Two Years Later

Today is December 30, 2011, and I’m at Hama in Boracay’s D’Mall. I just finished a big Japanese lunch with Inay, who’s now sitting to my right, reading a magazine over a watermelon shake. The sky is cloudless and the sun is out; luckily Inay and I got here early enough to grab a table under one of the restaurant’s ceiling fans. The restaurant is quite busy, even if it’s already 1:45 PM—late risers, I suppose, from partying the night before; or families who couldn’t pry their kids away from a golden morning on the beach.

Exactly two years ago—early afternoon in Boracay on December 30, 2009—the sun was shining just as brightly and the sky was just as cloudless, and I was also seated at a table in Hama below a ceiling fan, and had just finished lunch. Unlike today, though, the restaurant two years ago had much fewer diners; there were no magazines, and I had no laptop for blogging; and instead of sharing a table with Inay, I was alone with James.

And across the table from each other, with dry eyes and calm voices, we agreed to break up.

I don’t remember what exactly was said that afternoon. What I remember was that it culminated two weeks of not talking. More than that, that afternoon wrapped up a cumulative eight or so years of living together, and our 12 and a half year relationship.

“OMG, 12 and a half years!?!” is people’s inevitable reaction when I tell them how long James and I were together—which inevitably segues into admiration (“wow, that’s longer than some marriages”) and sympathy (“sayang naman”).

It was tempting for us to say “sayang” as well; with so few lasting relationships these days—gay relationships, especially—12 and a half years was an achievement. But we both acknowledged that there should be more to a relationship than the numbers game, and it would be pointless to rack up the years at the expense of growth, completeness, and joy. As a respected friend said: “Just because a relationship ends doesn’t mean it was bad; the quality of a relationship isn’t measured by how long it lasted, but by what it did for the people in it while it was going on.”

In a previous blog post, I described December 30, 2009 as “the day my 12-and-a-half-year relationship came to a screeching halt.” Looking back, it wasn’t as dramatic a halt as I once thought. In fact, the breakup had been years in the making. “People change” was one of the press releases James and I thought of when we finally agreed, three months later, to tell our friends about our breakup. Trite and vague and showbiz as it sounded, the fact is, we had changed. Over a span of 12 and a half years, how could anyone not? For one thing, in 2008, I significantly shortened our list of “quality-time-as a-couple” activities when I struck fast food, snacks, sweets, dessert and alcohol from my diet in my resolve to lose weight. Around the same time, his identity and sense of fun were starting to reshape themselves as he drew closer to and spent more time with a new set of friends which, for once, I wasn’t part of.

Moreover, over a decade into the relationship, we started to learn that we didn’t have as natural a dominant-submissive dynamic as we (and everyone else) thought; rather, it was becoming apparent that we were two very strong, very distinct personalities, with solid opinions on the same things—except one had to submit in the face of the other.

With these changes taking place, what once was a seemingly effortless submission was becoming less and less natural. As that happened, I resisted the autonomy and adventurousness he was starting to assert; and he began to resist the control I had always exercised on us both. Soon enough, we found ourselves becoming uncomfortable with each other, arguing more, having less in common, enjoying each other’s company less—so much so that it came to a point when each of us was no longer what the other needed at that point in our lives. In other words: it was time to stop just adding up the years.

As easy as it is to talk about in retrospect, figuring it out and coming to terms with it at the time was not straightforward in the least. It might have been easier if we hated each other, but we didn’t. We would often upset each other; we were unable to get along quite as well as before; there would be tears and heartache; but we never hated each other. All we knew was that we had to start untangling our interwoven lives—a task which, depending on the day, was one we wanted and didn’t want to do. So, after that day at Hama, we went from talking to not talking, to talking again; from promising to work things out to asking for more time; from becoming sentimental to making each other angry; until, four months after the breakup, we finally gathered up the courage and willpower to physically separate—and more than that, to rebuild our lives, now that the constant center of each of our lives for the past 12 years and for the futures we had envisioned for ourselves, was no more.

Needless to say, it took both of us several months to each tell ourselves, “We’re okay.”

So how come we’re okay? And, how come James and I are still friends? These are people’s standard next questions, following the mix of admiration and sympathy stemming from the 12-and-a-half year figure. Whenever I’m asked this, I always clarify—we're not friends, we're good friends. And that’s not just me talking—with neither malice or hidden meanings, James and I have both told each other how grateful we are to still be one of each other’s dearest friends.

James and I occasionally text each other, and have even met up for coffee a few times since the breakup. We become extremely proud of each other’s successes, and wildly happy at good news for each other’s futures. We’ve let go of our resentments, forgiven each other’s faults, forgotten who's to blame for what, and are able to laugh at everything that transpired, the way we were always able to. So, for those who click their tongues at the “sayang" 12 and a half years—well, though the romance is no longer there, the mutual concern and depth of understanding each other, built over 12 and a half years, lingers on in our being friends.

So today, two years later, I have no regrets. (Neither does James, as he told me some months back.) There’s no reason, after all, to regret our time together—surviving two years of long distance, building a home, traveling around Asia, making music, becoming a part of each other’s families, being there for each other through highs and lows, me learning to be more easygoing and spontaneous, and him being exposed to different cultures and cuisines. Neither is there a reason to regret what has become of us since we called it quits—his career taking off, and being able to build his own home without me stifling his design sense; and my writing some of my best music ever, and finally having the freedom, clarity and courage to set off for Berklee; and both of us now each being in our own new relationships, ready to share our lives once more, and guided by relationship wisdom gathered over 12 and a half years.

Today is my first time back at Hama since the breakup. One would think I’m back here to confront and conquer my demons from two years ago. But there are no demons to conquer. On the contrary, I’m actually grateful for that day. In hindsight, had we not decided to part that day, our relationship would have likely gone so rancid that we would not, could not even be friends now. As messy and ugly as things got back then, the clarity gained over two years tells me it was for the better. Inay would say, “it’s very Hollywood”—but yes, we’ve embraced the fact that we make better friends than lovers.

James and I have a pair of photos from June 1997, in which we shot each other from opposite ends of a see-saw: first, I went up in the air, and he shot me; then, he handed me the camera, he went up in the air, and I shot him. Given the strong and conflicting personalities we both turned out to have, I realize now that our relationship was a lot like that see-saw ride: always one up, one down, never in the same place. But now, with no more beam joining our seats, we’re able to move as we please, and for sure both of us are now up—and without a beam keeping us apart, we’re able to meet in the middle, in a better way than we were able to before.

How’s that for a metaphor.

Two years later—thanks for everything James, and good luck. See you around, my friend.