What happened in between, the last part (seriously)

In order for a relationship between two people to survive, the key is for both of them to keep moving forward.

Life and history are full of little ironies. America's nationwide prohibition of alcohol ended because of a vote in Utah, best known for its population of teetotaling Mormons. The first and last men to die building the Hoover Dam were a father and son, exactly 13 years apart. Jesus of Nazareth, a peaceful man and carpenter, was nailed to a wooden instrument of torture and death. In 1854, the U.S. brought Japan out of isolation with a fleet of ships; 87 years later, the Japanese returned the favor. Henry Ford once proclaimed history was bunk, yet he is now inextricably part of it thanks to his advocacy of the assembly line and a livable wage. And my romance with the woman who said those words up above died in part because she was herself unable to move forward.


After we'd patched things up following the Six-Hour Breakup, nearly everything seemed to be running smooth again. A post-Valentine's weekend, my birthday, she got an interview with a medical school in Oregon, I put in a portfolio for CSUN's hyper competitive Film Production Option—we were happy, we were head over heels for each other, we were rolling forward, what more did we need?

The lady and I, dressed up for my grandma's 90th birthday party in March 2013

But when the calendar rolled over to April, though I didn't notice at that time, the first pebbles of the avalanche started to fall. I could feel kind of a gap between us whenever we were together during my spring break. Things slowly got strained as she waited for word back from that school and I found out how I'd spend my last two years at Northridge—in that highly competitive film program, it turned out. Rox was the first person back home I told. There was joy in her response, pride too. And why not? After two and a half years of her softening my rough edges and inspiring me to do better, to be better every day, she had a damn good reason to be proud.

She came down for a weekend in May, before I got swept up in the madness of finals. On the whole it was a good time, but the joy of lounging in the sun on Hermosa Beach after a couple of margaritas was tempered somewhat by a more intense sense of indecisiveness from her. A few of my friends who met her thought they saw a bossiness in her, and I couldn't help but agree. The uncertainty was taking its toll.

Coming home for the summer, I had it all thought out. She had bugged me a few times to woo her like in a movie, so I came up with the idea of doing a bunch of movie-inspired dates—a scavenger hunt from Amelie, dance lessons from Dirty Dancing, a few others. I figured it would be a great way to help us reconnect, to close out our third year together in style on common ground. On paper and on screen, it seemed pretty sound. But we never made it beyond the planning stage for even the first such date, and there are some times when I wonder if getting to do them would have made any difference in how the summer went.

In reality, I think we…I…spent those first 6 weeks or so of my break madly blowing on the embers of a fire that would not be relit. That lone school ultimately turned her down, and she seemed like she was adrift in life—talked about moving out on her own, or switching gears and applying for a master's, but nothing concrete ever emerged. We quibbled over so many mundane things that I started to get numb. The cute little gestures like daily "Good morning gorgeous" texts became chores. Our passion was gone, our intimate moments felt forced and stiff. After our last argument, I felt like we were sleepwalking—at some points, I felt like she didn't see me, even when I was ten feet away. The last time we saw each other before that fateful night when it ended, we sat together at a table and I just held her while she slumped into her arms, as though she were grieving over a loss.

Oh yeah, about that last argument. Looking back, that was the moment when I should have been the one to say "We need to talk," but I was too much of a proud stubborn ass to admit things weren't working any more. On Memorial Day weekend, she helped me recover from a 3-day cold and we went out to Berkeley on Sunday evening with Craig and Debbie. After she drove me home to Pleasanton, I presented her with a couple of little things I'd gotten for her back in the Valley, a scarf and pendant I'd thought would look good on her. They weren't exactly up to her high standards, we both a got a laugh…and then she pitched a tantrum that would have put a 6-year-old to shame. Accused me of spending too much money on myself and not enough on her. Screamed, wept, shook her fists. It was bratty, it was materialistic, it stressed me out so much that I stayed sick for three more days. I somehow sniffled and shivered my way through an interview for an internship with a San Francisco non-profit, the wonderful Center for Asian American Media, before we talked again and she apologized. But yeah, when your relationship literally becomes hazardous to your health, it's time to walk away while you still have your legs.

The end came on a Monday night in July. We had dinner with Debbie, we kissed, we awkwardly watched TV…then she said, "I think we need to talk." She talked about how the passion, the fun was gone, that after three years it was time to call it a night. Neither of us said what in hindsight should have been obvious—that with only one of us having any certainty about the future, we were fast growing apart and it was killing us. Rox was weeping, I was all out of fight. We hugged, we promised to try and stay friendly for the sake of each other and our entwined networks of friends, and I went home.

And I remember having to force myself to cry going over the bridge on my way back. It wasn't sadness that I felt on that drive, it was relief. The pain and futility of trying to maintain a dying romance were slowly leaving me. I was free, and though it scared me, I accepted it, welcomed it.

We haven't spoken since October. Or rather, she hasn't spoken to me since then; I've sent her a couple of happy-holiday texts since then but received no response. That last communication was an email that left a rotten taste in my mouth for a number of reasons.

Anyways. Here I am eight months after the breakup, trying to get it on paper so I can get it out of my head. Debbie asked me a while back if this was a ploy for sympathy. Hell no, it's a means of therapy! I've cried and fumed and swore and drank while pounding out all three of these posts, but each time I hit the Publish button, I get back the same feeling as I had that July night: relief. Being able to articulate how I've felt in writing is cathartic. Helps me remember that I'm not as broken as I've occasionally thought since then, that there is still good in me and that I have a lot to offer someone new.

And that despite how shitty the ending was (kinda like Saving Private Ryan), there were still plenty of bright moments in our time together. Roxanne got me dressing, looking, thinking, feeling, being better than I ever had before. She helped me find a style, a voice, a calling, a reason to keep moving forward. Arguably more than anyone or anything else, she is the biggest reason I'm here at CSUN pursuing my dream of becoming a filmmaker. It's been all too easy for me to bury those good things under a mountain of rage and resentment, and it's been just as easy to forget that in the end she was hurting too, hit by rejection and watching her dream slip out of reach while she was set adrift. It wasn't malice that drove her actions those last few months of us, it was uncertainty and frustration—the same things I felt but refused to acknowledge. Yes it hurt like hell, but I cannot, will not let the pain of yesterday override my desire for happiness today or my plans for tomorrow…so I forgive her for her stupid hurtful actions.

I just wish that I could tell her all this in person instead of resorting to a blog post.