**This is the disclaimer. Below, though true, contains some graphic language and adult content. If you don’t want to read it, stop now, leave this blog, and find your happy place.**
Tonight is Sunday. So that means I picked up my children from their visitation weekend with their father. My ex has remarried, and if you go back and read other posts to this blog, it describes for you my feelings about the relationship, the breakup, and where I am now, so that won’t be covered here. What I am telling you about is my ex-husband’s wife, and the feelings I have about her, as they relate to my former relationship, and what, if there was a wish I had for her, I would tell her.
She came up to me tonight with one word. Sorry. I have heard this word out of her mouth before, and like before I started to ignore it. Two years ago she had called me a fucking cunt in front of my children in a public tirade directed at me while her whole family watched, and followed it up with a cruel email to me sent from my ex’s email account telling me that I deserved to have my first son die. Not her shining moment, and actually sealed my view of her as vile pretty solidly for all eternity. Having heard her call me a bitch several times since, call my daughter a bitch (just like her mom), and be nasty mean to my son, I am not really convinced of her repentance, and the apologies that have come since then are moot and unbelieved. Tonight, I told her exactly why she would always be vile to me, actually even using the word “vile” to describe her to her face, for having pushed the only two buttons I had, so completely, that there really was no hope of her recovery from that, apology and forgiveness or not.
But I also starting thinking about how trapped and desperate she might be to still be apologizing to me. It has to be coming from my ex, who has previously blamed his and my inability to communicate on my unwillingness to interact with his wife. He blamed her for causing the problem to begin with. Whatever, he is delusional. No, not enough to feel sorry for her, but just enough for me to understand where she probably is in her relationship with my ex at this point, if history and timing follow similar patterns.
She is just over 4 years into her relationship with him. At the four-year mark, I had a baby. A not quite one-year-old amazing daughter who laughed and could make you smile any time. I was breast-feeding still, and she didn’t sleep much, but my ex and I had started to return our sex life back to normal.
Normal for us though had been a minimum of daily, and usually twice or more most days. Our sex was often one sided, with him achieving orgasm much more often than I did, and was consistently rough and demanding, wherever in the house we happened to be. I am not a prude, or even afraid to admit that I enjoy frequent and sometimes rough sex. I also like a balance, and that was most often achieved in the middle of the night with quiet, gentler sex where I could get off more slowly, or felt okay to use one of the toys we owned on myself once he fell back to sleep. So the rougher daily sex was a mental compromise.
This was also the point in our relationship where large amounts of pornography entered our world. I always knew my ex liked porn. He showed it to me periodically, still photography pictures of women and men, fucking, using toys, whatever. I knew he viewed more that he didn’t show me, and never really questioned it, thinking to myself that if it turned him on and I was getting off, no big deal, right? I was delusional and very codependent, with his alcoholism, his physical needs of both sex and housewife duties, his complete dislike for being a father when it interfered with my ability to take care of him, and with the verbal and emotional abuse from him that went with my own sick need to want to please him. Ignoring some photos in the face of all that was actually pretty easy.
Back to the pornography. He had been drinking one night, not unusual, and wanted sex. My daughter had miraculously fallen asleep before nine, and he and I were messing around on the computer, sending each other horny instant messages from keyboards that were literally two feet away from each other, while also surfing the internet and reading emails. He sent me a “come sit on my lap” type message, probably with the words fuck and slut in the text, and I went over and did what he asked. He was in his office chair, and I had removed the bottom half of my clothing enroute (the two whole feet away) and sat down, letting him penetrate me as I faced away from him. I was enjoying the position, and was feeling the momentum, when he reached around me to the computer and showed me a close up of a woman’s vagina with what looked like a shiny metal dildo sticking out from where her pretty manicured nails had her spread apart. As our sex got more intense, he zoomed out of the picture, slowly, one small step at a time, until finally, at his own climax, he was zoomed all the way out. The shiny metal object wasn’t a dildo after all. It was the barrel of a gun.
He held me there until I climaxed and I knew, without a doubt, that the pornography had crossed over. This was no longer about sex and excitement, this was about total and complete control. That was what excited him, and I was expected to comply. And in my sick little world, I did. I wanted him so badly, wanted my family to work so badly, wanted to feel loved so badly, that the verbal, and now emotional abuse, seemed normal.
