful friendship. Maybe more than a friendship. […] In your place, if there is pain, nurse it, and if there is a flame, don’t snuff it out, don’t be brutal with it. […] We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of 30 and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing as to not feel anything —  what a waste!”