FAiTH & FLESH

how an episode of The Crown made me realize my girl and I weren’t meant to be

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

Dinner, Netflix and sex. That was the domestic schedule. And I loved every second of it. For a while at least.

I’d spent the better part of two years drowning myself in work, getting our company off the ground. When I did “date”, it was the same way I did anything that wasn’t work——as an empty escape. Fast, shallow, meaningless. Chasing highs. Distracting myself.

My therapist asked me how I felt about my inability to sit down and watch a movie or a tv show with my full attention. I looked my therapist in the eye and said it wasn’t a big deal.

Then I had a summer full of panic attacks. I avoided my therapist’s eyes and said maybe it was a big deal.

I took my first vacation in years. Mom and dad. Now across the ocean in Portugal, not Florida. Two weeks, by the beach. Still I couldn’t stop the mind from racing.

So I buried myself in my book. My now favorite book. Crime & Punishment.

Reading has always been my lifeline. The only act that can reliably calm me down, help me find my center. (A healthier escape I suppose.)

I would read in the little topiary garden just outside my parent’s place. The garden sloped downwards towards the coast. It overlooked the neighboring peninsula. I would sit there for hours reading.

I cried for the first time in a long time when I reached Part IV, Chapter IV.

Raskolnikov is nearing the peak of his guilt and rushes to visit Sonya. He’s agitated. Pacing around, asking questions about faith. He wants nothing more than to confess his murder to her. She feels the burden of his secret, without knowing it. Only suspecting that his inner torment comes from something truly dark. His intensity unsettles her but she is drawn to be a salve for him. For reasons she cannot explain.

He asks her to read the Bible aloud to him, to soothe his nerves. He demands a specific passage. She quickly flips it open.

A deep, quiet sob broke from her bosom. Raskolnikov felt as though a sharp needle had run into his heart. His eyes grew moist, his lips twitched; he hid his face in his hands.

A tremor passed over her thin voice. He felt it in his whole soul. Tears gushed from his eyes. It was the resurrection of Lazarus that she was reading. He listened, trembling, his head bowed almost to the ground. He seemed to be striving to grasp each word, and it clutched at his heart.

My mom found me on the stone bench there and kissed me on the head. There was no hiding the red, puffy eyes. I had been staring at the green ferry shuttling people back and forth from the peninsulas. For who knows how long.

That scene stayed with me for days. The way Dostoevsky made faith feel both terrifying and tender.

I made it back to New York feeling a little lighter.

Later that week, I met my own Sonya at the US Open. The full story of her is for another time. She’s the sort of person who deserves their own book.

Truly, she felt like an angel.

I know now that the relationship was doomed from the start. I was salvation to her, in a way that was unsustainable. And she was salvation to me, in a way that was unsustainable. Our flame burned bright, oh so bright. Too bright.

We were both passionate. Romantics in the truest sense. Both writers. Her, a poet. Me, preferring the story.

After the first couple weeks we were inseparable. I took my first weekend off since we started the company, just to spend it with her. My panic attacks went away.

I was in love. Fully devoted. I surrendered to her. I saw her for who she was, and for who she could become. I loved both equally.

And that was how we ended up with our domestic schedule, only 9 months in. We had just moved in to a new apartment together. I had done a pretty good job of decorating my own, but her touch made it feel like a real nest.

My energy returned. My peace. I wasn’t drowning any more.

The days felt so much longer. I used to be in the office from 9:30-7 most days, and then spend an hour or two finishing up at home. But with her, even if I came home at 7:30——it felt like I had a whole second half of the day. She dilated time with her way of being.

So that was the swing of it. Her texting me she missed me. Me telling her I’d be home soon. She’d ask when? I’d say 30 minutes. She’d say, okay so an hour.

I’d walk out the elevator and smell dinner. Always something hearty, aromatic. She was Italian after all. I’d float to the door, like Pepe Le Pew.

Instead of talking about my day, spilling my neuroses out——I’d revel in listening to hers.

We’d sit at the dinner table side by side, me rubbing her hand in between bites, her rubbing my back. Any little detail of hers was a like a balm. She’d show me pictures of a cute dog she saw on her lunch, or a couple of older ladies laughing in the park together.

Then she’d get up mid meal, serve me more and scurry around to show me her newest haul——whether it was house decorations, or clothes or flowers. Whatever she brought in, whatever came out of her mouth, whatever she witnessed——it was sweet.

I just sat there and ate and took it all in. Took her all in. My breathing was deep and long. My mouth permanently in a smile.

Then I’d start loading the dishwasher as she would queue up the show.

That night, we were deep into The Crown, her favorite show. Season 3, Episode 4. Bubbikins.

“This one is such a good episode.” She said that for every episode. But I also said the same during our Sopranos watch through.

We’d turn all the lights off, only a single candle on. Snuggle on our white boucle couch. Her nestling into me, or my head on her lap, depending on the day. And of course, my cat Sophie joining us, perching on one of the arms and loafing so she could get the best view.

In the episode we learn about Prince Phillip’s mother. Princess Alice. She lives in a convent in Greece.

She’s had a remarkable life. After struggling heavily with mental illness, her husband had her institutionalized for years. She suffered barbaric treatments and when she emerged, she was estranged from her husband and children. But she was resilient. She founded a nursing order of Greek Orthodox nuns and devoted the rest of her life to her faith.

At the end of the episode, Phillip asks her how she was able to endure it all. She says she was able to because of her faith.

That faith is the only thing that matters.

I burst out into tears as the credits rolled.

And that’s when the gulf opened up.

You see, despite being an angel in human form...my ex was not religious.

