I Know Nothing
A meditation on love, uncertainty, and the growing realization that not knowing might be the most honest thing we can offer.
Just the other night I was sat on a big blue couch, belonging to a kind man five years older than me. We were a few wine glasses in. Looking and talking at each other intently. Our conversation settled into the 3am air easily, thick and sweet and dripping with talk of future writing projects, life purpose, the London dating scene (yawn), book recommendations, philosophical wonderings, and of course covert trauma wrapped in humor and quick dismissal. (All the usual things you discuss with a near-stranger on a weeknight in South London.)
Here's the deal. Historically I have been what most would consider, a painfully classic romantic. Love and everything it touches was always so simple through my doe-eyed perspective. There was no gesture too grand, no mountain too insurmountable to move, no letter too impassioned to send, no force strong enough to separate two people in love. And then my boyfriend at the time joined a fraternity at one of the most infamous party schools in America. Newsflash: Love is dead and so is chivalry.
The years that followed were all together one giant, collective, inescapable, haunting clusterfuck of learning curves regarding the topic of romance. Like a strong wave shoving you to the ocean surface before dragging you down again. You would think I would learn to fear (or at the very least respect) the big and cosmic and unexplainable wonders of earth (like the ocean, like love) after almost drowning several times as a child.
There is one instance in particular that still grips me. I was 14. It was a cloudy, quiet day on an overcrowded beach in Alabama. The air reeked of melted ice cream, suburbia, sunscreen, fresh book pages from scandalous romance novels hidden in moms' beach bags, soggy cheese sandwiches, sea salt, impending divorces, etc. It was perfect.
The waves were choppy and unpredictable that day. My best friend, Peyton, and I didn't mind that the ocean was in a shit mood. We just wanted to be near her, to feel small for a little while. We began a light-hearted game with a few other nearby kids our age. It was simple. Stand knee-deep in the water and try not to fall. The crashing waves were so powerful against our small bodies, that most of us fell down each time- giggling and spitting out salty water as we rose back to our feet. Someone suggested we venture out a little further. We obliged, stupidly.
We had taunted the ocean too much. She was determined to teach us a lesson. In one large, sweeping motion, we were all carried out far beyond the shore. Our legs now unable to touch solid ground. White sea foam enveloped our faces, masking the terror we felt. There was no time to think. I turned around, away from the shore lined with worried bystanders, and looked out to the expansive, flowing field of blues and grays and whites. There was no end in sight. Nothing but water on the horizon. And I made the decision, in that moment, that I was not going to panic.
The next series of events were a blur. To this day, I am uncertain how long the ocean and I danced for. Was it 10 minutes? Was it 20? It felt like an hour. My girlish, adolescent body flailed and tumbled under the water rapidly. Over and over. I struggled to the surface and fought for one gasp of air. The next wave collapsed over me. This went on for a while. I was panicked in a way I'd never experienced before. This was no ordinary dancing number. This was life or death, and my partner was unrelenting.
There was a small break in the timing of these unforgiving swells. A familiar face came along side of me and began instructing where to swim. Thank God for high school boyfriends. Luckily, my best friend had a thing for a lanky, kind boy named Johnny. Johnny became a lifeguard that summer- just weeks before this beach trip. He began to match his arm strokes to mine, nudging me to pick up the pace. I told him to leave me and save himself. (The melodramatics of a 14 year old girl are truly something special.) He did not leave. And eventually, the shore was within reach.
Sand. Sweet, sweet sand. I hurriedly crawled my way out of the water, as if the ocean was conspiring to drag me back into its arms any second. I didn't feel like dancing anymore. Neither did the line of kids laying face down in the sand next to me. Peyton and I made eye-contact. Cheeks pressed against the grainy soil beneath us. Heart pounding. Breath raggedy and panting. Muscles aching from exertion.
The sun had shone its face now, pressing against our backs with a reassuring warmth. I reached for Peyton's hand. We laid in knowing silence. In contrast to the bright rays of light beaming down against our wet bodies, I felt a cold shadow grow across my face. My eyes squinted open slowly, and there it was. A small red flag, flapping mockingly above us. If you know anything about beach flags, you will know that the red flag means: don't fucking go in there! DANGER AHEAD!
In a lot of ways, this memory serves as a dreadful and somewhat hilarious metaphor for my dating experience. I still have trouble spotting red flags, even as an adult. And as much as I abhor dancing with an arrogant partner, I somehow always find myself swept up into their forceful arms.
For example, when the testosterone-inflated ex-boyfriend comes back to you with silky words and awful intentions, don't take him back. No matter how moving and convincing his passive Spotify playlists that he wanted you to see may seem to be.
When the guy from your hometown says he's trying to "help" you after you just puked six times in the backyard of the house party and are now laying in the upstairs room alone, the red flag might as well be stapled to his forehead.
Or how about the sweet, boy-next-door boyfriend that failed to mention he was recently engaged until halfway into the relationship and could never have sex without feeling mildly guilty (in a religious way) but was also insatiably horny all the time? That flag was red.
Like I said before- big, cosmic learning curves.
"Mattison- can I give you a hug?", the man on the some-shade-of-blue couch called to me, breaking me out of my trance. I do this often- staring into space and nodding my head while recounting everything I do and don't know about life and love. "Oh no, I'm fine. Really.", I said casually as we fully embraced. We continued on with our boozy conversation and an odd sensation bubbled inside, like sea foam, trying to rise to the surface. He got up to use the restroom. A single tear slid down my cheek. I wiped it quickly. I was fine. Really.
He sat down again, closer now, and I simply said, "I feel like I used to be so much wiser than I am now." He sat in silence thoughtfully, before agreeing through the use of one of his own life anecdotes. After all, he is five years older than me. Surely he's got some things figured out. Perhaps he doesn't. Maybe we're all faking it. Trying our best to get by, to understand.
Maybe getting older means being self-aware enough to know that you know nothing. Maybe the younger version of me only foolishly believed she had it all sorted out under a severely ignorant, romanticized pretense. Maybe this blind optimism and naivety left me suspended in time for a while, soaring high above everyone else. Untouchable from grief and slamming realities and confusion and clawing contradictions. Just me and the clouds and all of life's questions I had so decidedly figured out.
That's the thing about flying, however. What goes up eventually has to plummet down- to earth, to the sea, to a blue-green couch of an older, kind man in London on a cold Thursday night. Having no sure answers…
Only dry white wine. Good company. Shared hardships. A single hug. Warmth. The occasional patio smoke in between. Maybe that is answer enough. Maybe I shouldn't know everything. Maybe sweetness and love and connection and humanity lies in the not knowing.