31st January 2013

Perhaps the end is the start

I broke up with my first boyfriend on the Fourth of July.

It had been one of those nights that was so idyllic, so strangely perfect, that I now realize it was what teenagers did before smart phones.

On this patriotic eve, we had met a bunch of couples at the local movie theater and convinced an employee-friend to hand over the remaining popcorn for the night. He loaded it into an industrial sized garbage bag and opened a trap door to the roof of the theater. The group of us sat there wrapped in fleece blankets, watching the fireworks and chowing on popped corn. When they were done, we gawked at the stars and chatted about punk rock.

While the other couples were cuddly and sweet that night, my boyfriend was keeping his distance. He kept wandering off to the edge of the roof to talk on his Nokia and kept complaining about being too hot. Clearly, a ploy to stay as far away from me and my T-Rex blanket as possible. And while the scene might have seemed perfect, I knew in my gut he was going to break up with me that night.

As we drove back to my dad’s house, I started weighing the last 6 months of our relationship in my head. There were some sincerely sweet moments. We had taken to listening to a Roswell Radio station at 2 AM and constantly tried to one up the other with obscure conspiracy theory non-fiction. Whether or not I wanted it to be over, he wasn’t in it any more. Deep down, I didn’t want to be with someone who didn’t want to be with me.

By the time we finally sat down on the flannel couch in my dad’s living room, I blurted it out:

“You want to break up. Don’t worry. It’s fine.”

He stared at me completely dumbfounded. After all, I was 17 years old and he was 21. He had been forced only two months earlier to attend my high school prom. I was reversing the roles and breaking it up before he could break my heart. In my memory, he cried, but I honestly don’t remember.

It was easy for my friends to see that I had fallen hard for this guy who looked a lot like Kurt Cobain and had a band named after an antiquated optical device. It’s why I was so deeply embarrassed when he wanted to break up with me. Instead of facing that shame, I took it into my own hands and decided it needed to end another way.

Not even ten minutes later, our friends arrived at the house to play foosball and I couldn’t even pretend like nothing happened to save us all the weirdness. Instead, I announced the break up and told everyone that we were fine and we could still play table soccer. For some reason, he stayed. I can only now imagine how awkward it must have been for all of them, but no one said anything. They just took my lead.

My pride was important to me. My pride is still important to me.

I am still that girl. The girl who seeks the off-beat people at the party, finds joy in the obscure and who feels at home in any movie theater on earth. And I’m still embarrassed when things don’t go my way. The routine repeats itself regularly. Instead of admitting the party or the job or the relationship didn’t work out - I obsessively concoct a narrative that shows I’m not a quitter. I’ve got it under control.

I am honestly starting to wonder why I don’t just allow myself to feel bad when disappointing things happen.

This week, I found out that the documentary short I threw so much of my heart into last year didn’t get into SXSW. A few months ago, that same short didn’t get accepted into Sundance. I will probably find out in the coming weeks and months that it didn’t get into several other festivals too. Maybe I’m not well known enough. Maybe it wasn’t the right fit for their programmers. But the real issue is much simpler: Maybe it’s not good enough. Maybe I’m not good enough.

It really doesn’t matter either way, because whether or not those statements are true, it doesn’t change the fact that I feel utterly gutted.

When it comes to dating, rejection means I go on being me. Sure, I’m no longer so and so’s significant other, but everyone I know still sees me. I am still Liz. But when it comes to creative pursuits, rejection feels like someone wiped down a carnival mirror and showed me the true reflection.

Suddenly, the eyes in my reflection are saying: You aren’t a filmmaker. You are a hack and a clown masquerading as a storyteller. Put the shoes away. You are embarrassing yourself.

I have told exactly three people that our film didn’t get into the festival, so if you are part of the team and this is the first time you are reading this, I am sorry. This is the digital equivalent of us meeting in my dad’s kitchen and acting like it’s no big deal. Except there’s no foosball after this.

In a way, the only thing left for me to do now is the do the thing I did on July 5th a decade ago. Write about it. Listen to Rocky Votolato. Cry a little when no one is watching.

Most importantly, I must remember now what a dear friend told me then: Sometimes the things that feel like the end are actually the start.