i could
i never knew myself until i sat alone in a theater for the first time.
i could say that i never knew true heartbreak until i stood outside the Roxy Cinema in Burlington, VT, sobbing because they were no longer showing American Honey (2016, dir. Andrea Arnold) despite it being Thursday and that there should have been one more showing. you told me to stand outside and wait while you asked the guy i would sit next to in my gender in japan class two years later about what happened. he would hand you the poster, wrapping it in a plastic trash bag because it had started to snow out. it was sleeting, snowing, raining, whatever you wanted to call it because Vermont weather can never make up its mind. you thought i was sad about the movie leaving the cinema but i was sadder because you never took my passion for film as seriously as you took your own, but i was too dumb to say that because i didn’t know the words. we walked up the steep hill to my residence hall in silence, tears still falling down my face, but you couldn’t tell. you thought it was just the snow.
i could say that i knew you didn’t love me any more by the time our one year anniversary rolled around, where we ate lunch at A Single Pebble and i got the tangerine chicken and you got noodles and you got mad when i asked to share our dishes with each other despite me knowing you love the tangerine chicken because we had it when we went out for our six month anniversary. after we ate lunch we went to a matinee of Lady Macbeth (2017, dir. William Oldroyd) and i watched the screen in awe of Florence Pugh’s performance, unaware that in two years she would give the most therapeutic performance of a gas-lit woman in a broken relationship that i’ve ever seen, but all you could do was yell at me about how bad the film was when we sat in city hall park. city hall park doesn’t exist as it did in that moment, and i’ve never been so fucking thankful to see benches ripped out of the ground and the dirt piles stack up then i have been seeing that park. we sat across from a bench of junkies, where you tried to tell me all of my opinions were wrong and then expected me to go home with you but i had no choice but to go home with you. it was that or sleep on the streets of Burlington because i couldn’t ask my mom to come to get me even though i wanted to. an hour after we left, a homeless man was stabbed in the same park.
i could say that i should have left you when you lay in bed next to me at 2 A.M. after seeing Thelma (2017, dir. Joachim Trier) at the Vermont International Film Festival, when you told me you cheated on me and that you didn’t love me anymore because i wasn’t the same person i was when you met me over a year ago, and i had a different voice now. the girl you cheated on me with would join the professional writing program at Champlain the next year and become one of my best friends after we met in writing portfolio, but you would only find that out through her, where she would subsequently block you everywhere. in reality, i had just learned how to speak my mind and yell louder than you when you wanted to put me in my place and you didn’t like me feeling as if i had power. instead of kicking you out, i lay awake until you snored so loud i almost smothered you with a pillow but instead pushed you until you woke up and kicked you off to the floor, wanting nothing more than to never see you again. but i was scared to be alone and be without someone who had to pretend to love me at least.
i could say that you were emotionally abusive after we saw Lady Bird (2017, dir. Greta Gerwig) and you spent the next month texting me about every little issue you could find with it all just because it was my favorite movie, and maybe even the movie that moved me the most in the history of cinema, and it made you angry that i found something i loved. you told me you would never watch it again and that if i ever wanted to see it again, i had to watch it by myself because you have no energy for films made by white women anymore. your words tore into me and it made me never want to chase my dreams because of the hate in your heart.
i could say that i hated you after i watched Good Time (2017, dir. Josh and Benny Safdie) and plastered my hate for it everywhere on the internet, despite actually loving it underneath my analysis of it as a film that you loved so i had to hate it like you did with all the movies i watched. because the truth is, i love the Safdie Brothers, and i always had, but i let your own love for them overtake me. i was a monster and i felt like i had lost control of everything and if i told you i loved it all you would say is “i was right and you were wrong” and i couldn’t lose control of that.
i could say that i realized i needed to be the one who left you after i saw Lady Bird (2017, dir. Greta Gerwig) by myself in January 2018. it only took a few words from a nun of all people to make me realize this: don’t you think they are maybe the same thing? love and attention? how could someone love you if they didn’t bother to pay attention anymore? how could i love someone who would rather tear me down and tear down everything i love than actually support my dreams? but i was still too scared to leave you because the future without you was uncertain and i’ve never been a fan of uncertain things. but i guess nobody is.
i could say that there was a lot more than you not being able to come over and watch the 2018 Academy Awards with me that first weekend in March that caused me to leave you finally, but in reality, i just snapped. you pulled the mental rope too thin and i was fraying because you can only pull a person so thin before they are no longer whole. it takes approximately 18 months for someone to become whole after a break-up, but i didn’t know that at the time. i found myself typing the words to you over Facebook messenger and i let you manipulate me into being friends because i felt bad even though you dangled the threat of a break-up over my head for months, like how you dangle a feathery toy above a cat because you want them to be reliant on you to always be there to play with. when i watched the award show and saw the fifth woman ever nominated for best director lose, you messaged me with happiness for the real winner, unaware of the tears streaming down my face.
