"The Fixer Upper"
an excerpt

The Letter She Received from Matthew, the Man Who Ran Away

Happy Birthday, my dear Ally G.,

I’m sitting here in my hotel room on the outskirts of Paris (yes, France) in a little commune called Val de Seine, on my way back to London tomorrow and wanting to not be a complete dick / asshole / jerk / fuckhead / dipshit / buttwad (any three to be chosen by the birthday girl, and one more for good luck!) and miss your special day.

I hope your B. Day went well and that you did something special with good friends.

As you’ve seen in the past, I seem to have developed a tendency to “drop” out at a moment’s notice. I wish I could explain the whys and wherefores of it, but I’ve still not worked it out for myself. I know it has to do with an increasing sense of dissatisfaction with who I am, where I’m going, what my options are (and what they seem not to be), the unsettling spiral of physical and mental decay as I age and a growing sense of moving further and further off of the map.

It’s probably a ridiculous thing to say—and you have my permission to smack me for doing so—but I hope you are strong enough to not take my crazies to heart. They’re in no way a reflection on you, who you are or what you’re about. They’re my demons and I need to find a way to come to terms with them. I know for certain that I’m good for neither man nor beast until I sort them out.

An opportunity arose that allowed me to take two weeks here in Europe, partially on someone else’s dime. I had to get away from my routine life, at least for a little while. On one hand it’s been fabulous, seeing friends, family, new people and new places. On the other, though, it’s surely reinforced many of the negatives I believe about both myself and the world around me–especially the difficulty I have in “being in the moment”. I don’t know how much longer I can continue life the way I’m living it—there’s so much more I want—but I have no idea how to make it happen. I find myself mired in place by the beliefs, whether real or imagined, that I have about myself and my abilities.

That’s my story…but I’m sure you’ve figured most of it out for yourself, smart girl that you are. I don’t know what the future holds nor do I know if you can deal with a too-smart-for-his-own-good, demon-infested, wise-assed, prone to falling off both the map and the planet, approaching middle-age, in the throes of a banal mid-life crisis person without suffering the consequences.

This is the best I can do.

Fondly, and with best wishes,

Matthew
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ALLY'S REPLY: BUT SHOULD SHE SEND IT?

Dear Matthew,

If you’re going to suffer an existential crisis, I supposed France is as good a place as any to do it. I can only imagine how many letters you’ve written like the one you sent to me – letters to well-meaning women who attempted to care for the broken creature that you are, only to be rewarded with game-playing and childish, hurtful behavior.

I told you early on when we began connecting that if the way you viewed yourself was at odds with the way I viewed you, we would have difficulty. I suspected it was true then and I take no pleasure now in having been right. I asked you to put on the brakes if moving forward was not what you wanted. You responded by pursuing me ardently while dodging any deepening of our connection which you elicited.

Of course you’ve heard all this before. You are too practiced at your game to be new at it. Whatever you get from it, I can’t say. I will tell you this, Mr. About-to-be-Fifty: At our age, it’s a cold, harsh world out there for someone without the resources to keep himself comfortable. Without children to look after him, a mate, a legacy of meaningful accomplishments – a person dead set on following that path is guaranteed a bleak and lonely time of it. It happens every day. It is one of life’s abiding clichés: the brilliant but broken man so consumed by his demons that he hurts others rather than mustering the courage to risk the enlightenment that could free him from the pain he perpetuates.

Who exactly do you think is going to rub your aching hips and elbows? Who will gently bend your creaky legs and help you stretch when you awake? Are the “bitter old crabs” in New York lining up to lavish their affection on your temperamental penis? Are you having better luck in Europe?

So you are affronted to have discovered that your own life really doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. I made that discovery myself quite a while back and came to grips with it. I cannot solve the great problems of humanity. All I can do is express compassion and live imperfectly to the best of my ability. There is more integrity, I believe, in being self-directed and conscious of one’s actions than in holding out for a grandiose scheme or dream. I’ve been very fortunate to be able to combine some of those elements into a life I believe is worth my effort. It is a shame you have not been able to do the same – but the larger loss is that you seem to reject that which you claim to seek: the means and support to make some sense of it all.

Here is something to think about: You are a Jew. Even if you don’t agree with the tenets of the formal religion (I often don’t), you belong to a people who have been oppressed but refuse to accept the ultimate fate of extermination. When I feel pathetically useless and hopeless, I try to remember that my forebears paid a terrible price so that I could have my life. Even on the days when that knowledge is a burden, I can draw a line at wasting my own life because doing so would demean their sacrifices.

The first time you visited my house, you said, “Everything is a test.” I agreed. But you are missing a key part of the process. Yes, everything IS a test, but it is not ONLY a test. What you do with the results is what matters. I haven’t seen any evidence that you employ the results of your “testing” other than to support what you already believe. When you discard the information you don’t want to acknowledge, you invalidate the test. Perhaps that’s why you kept testing me. You did not like the results. You tested me for patience; I passed. You tested me for understanding; I passed. I surprised you with my responses.