The pornography got much worse after that, with periods where even he knew it was sick and over the top, and would stop. These were usually during his brief periods of sobriety, but even then I never again was placed in a position of shock like that first time. I was easily able to divert it to other sex or other positions so that I did not have to participate in the viewing. I could simply ignore it. And I did ignore it, letting myself believe that if I wasn’t watching it, it wasn’t really happening. I didn’t pay any attention that it was really twisted behavior about power.
So what does that have to do with my ex’s current wife? Maybe nothing. Maybe just my remembrance of where I was, and my gratitude to not be there now, and knowledge that I will never be there again with him or anyone else for that matter. But maybe it was her under-her-breath comment after I had just told her that she was vile when she said, in a voice not meant for me to hear, “You have no idea.”
The woman-I-used-to-be heard her and projected that maybe she was lost inside the relationship just like I was. Just like his first ex-wife was. There is a small part of me that wishes I cared about her at all, in that woman-to-woman way, so I could warn her, maybe. Or maybe not. I can’t judge their relationship, and don’t want to try. I am just planning on going back to ignoring her, and healing myself. I hope I am wrong, and that the fucked up stuff isn’t happening to her and she really is just a mean fucking bitch. And I hope that if it is, she gets out. I can’t help her, and I won’t, because I can only save myself. And I honestly don’t like her enough do anything about it. But I hope she realizes that apologizing any more won’t change anything about my past, or her future, and that I do have some idea, I heard her, even if I don’t ever show it. Power and control under the roof of sick men is like that, and figures out, if she need to, that she doesn’t need to have a gun sticking out of her vagina before knowing things are seriously wrong. No apology required.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Along for the ride.
I love amusement parks. Well, I love everything except the lines. And the price. And the stupid people who push scared kids on rides, and then get mad at them when the puke. And terrible food. And not enough bathrooms. Okay, I hate amusement parks. I love scary rides.
I had a conversation yesterday with a friend about their love of a particular southern California amusement park, and why I didn’t like it. I mean, I love the rides, just not everything else. Even the joy that kids feel in that kind of magical place doesn’t outweigh my total dislike for spending that much money to be commercially ignored.
But that is not what I am writing about though. What I have spinning in my head is why I like scary rides, and which amusement things I don’t like at all.
Roller coasters: love. The anticipation on the way up, the initial heart-in-your-throat drop, the coasting through twists and turns, ups and downs, all are perfect in my world. It is like falling in love. And even though you have to get off, maybe head over to the slow moving train, or get sucked into thinking the bumper cars might not be so bad, the smile that I feel after being on the roller coaster sticks with me. It might even blind me to the crap I am about to get into, but the initial ride is always amazing.
High Drop Rides: love. The closed space, the strapped in, the freefall, the speed, the take your breath away moment of total terror, it is heaven. It is a journey into the unknown, the drop off the edge risky part of life. So many people won’t go on these rides because the fall scares the fuck out of them. They have no idea what they are missing, because these rides, even though they are petrifying, are usually the best views, from the highest points, and unless you are there, you never see them. Okay, so even the thought of the fall can be a little overwhelming, but what an experience.
Whirl and hurls: love. These rides start slow, build momentum, and become crazy and fun, and mellow out as you adapt to them. Some even let you control the spin, with ways to tilt and lean, and you get to make the ride totally your own. If you get in a car with someone you like, you can get them to lean with you. Okay, so sometimes they take control and move against you, or complain that the way you are doing it makes them feel sick and would you please stop, or sometimes they vomit on your shoes, but mostly, you get to have a ride that leaves you laughing and a little buzzed, and happy.
Mirror mazes and “fun houses”: fucking hate them. This is the only “scary” amusement I stay the hell away from. Walls in your way, running into cleverly disguised posts that should have been doors, seeing yourself in broken pieces of warped mirrors that have handprints and snot on them, not being able to get the fuck off when you are done, yeah, that sucks ass. I have zero interest in this kind of scary. It is too much like real life, and unlike the other rides I mentioned, there is no fucking time limit on how long the nightmare is going to last. You can wander around fruitlessly for hours, days, weeks. It is terrifying, and there is no way out. Others are getting out, why the hell can’t you? That laughing they are doing just sounds demented, and very very far away. I am sure it is really sadistic clowns just waiting to jump out at me and eat my face. I see only half images, and dark spaces, and wobbly floors, and flickery yellow lights, with no fucking end in sight. It bites.