i could say that i should have fully cut you off when you bought me Lady Bird (2017, dir. Greta Gerwig) for my birthday when i said it was all i wanted to watch. you bought it because you knew it was my favorite but you know the hurt you injected into me when you would spew your words against it, and it almost feels like this was a power play against me to get me to hate it forever. there were months where i couldn’t watch it anymore without feeling sad. there were months where i hated Greta Gerwig for making this movie. there were months where all i wanted to do was hug my mom and cry but she never knew all you did to me and i don’t think she ever will because i can’t cry in front of my own parents.
i could say that i never knew myself until i sat down in a movie theater by myself for the first time, the first time where i felt completely alone in all aspects when i went to go see Gemini (2018, dir. Aaron Katz). i was alone in the theater. i was alone in my mind. i was alone because i had no friends. i was alone because i finally chose to be all alone and having the freedom of choice felt like the best thing i had ever done. there is something about sitting in a movie theater seat when you’re sad and letting the screen drown your face in color as if nothing is wrong. the feeling of loneliness that you can feel in a theater even surrounded by strangers. i was addicted to it. it was the only thing that made me feel safe.
i could say that i made more favorite movie memories with my roommates at the movie theaters than i ever made when i was with you.
i could say that there is no better roommate bonding experience than going to see Eighth Grade (2018, dir. Bo Burnham) at 10 A.M. and collectively cringing together because we all lived through the awkward middle school phase just like the main character and that we had just moved into what felt like our first adult apartment even though it was still just through school housing. on our walk back from the theater, we discussed our favorite parts of it and nobody insulted the other person’s opinions and it was the first time in a long time that i got to experience that feeling and nothing could stop how much that meant to me.
i could say that when i went and did a double feature of Beautiful Boy (2018, dir. Felix Van Groeningen) and Boy Erased (2018, dir. Joel Edgerton) with my then best friend/roommate that we called the Beautiful Boy Erased marathon in our excitement for both films was the most fulfilling disappointing cinematic experience i had with another person. we laughed about our pain surrounding both films and how both of them could’ve done so much better, about how anger-inducing the gay representation in Boy Erased was. we ranted about that for two hours after the movie was over. i thought i had erased you, but all that crept up in my thoughts was what you would’ve thought. i hated them, so you probably loved them. that’s how it works.
i could say that i finally kicked the hold that you had on me when i finally watched Phantom Thread (2017, dir. Paul Thomas Anderson) because a different boy talked me into it and i trusted him more in two months than i could trust you in our 18-month long relationship. i watched it and i cried and shook because that film was what it felt like to finally come to terms with your abusiveness and to finally break free from you because i couldn’t baby you anymore when you were a year older than me. i am not a mother to the boys i love because i can’t even take care of myself. i am coming first now.
i could say that i was healing when i found myself going to the movies at 9 p.m. by myself whenever i felt sad, surrounded by strangers when i went to go see A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood (2019, dir. Marielle Heller). the boy i was talking to said my new nail color was ugly and i had a bag full of homemade trail mix stowed away in my yellow backpack and i walked to the theater in less than five minutes, feeling the cold November breeze on my face. the person i liked the summer after you sat a few rows in front of me, and i was able to cry tears for the first time since starting my new antidepressant because of how calming Tom Hanks’ voice was as Mister Rogers.
i could say that i never felt more excited for a movie than i did when i watched Uncut Gems (2019, dir. Josh and Benny Safdie) for the first time in a classroom next to my new friends who were just as excited. the air was electric the entire time and i texted my friend Lars under the table despite him sitting across the room from me but it took me almost an hour to even notice he texted me because all i could focus on was the screen in front of me and my professor rolling out of the room because she had never seen something so anxiety-inducing before. my friend sent shivers down my spine as he whispered his thoughts into my ear throughout the movie, and it made my skin feel alive.
i could say that i fell in love with movies again when i found myself constantly rewatching Uncut Gems (2019, dir. Josh and Benny Safdie) because you weren’t there to insult every aspect of exactly why it’s my favorite movie.
i could say that i found joy in going to a theater with friends again when i would take them to go see it, watching their response to the ending with bated breath because i knew what was coming but nobody surrounding me did, the theater was full and i couldn’t help but put my head in my hands and let a few tears escape from my eyes because despite everyone being unlikable, i was growing attached to the characters.
i could say that i started to love life again when i became enthralled with the filmmaking behind Gems, when i realized i loved it because i’m just as sad and messed up as any character in that movie and that it wasn’t a bad thing. when i realized that it was a movie that felt almost made for me. when i watched an interview where Josh Safdie said “well, they’re all uncut gems in their own way. they all have their own issues but they’re so beautiful,” i felt as whole as the black opal in the film.
i guess this is a goodbye to you. i don’t think about you anymore and i don’t want to think about you anymore and if i ever ran into you again like i did at the Amtrak station, i won’t look away. i’ll stare you dead in the eyes because i’m not just intimidating, i’m powerful and that’s what scares you. you don’t scare me anymore.
nothing scares me anymore after writing this.
Heaven Collins is a future Academy Award-winning screenwriter, at least in her wildest dreams. She's currently finishing up her senior year at Champlain College, where she spent the last four years pouring her soul out via her laptop keyboard and Google Documents. Her previous publications include Genre: Urban Arts issues 4, 5, 6, and 8