So, you then manipulated the tests so that even to pass was to fail. Need a current example?: “I hope you are strong enough to not take my crazies to heart.” If I am strong enough, I have no heart. If I am not strong enough, I’m weak. Either way, you get the test result you want, which justifies your decision to get rid of a smart, vibrant and caring woman who challenged you.

(And were you seized by your crazies to such an extreme that you could not abide contact with me one moment longer, good manners require more than a 1:00 a.m. phone call to sum up and dismiss our time together as something you “got into too fast because I hadn’t been with anyone in so long.”)

You say it’s not about me. True enough; it IS all about you, isn’t it? I doubt you have ever truly considered who I am. I don’t desire to mirror your tormented worldview and shabby conduct, which you stated was, “in no way a reflection on you, who you are or what you’re about.”

You and I share a commonality that’s quite uncommon, really. We are smart, difficult, sensitive, damaged people who struggled hard to survive our fractured families and lives. That can be a basis for connection and, yes, comfort. But perhaps you saw in me too much of the vulnerability you fear and despise in yourself. It’s unsettling to look into the face of someone who recognizes your weaknesses and still accepts you open-heartedly, isn’t it? Or maybe you just decided you could do better.

Change the rules, you told me many times. Well, I failed that test, too. I changed the rules. Instead of wariness, I beheld you with warmth and delight. What I got in return was one lame excuse after another for why you’re a poor Desperado who can’t be present in your own life, can’t stay connected, can’t, can’t, can’t. And that tendency to drop out you “seem to have developed”? There’s a term for it: it’s called running away.

Each day we all must choose whom we allow into our lives and hearts. I don’t know how often you’ve encountered people who consider your faults, weigh them against your strengths, and repeatedly choose to affirm the best of who you are, at your essence. You make those choices nearly impossible when you confine a person with so many layers of tests, trickery and convoluted maneuvers. Beating your breast about this behavior and its consequences doesn’t absolve you.

I have known a few people who stake themselves out along the polar extremes of superiority and self-loathing. They refuse to recognize there is profound satisfaction, joy and meaning to be gleaned in the continuum which lies between. Such a person becomes discerning but has no flexibility. He becomes so critical he cannot compromise. By trusting no one he makes himself untrustworthy. He has no true humility and will find no salvation. He has perfected the formula for failure.

You talk about your “decay” so fatalistically. Yes, it’s awful. But the canon of human experience is full of those who bloomed late and bloomed magnificently. You could try an experiment or two. You could decide to be proactive about your life. You could take Lexapro for six months and see how it feels to tweak your serotonin. (Oh, you didn’t know you are clinically depressed? You are.) You could get some therapy. You could go out and learn something. You could teach something. But most of all you could stop making excuses.

By the way, not that you asked, but I am well. I am deep into a new book project which is difficult yet exhilarating. My darling sister threw me a wonderful birthday party down at her place. I picked up a guitar and sat in with some real musicians and I stumbled along pretty well. After a couple of cocktails (it doesn’t take many), I warbled two Lucinda Williams songs, solo. I felt very much affirmed and humbled by the outpouring of affection; that still surprises me. But those are my demons…

I’d be dishonest if I did not admit to some empathy for you. I know how deeply old hurts can continue to gnaw at a person. I understand the cumulative toll that health problems and chronic pain can take on a person’s body – and spirit. And I can truly feel the pain that permeates what you wrote to me. But Matthew, you have set things up so that a woman who cares for you does so at her own great peril. Must she diminish herself to prove she is worthy and true? Or can you only respect her if she is wise enough to remove herself from the path of your quaintly-named but malignant “crazies?”

For someone who hates clichés, you could hardly have racked up more of them. I won’t admonish you further for your specific gutlessness toward me; whatever payoff you got from it, I won’t expend any further effort to understand.

So here’s a test for you now: Will you muster the fortitude and grace to take any of these thoughts to heart? To recognize and appreciate what underlies the effort behind them? Will you remain faithless and foolish, or make room in your life to let something happen that could be truly transcendent? Will you continue to accept clichés and cop-outs?

You, Matthew, are a person who is gifted, blessed and the beneficiary of many good things from those who genuinely hold you in high esteem. A person who desecrates those gifts and devalues the givers is a hollow and pitiable creature. I grieve for such a loss and I am truly sad for you.

You closed your letter to me by saying, “This is the best I can do.” It simply isn’t true. It signifies the depth of your distress but it needn’t be the last word. So I will close now as well. Despite my sorrow, I send you wishes for peace and wholeness – and the sincere hope that you will be as brave in your struggles as I know in my heart you can be.

Ally