I guess that makes me sound schizophrenic, but not really. I want all the thrill, and a way to know that the thrill will have a safe conclusion, and not stuck to figure it out alone. After a scary ride that I love, the happy little boat ride sounds fine because it is just a way to reflect on the awesomeness that just happened, and plan the next ride. The fucking maze, if I ever get out of, just makes me tired, and want to sit on the bench and cry. Fuck the exciting rides too, I just wanna go home. So if you are reading this, please help me talk my way out of the maze if you see me in there. Come in and hold my hand, and then come ride the double-out-and-back with me. I promise not to puke on your shoes.
I had a conversation yesterday with a friend about their love of a particular southern California amusement park, and why I didn’t like it. I mean, I love the rides, just not everything else. Even the joy that kids feel in that kind of magical place doesn’t outweigh my total dislike for spending that much money to be commercially ignored.
But that is not what I am writing about though. What I have spinning in my head is why I like scary rides, and which amusement things I don’t like at all.
Roller coasters: love. The anticipation on the way up, the initial heart-in-your-throat drop, the coasting through twists and turns, ups and downs, all are perfect in my world. It is like falling in love. And even though you have to get off, maybe head over to the slow moving train, or get sucked into thinking the bumper cars might not be so bad, the smile that I feel after being on the roller coaster sticks with me. It might even blind me to the crap I am about to get into, but the initial ride is always amazing.
High Drop Rides: love. The closed space, the strapped in, the freefall, the speed, the take your breath away moment of total terror, it is heaven. It is a journey into the unknown, the drop off the edge risky part of life. So many people won’t go on these rides because the fall scares the fuck out of them. They have no idea what they are missing, because these rides, even though they are petrifying, are usually the best views, from the highest points, and unless you are there, you never see them. Okay, so even the thought of the fall can be a little overwhelming, but what an experience.
Whirl and hurls: love. These rides start slow, build momentum, and become crazy and fun, and mellow out as you adapt to them. Some even let you control the spin, with ways to tilt and lean, and you get to make the ride totally your own. If you get in a car with someone you like, you can get them to lean with you. Okay, so sometimes they take control and move against you, or complain that the way you are doing it makes them feel sick and would you please stop, or sometimes they vomit on your shoes, but mostly, you get to have a ride that leaves you laughing and a little buzzed, and happy.
Mirror mazes and “fun houses”: fucking hate them. This is the only “scary” amusement I stay the hell away from. Walls in your way, running into cleverly disguised posts that should have been doors, seeing yourself in broken pieces of warped mirrors that have handprints and snot on them, not being able to get the fuck off when you are done, yeah, that sucks ass. I have zero interest in this kind of scary. It is too much like real life, and unlike the other rides I mentioned, there is no fucking time limit on how long the nightmare is going to last. You can wander around fruitlessly for hours, days, weeks. It is terrifying, and there is no way out. Others are getting out, why the hell can’t you? That laughing they are doing just sounds demented, and very very far away. I am sure it is really sadistic clowns just waiting to jump out at me and eat my face. I see only half images, and dark spaces, and wobbly floors, and flickery yellow lights, with no fucking end in sight. It bites.
I guess that makes me sound schizophrenic, but not really. I want all the thrill, and a way to know that the thrill will have a safe conclusion, and not stuck to figure it out alone. After a scary ride that I love, the happy little boat ride sounds fine because it is just a way to reflect on the awesomeness that just happened, and plan the next ride. The fucking maze, if I ever get out of, just makes me tired, and want to sit on the bench and cry. Fuck the exciting rides too, I just wanna go home. So if you are reading this, please help me talk my way out of the maze if you see me in there. Come in and hold my hand, and then come ride the double-out-and-back with me. I promise not to puke on your shoes.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
And kissing. Definitely kissing.
I know I haven’t met you yet. At least I don’t think so. But this letter should help you with some of the things I am growing to expect. Expect from you, and expect from myself.
I am a real woman. I am an adult, which means I have a history. And since I don’t expect you to be fresh from the womb, I am going to grant that you have a history, too. This does not mean baggage. It means you have done some things and I have done some things. We have grown up. I am happy to hear about them, and will tell you my stories, probably over a drink or two (or a blog or two, whichever) but I don’t let them define me in the present. At least I try not to. It is a work in progress. I don’t regret them, because they got me here. Unless your history makes me nauseous, I have already decided to not worry about where you have been. Not like I could change it even if I wanted to, so let’s move on.
