Starry-Eyed and Gravely Discontented

8 min. read

There are troubles without and troubles within.

Following the circumstances surrounding the end of my previous contract, I continue to feel the effects on my well-being. In late February I see a GP, who in turn refers me to a therapist. Both listen with compassion and neither dismisses my concerns. The doctor signs me off on medical leave for a limited period. The therapist, Gerard, practising just a stone’s throw from my flat, happens to be a Man of Faith. He encourages me to lean on mine. Our session is in French. I can get my point across well enough. However, if I want to speak with more nuance and from the heart about my emotional state, I function much better in English. Gerard is sympathetic, as he is to me wanting to find a more culturally-appropriate therapist. I nevertheless don’t rule out seeing him again. Empathy is key to effective therapy and Gerard has plenty.

It’s on Lorenzo’s advice that I see the doctor in the first instance. It didn’t occur to me that I could obtain help for work-related problems whilst I’m in between jobs. I therefore have my Italian friend to thank for this intervention.

blackhistorymonth.be

Alas, things are otherwise not so simple for us. There are more misunderstandings, including a sharp disagreement by email. I am especially fragile these days and it’s likely I’ve overreacted. Lorenzo and I patch up our differences enough to agree to meet for one of Brussels' inaugural March 2022 Black History Month events in the City Centre.

The theme of the discussion turns around the Ecological crisis from various points of view, including Black Ecofeminism. The event is marred by an obnoxious moderator. Priding themselves on their non-binary gender identity, they are a self-obsessed walking identity politics Gen-Z cliché. They make it very clear that White participants are not welcome in the space. This puts Lorenzo on edge. He’s not the only one. 

 Before the panel discussion and during the break, Renzo and I catch up on each other’s news. He’s getting back on his feet, ready to return to work. Just a month ago that wasn’t the case. The conversation inevitably turns to the recent problems we’ve been experiencing. For me, nothing fundamental has changed. I am not blind to a rather drastic dip in our rapport but any close friendship will have its issues. It's not insurmountable. I still love my friend and am invested in our relationship. 

Our chat nevertheless takes an unexpected turn. Or maybe not so unexpected. A week before this fateful encounter, I presciently watch a sermon on knowing when to let someone go.

The writing has been on the wall for some time. I just didn’t really believe– or want to believe- that the sharp decline in relations was that serious. Lorenzo confirms my suspicions that he’s been keeping me at arm’s length. It's felt like hard work maintaining his interest, because it is. He says I'm too demanding of his time and emotional energy of late. It’s not unconnected to my recent work troubles. He’s tried to be supportive but finds it increasingly difficult to be present. He claims I am angrier these days and it's made him uneasy...

There’s no point rehearsing the whole back-and-forth here.  Suffice to say it feels like a break-up. In the days to come, I’ll mourn it as such. I’ve had good friendships come to a formal end before, but not quite like this. I've experienced a Big Drift over time but not overnight.

It's less than a year since Lorenzo and I became acquainted thanks to a mutual friend. After a good run, maybe too good, he is visibly now less enthusiastic about the friendship. I almost don’t recognise this person. I remember the conscientious and attentive friend. The same friend who wasn’t in such a hurry to leave when we’d spend even more time together than we have recently. The one who would send thoughtful text messages when either of us went on holiday. Renzo, the sensitive soul, so caring and self-aware that he would pick up on supposed slights before I did – if at all. Who would seem genuinely pleased to see me, regard me with tenderness and be regularly affirming without being asked...

...Of course, we’ll stay in touch... This is just a beautiful challenge, navigating a new phase of our friendship…

(dreamstime.com)

No doubt, Renzo wants to believe in what he’s saying. I, on the other hand, am not so certain. He’s moved on. If in theory we’re still friends, in practice it feels as if something has been irretrievably lost.

Of course, there are two sides to a story. Lorenzo will have his own take. Mine is filtered through the lens of my hurt.

By the time Renzo is ready to go home, frustrated by  the arc of the conversation as well as the BHM event itself, he's brittle and impatient. He stands abruptly to leave, not before glancing down to see me looking crestfallen. For the first time, he says he loves me too. I give a rueful smile. Incredulous, even. His actions have never been further from these words.

In any other circumstance they would be reassuring to hear. I can't truly know his motives but presently, it comes across as one of only two things. Either: acknowledging I'm upset, in a last ditch attempt to salvage the situation, he tells me something he thinks I want to hear. Or, more cynically, it's an ace to be played by the emotionally-withholding.

