sad nights followed by sunny mornings
some random thoughts about the london sun and knowing an old friend (or so i thought i did)
Whenever someone — usually a Brit — hears I am from California, I am always asked the same question: If you’re from California, then why the hell would you move to London?
On the days where it is cold, windy, and damp, which most days in London tend to be, I find myself wondering the same thing. But right now, as I wait for the train and bask in the morning sunlight — sporting my favorite pair of red gingham boxers, gripping my Jolene tote bag, and knowing that when I get to work I am going to buy an iced coffee and when I leave work it is still going to be light outside — I am reminded that the storm always passes. The sun is here, and hopefully, she is here to stay.
People in England carry an appreciation for the sun that I (and I think many others) tend to lack while living in a place like California. When I lived in Los Angeles, I hardly used its green spaces and I can count the amount of times I went to the beach on one hand. Maybe it’s because I was a college student confined to the bounds of USC’s campus, focused on graduating with the most accolades I could possibly achieve, or maybe it’s because I always told myself I would go to the beach, or sit in the park, and then I wouldn’t, but it’s okay because there’s always next weekend, and then the next, and then the one after, until suddenly I am packing my boxes into a rental van to move home and then a year later I am moving overseas to a city where parks are more than prevalent — beaches and sunshine, less-so. On a sunny day in London, I was at a park, talking about this with my friend Tara, who is also an American living here, and she sent me this poem afterwards:
I guess that’s how things always are; you never truly appreciate the presence of something until it is gone (or until it occurs in sparse, excessive bursts between the months of late May and September), but I do really think that moving to London has helped me understand the value of a sunny day. There is nothing better than hearing the birds chirp, seeing friends and families and dogs sprawled across each and every open green space, and hearing the commotion and laughter on the streets outside the living room window until the very last second of the day, right when the summer sun decides it is finally time to rest. Winter is depressing, yes, but there comes a moment where you stuff your puffer jacket and thermals and fuzzy socks into the suitcase under your bed and you can finally wear the red gingham boxers and the puffy white blouse that have been collecting dust in your drawers since last September. At least for now, it is bright outside, and I am content.
I am currently on the train, commuting to work, deflecting what I actually came here to write about by first writing about the sun shining. I forgot to wipe the smudges of my mascara from below my eyes that happens when I use my setting spray and I worry that if anyone looks too hard they will notice not only is my makeup smudged but my eyes are puffy because I was crying on and off for much of last night.
I am reconciling with the idea that we only know a person as much as we think we know a person. And it would be so nice to live in ignorance and remember the person as who we thought they were — the best friend who you supported for years, who invited you to assist with all of their creative projects because they knew you wanted to work in music, who bought a copy of all of your zines when they weren’t selling, who deemed you as their creative inspiration, who constantly reminded you to trust in yourself and your creativity, who ended each long phone conversation with ‘love you, bye,’ who laughed while you sat in the passenger seat of their sports car, waiting for them to ship a package at Fedex in east LA, and then the parking lot security guard demanded you move the car, so you slide from the passenger princess throne to the drivers seat of a 2012 Camaro with a modified engine and swerve into the gridlock traffic on Sunset, as they watch you from inside Fedex, smiling at the sight of a 22 year old Tatum driving a monster of a car, who you shared all these memories with and more — I so badly want to remember them as this person I have condensed into 166 words, and maybe I eventually will, but right now I am allowing myself to mourn the idea of who I thought this person was. The best friend that maybe-never-slightly-potentially was.
I hate that so many of my sentences start with the words I am about to type, but I saw a TikTok of a girl who’s Roman Empire is her best friend of 7+ years that randomly stopped talking to her one day, no explanation, no closure, no nothing. Gone with the wind, as if they were never friends to begin with. On one hand, I feel for this girl — I, too, have fallen victim to a friend (the aforementioned friend) deciding to remove themselves from my life on a random weekday in 2021, and after a year of begging on my knees for the tiniest ounce of closure, I stopped all efforts to — and on the other hand, I can place myself in the shoes of the this girl’s friend because I, too, have made the decision to stop talking to a friend before, but not without first letting them know that the friendship wasn’t serving me in the way I had once hoped, and wishing them the best.
Sometimes, we’ll never get answers, if we’re lucky, we do, and there comes a point where we have to stop searching for a reason and shift our energy into cherishing the friendships and people in our lives that fulfil us….
……which I had been doing for the last three years — quite successfully, might I add — up until last night. At 6PM, I received a series of things — things I will not say for my sake and your sake and the sake of others — which exposed the true character of my old friend. It sent me into a shock — seriously, I bursted out into tears and then sipped my water bottle and then choked on the water and then continued to cry some more — that someone I had admired with my whole heart, someone I held with the highest regards, could say and do and believe the things I saw. For as similar as I thought we were, I am now realizing we have always been so incredibly, fundamentally, entirely different people.
Although years have passed since the day my friend decided to exit my life, and at least two years have passed since I have actually formed a thought about them, I am suddenly feeling so sad for the girl I was at age 14. Knowing that this person I thought the world of actually went against each and every one of my core beliefs, behind closed doors. And knowing that, at 22, when I was visiting them in the city they lived in, and we were sharing a bed for the fifth night in a row, they only wanted one thing from me, and when I didn’t give it to them and felt somewhat confused and violated, it wasn’t worth continuing the friendship I thought we had up until that point.
I feel sorry for my younger self, how naive she was to believe in the very best of someone. But I am trying to remind myself what a gift it can be, and how lucky I am, to be someone who assumes the best in people. The name “Tatum” translates to “bringer of joy” and it is exactly what I try to do every day: I speak with a smile, much like my dad does, and oftentimes I am met with fulfilling interactions with strangers, friendships that fill my heart with happiness, and waking up on a Monday morning and being grateful for the sun shining through the window, the sound of the birds chirping, and the love and light I actively choose to bring into my life.