She was spiritual sure, but had an open distaste for religion. That was okay, I understood that she grew up surrounded by negative experiences with Christianity in her life.

We both believed in something bigger than us. Hers was the universe, mine was God.

I thought that was enough.

She comforted me, stroking my hair. But I wanted more.

I wanted to talk to her about how powerful that statement was. How I wanted to devote myself to my faith, whatever that looked like. I struggled to get the words out. They were a bit clumsy I admit. Something about how I just wanted to throw it all away and devote myself to God. She sat up straight.

Why do you have to take it to the extreme?

What do you mean?

Why can’t you just be happy in this world? With me? Why do you have to be chasing something so big?

So big? It’s like the main thing. God. Faith. It’s everything. It’s what makes me love you so strongly. You literally feel divine.

I don’t need to feel anything or be divine or need your God to be in me. I am who I am. And that’s enough to be loved.

That’s not what I mean. I just don’t know how to explain it to you. It’s like we’re speaking a different language.

Yea I don’t understand. I’m on this Earth to feel all the things, to enjoy myself, to be nice to others. I don’t need to access something higher, or try to leave my mark. I’m happy just being here.

I’m happy being here too. But in the presence of God, however He shows up in my life...I’m always pulled to something more. I wish we could just talk about it. That you could help me make sense of it.

Make sense of it yourself.

She stood up to go the bathroom and get ready for bed. I went to unload the dishwasher and scrub the pots and pans.

I got under the covers and looked up at the ceiling. She was turned to the side. After a few minutes, she turned over to me.

She apologized. I apologized.

We kissed. Softly.

Then she kissed me more forcefully. I tried to revert to the soft kissing. She moved her body on to mine. I kissed her more but she could tell I wasn’t into it.

What’s wrong?

Nothing’s wrong. I just don’t really feel like kissing much tonight.

Are you still upset?

No. I’m not upset. It’s okay. But I’m not dying to…you know, right now at least.

She kissed me one more time and rolled off.

I just wanted to be close again. I don’t like when we fight.

I know baby. I don’t like when we fight either. It’s just, I don’t know. Faith is a sensitive topic for me, maybe more than I realized. I’m not fully here is all.

Mhm.

I could have let it die there, but I was still feeling rustled.

Mhm?

It’s like our writing styles.

What?

When you first read my poetry, you said I did such an incredible job of capturing memories, places, emotions as they are. You said I had a gift for framing anything in the best light.

Yea.

And your writing. You take a kernel of a truth, and turn it into something...like a myth. It’s cinematic. But it’s not honest.

What does that mean? Since when does writing have to be true? The feeling you get from reading what I write is true. The soul I put into it is honest. It’s me. That’s all I care about. The details, yea…I like to make life sexy.

And that’s the difference between me and you. You like beautiful lies. Writing them, living in them, worshipping them. When’s the last time you wrote an ugly truth? Or forget that. When’s the last time you lived one and didn’t lie to yourself about what it was to make it easier?

I didn’t sleep much that night.

FATIMA, PORTUGAL

I wrote this in my journal recently, 7 months after the breakup.

My ex and I both wanted to be one with the universe. That’s why we were drawn to each other. Eventually we realized that we want to accomplish that in different ways. She wants to sink in to it and let it wash over her. I want to embed myself in it and stretch myself across it.

I wrote that coming home from a day trip to Fatima, with my mother. Fatima is one of the most important Catholic pilgrimage sites in the world. It is where the Virgin Mary appeared to three shepherd children over 100 years ago.

My mother has been a Catholic her whole life, but the rare kind of Hispanic mother that doesn’t force it on her kids. I actually became religious as a 21 year old, completely on my own. So discovering my faith has opened up a whole new sacred playground for my mom and I to bond on.

I sat with my mom on one of the marble benches overlooking the Chapel of Apparitions. We watched the pilgrims milling about, some queuing up for the mass, others on their knees hands up and out as they crawled across the stone ground.

It was a light day.

I thought it was gonna be heavy. My mom is a crier and I am too.

But we were laughing, we were smiling, we were hugging, we were at peace. Even when we touched topics that normally would make us well up, we were solid.

My mom spoke of her own childhood trauma. She spoke of how balled up she is and has always felt. That she feels like she lives through me.

I held her hand and told her that was nice, but I wish she lived for herself. That she didn’t just think of herself as a mother above all. Our eyes lingered to the giant Virgin Mary statue to the right of us.

She told me she liked my new necklace. That it was luxurious looking. She rolled her eyes at my neck tattoo though. That she said, she did not approve of. I told her it’s me though. She laughed and said it was. Calle y elegante. I thought about how much my mother liked the finer things, even if she never really had the means to get them for herself. That was the closest I came to crying that day, thinking about how I wished I had more to spoil her with—-before time ran out.

As the day neared its end I told my mom about the Bubbikins episode. The episode after the episode. We stood under the giant crucifix.

I told her that I knew the relationship wasn’t for me, but I still felt like I lost something pretty great.

That no matter what, my ex was a saint in the church of Levi.

She transformed me, redeemed me, blessed me.

I hope I did the same. I know I tried. Everyday.

Sometimes I wish I could do more, out of true divine love, not possession or attachment. She is one of the most remarkable people I’ve ever met. I don’t know how her life will go. But I just need to keep the faith. The faith that our love was what it was, when it needed to be, and that it is no longer.

And that she will be okay all on her own. I know I’m okay all my own. But her, I know her and she is a stormy girl. A strong one, but stormy nonetheless.

I have to have faith that she will be okay all on her own.

My mom just smiled at me.

Faith is all we have.