Distraught? It's not the word. Everywhere, across Brussels there are sudden and unwanted reminders of our friendship. The beautiful Italian language, heard often in this international city, is now sad to my ears. I think of how well things were going until a few short months ago and I'm perplexed.

I understand there's no malice aforethought on Renzo’s part. I value the honesty. It's a conversation we needed to have. His intent wasn’t to be unkind or abandon the friendship at a moment when it means all the more. Yet if the outcome is the same, it might as well not matter. My legal training taught me that the only thing distinguishing murder from manslaughter is the mens rea. The actus reus remains a cold hard fact. A perpetrator and a lifeless body.

Mine and Renzo’s friendship, much like my former job, was symbolic of so much. Fresh beginnings and new chapters. Auspicious signs of a turnaround in what was a rocky start to my Belgian adventure. Such a pure friendship - particularly with a man -is a rare find in my experience, not to be taken lightly.  I believed - maybe naively- that being close friends with a gay man, we were sheltered from the usual gendered power dynamics and unnecessary drama.

I’m confused and question everything.

As much as I endeavour to avoid finding a meaning or reason for what has happened, my mind strays there. It’s instinctive to want to draw a lesson to avoid a ‘same script, different cast’ scenario in future.

My sister warns against vilifying Renzo. People change their minds, she says, we have that right. Nobody is necessarily to blame. I appreciate the wisdom in this, even if it doesn’t always ring true.

Over time, the intense shock and sorrow over the perceived rupture subsides to a dull, if persistent, ache. There is a bitter-sweet relief to knowing I wasn’t simply being paranoid. Renzo has been pulling away. I can now liberate some of the headspace and free time I’d become accustomed to reserving for him and spread them more evenly amongst other friendships; present and future.

Just over a week after our fraught conversation, Renzo sends me an unexpected email. He's saddened by the state of affairs. He hopes we can find a healthy new equilibrium, although neither of us knows what that looks like right now. 

Meanwhile, I need to take each day as it comes. The continuous early Spring sunshine -atypical for this part of the world - certainly helps. After a few false starts, I join a local gym and throw myself into  fitness classes. 

 I sign up for a number of other BHM activities. On World Women’s Day I attend an international panel discussion on black women’s experiences in the music industry. 

Malcom Ferdinand (courtesy of Outremer le 1ere)

The day after the infamous meet-up with Renzo, I am in the audience for a conversation with academic and author of Decolonial Ecology-Perspectives on Ecology from the Caribbean World, Malcom Ferdinand. I am already impressed by Ferdinand based on his contributions at the event the previous evening; one of the few highlights amongst a mixed bag. A graduate of UCL, he’s equally eloquent in French and English. 

He speaks for instance, of how the Maroons weren't just revolutionary in their resistance to slavery, but in their relationship with the land once they took back their freedom. It was a far cry from the exploitative practices on the plantations they'd escaped.

I intend to add the original French language version of his book to my wishlist. 

Sitting in that intimate Afro-bookshop space in Matongé, sunlight streaming through and surrounded by stimulating discourse, I can temporarily park my emotional woes. And yes, it doesn’t hurt that Malcom is a stunning specimen of a man. A tall, athletic Martinican Malcolm X with dreads. I admire his intellect and beauty from a safe distance.

A few days later I attend the final performance of a play riffing off my old A-level study text; Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolfe? Some of the French dialogue and witticisms are too rapid fire for me but I catch much of the gist. There are thought-provoking and controversial polemics around privilege, race, migration and gender relations. 

Earlier that afternoon, I join the fun and frolics organised for the 35+ singles at FWM. It’s supposed to be a celebratory multicultural event but I’m one of the few who makes an effort. From memory, I prepare some specially-seasoned gizzard based on a recipe my mum and her mother before her would make. It goes down a treat, even if I don’t get to enjoy it. This Lent I’ve given up meat, amongst other things.

The following day, after church, I spend a substantial part of my afternoon and evening watching Ryûsuke Hamaguchi’s wistful epic Drive My Car; based on Haruki Murakami’s short story of the same name. Its gentle melancholia is apt for my mood, livening up what would have otherwise been another lonely Sunday night.

Soundtrack: Starfruit by Moonchild, So Far to Go by Cabu, Cure the Jones by Mamas Gun.