After the heartbreak of my mom's illness, I sought comfort and release with men. But it was my friends who saved me
I've spent the past 10 months since my mom was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer looking for solace in men, a warm body in my bed. People cope with grief in different ways and, until recently, I've turned to sex.
I have gone after men who were emotionally unavailable and spectacularly wounded. Pleasure wasn't the goal; it was entirely unwelcome. I didn't want to feel good; I mostly wanted to feel a different kind of bad. I was never a cutter, but now I understand it -- the idea of dragging a razor blade along your arm in hopes of relieving the vibrations of pain, letting it flow. It brought relief -- a brief, post-coital moment of comfort and calm, followed by a vertigo-inducing sense of emptiness. True loneliness is lying in bed with someone who doesn't care about you.
I feel a certain fondness for these men. They have kept me company in my misery -- even when they weren't aware of it. They have seen a version of myself that I am not particularly comfortable with – ravenous, wild, destructive. There is intimacy there, sure. They assisted in my acting out, provided needed distraction and brought the comfort of a warm embrace, but then they were gone and the pain was still there.
As my escapades ramped up, so did my performance. Everything became a story, an anecdote. While talking to my longtime friend Margaret on the phone, I launched into a tale about how I had taken my roommate to a strip club for a sociological study of sorts and had a chance encounter with a dancer who, it turned out, was sleeping with the same man I had been casually involved with for a couple months. With the wry detachment of a soldier telling war stories at a bar, I explained how this had ended with me crying into my overpriced martini against the backdrop of men tucking dollar bills into G-strings. Margaret didn't skip a beat: "That's a really fascinating story, but the one thing I'm not hearing you talk about is your mom. How is she?"
What could I say -- she's dying? Again and again, I would relay these sensational stories and my friends, hardly prudes, would act thoroughly unamused. One time, I drank far too much at a party at my house and then brought a man back to my room -- a man whom I'd gotten into a fight with moments earlier after he declared that he didn't care about giving women orgasms. Afterward, when I walked out of my room, my buddy Jake, a sweet Southern boy whom I've known for nearly a decade and had never seen angry until then, confronted me. He was furious. "Tracy, you slept with that asshole?" He went on a terrific rant, which caused me to promptly burst into tears and I ended up sandwiched in a hug between him and his girlfriend. "My mom is dying, Jake," I pleaded. "You know my mom! You've hung out at her house, you've eaten her food. She's dying ." "I know, Tracy. I know your momma, I love your momma," he said. "But you can't do this to yourself."
Eventually, I realized it wasn't men that I needed, it was my friends. More than just calling me out, my friends have simply been there. Whenever I write Elissa at 2 a.m. in a frenzy of sorrow, she writes back immediately and at epic lengths. Sarah brings over wine and cries as I cry, fondly repeating, "Oh, my lady." I give Jake branches of jade from my mom's garden and he plants them in his yard and sends me photo updates of the plants' progress. Susan and Katherine consistently ask me, unafraid, about how my mom is doing and what chemo she's on now. When I come home after Christmas, shell-shocked from the realization that it is the last one I will have with my mom, my roommate Emily asks me all the right questions until I break down and sob in her arms.
Of course, the various warm bodies that I've had in my bed during this time have helped me to come to this revelation, but only because of what they didn't provide. Those dalliances were educational in their emptiness, and my friends have been the antidotes. My friends are the ones who have actually supported me through this chaotic time. They are the ones who have made me feel less alone. The fantasy of having all of these things in one person -- a person who can also be a warm body in your bed -- is a nice one. But, honestly, the most meaningful love affair that I've had in the past year is the one I've had with my friends -- and that makes Valentine's Day not so bad at all.
Monday, Feb 14, 2011 16:37 ET Five movies to cure you of Valentine's Day
This is a terrible holiday, whether you're single, dating or in between. Here are films that don't sugarcoat it Video
Is there a holiday more annoying than Valentine's Day? Not only do you have to cram all of your "love" into some artificial gestures and dinner reservations if you're in a relationship, but it's also the one time of year when all the single people in the world can throw a giant pity party for themselves and not have anyone yell at them for it.
Too bad these two groups -- those who hate Valentine's Day because they're in a relationship, and those who hate it because they aren't -- can't just sit down on Feb. 14 and relax. Maybe pop in a movie? Though there are tons of films out there that promise you true love and a happy ending, and plenty more that tell you life is a piece of dog poop and you'll end up an old cat lady (most of the latter are late '90s indies directed by Neil LaBute), there are a couple movies that let you have it both ways. Movies that say, "Maybe love is both awesome and sucky."
: Never have so many semi-talented actors been crammed into one film with such disastrous results (and I'm including "She's Just Not That Into You" in this assessment). So weird that a movie starring both Taylors (Swift and Lautner, who were dating at the time!) and both Jessicas (Biel and Alba, who were not) wouldn't end up being the riveting romance film of the early 21st century, or even a close second to the British "Love, Actually," which "Valentine's Day" tries desperately to rip off. As a nation, let's suck this one up and blame it on Ashton Kutcher, just like everything else. On the other hand, it's a perfect movie to watch if you want to remember how annoying everyone can be on Valentine's Day, whether or not they have someone to share it with.
2. "8 1/2" : Fellini's dreamscape focuses on an aging director who's had one too many Valentines in his life, though he keeps on trucking to find that great, mysterious l'amore. It is also a great reminder that, love or not, we all die in the end anyway. Perky! (Note: This film also works as an antidote for people who pretend they are into Italian new wave but are actually just hipster posers.)
: A great get-together film for the entire spectrum of relationship statuses, since Michel Gondry and Charlie Kaufman's trippy love story works like a Rorschach test. If you believe in fate and true love, the ending is uplifting. If you've ever tried dating your ex after you both forgot how awful the other one was, this film is the ultimate in pragmatic reminders not to do that.
4. "Leaving Las Vegas" : An alcoholic writer meets a hooker with a heart of gold. What could go wrong? A perfect Valentine for those who believe that true love can only be found at the bottom of a bottle.
: Two girls embark on a trip to Spain, where they both are wooed by the handsome Javier Bardem (whom American audiences only knew at that point as the guy with the terrible haircut from "No Country for Old Men"). Though this movie portrays how stifling a marriage of convenience is, it doesn't offer the freewheeling bohemian concept of romance as any type of solution. Which leaves us with the feeling that Woody Allen, like Valentine's Day in general, is not in the habit of leaving anyone feeling good about love.
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