Although, I have done some things that might shock you. But if I hadn’t, I would think I was boring.
And I am not boring. You might not be able to tell, because I tend to diappear behind dark clothes, and no make up. There have been times when I didn’t shave those parts that some men have come to expect to be shaved, but I am over that. Not the no shaving part, I still rarely do it, I just don’t care if you expect it. I always shower. I always brush my teeth, but still have morning breath sometimes, and will not really want to kiss until there has been some minty thing involved. This is not boring. This is hygiene. I expect both of us to have the basics down by now. I think someone along the way taught you to do your laundry. Wear clean clothes, even if they are not the most exciting. I hope to spend time with you not worrying about boring clothing.
Speaking of kissing, it is the one sure-fire way to turn me on. Yes, my clitoris is important, so please don’t allow your tongue to neglect it, but if you skip the kissing, I might not care what my other body parts are doing. Come to think of it, I might forget about them at all as it relates to you and just take care if it alone . Kissing is the one thing I can’t do to myself. But if watching me take care of myself turns you on, I am all for it. After we have made out on the couch, that is.
As a matter of fact, I am open to just about anything that we could enjoy. I have a list. I have probably already done most of them at least once. I still own some of the equipment. I won’t even discuss some of the really, um, “non-mainstream” (read that as disgusting) acts, so if that is your thing, we should split up now. No judgment, I assure you, but if they don’t turn me on, you and I will both be happier now if you just went ahead and found someone else to enjoy them with. Some other things have been eliminated as “never trying again”, sorry, because they involve pain. I don’t mean the fun kind of pain from play that involves rough sex, or spanking, or even denial of an orgasm as a form of control, but the actual pain that would involve blood, or stitches, or bruising. Play-pain, good. Emergency-room-at-3am-pain, bad.
This isn’t just a rule when it comes to sex, either. Any form of physical pain that is inflicted on purpose is not the best choice. I have been hit before (remember that history thing) and I didn’t like it. I have one scar from it. I was hit just the once, in the face, with the receiver of an old house phone, grabbed out of my hand because the guy thought I was ignoring him when I answered it. The flowers he sent the day after as an apology broke the paper shredder I used to destroy them, and probably ruined his car’s intake manifold from where I dumped them, but I wouldn’t know since I never spoke to him again. I guess the note I left on his windshield telling him I would call the police and show them the cut went well with the shredded roses. Don’t be that guy. I won’t be that girl. I won’t hit in anger or to inflict pain, because that is just worthless behavior. And I really like roses, and prefer to keep them. I like tea roses the color of apricots. They look very pretty in a vase next to purple irises.
But, you don’t have to bring me flowers. I mean, they are nice. I won’t turn them down, and might even thank you with a blowjob, but if you are going to spend money, can you pay my property tax instead? My water bill or electricity bill would be good, too, since I suspect that you and I might be showering together and watching movies together at my house. Contributions are welcome.
Money, however, is not important, unless you don’t have any. I work for mine. I have a full-time job. I spend my money wisely, and splurge when I want to on things that make me happy. I hope you do the same. If one of those things is you, and one of your things is me, then we can call it a draw. If you ask me, even once, to buy your drugs, pay your back due child support, or fund your girlfriend’s abortion, you can be fairly sure the answer is no. Having a job or a way to support yourself makes you sexier. Sexy is good.
It is not the only thing that makes you sexy, though. Supporting my choices is higher on the list. I don’t regret my choices along the way that were mine to make. I have had sex with whom I wanted when it was a choice I could make. I have participated in parties and multiple partner adventures, and public displays. I have always been disgustingly safe (condoms are your friend) and know I have never done anything that put my health in danger, sexual or otherwise. Without giving you a number, that is saying a whole bunch about my world and expectations. I have been tested, usually for peace of mind and to be respectful to new partners. If you want to go together, I am all in. But so you know, I have only had purposeful unprotected sex with two men in my life, and both were men I was trying to have children with and were long-term partners. I have been pregnant four times, resulting in a miscarriage, a stillbirth, and two amazing kids that I am raising on my own after splitting from their father.
Support of that choice is a must. Again, history. I don’t however expect you to be my children’s father. They have one, and would probably not like you if they thought you were getting in the way of that relationship. And besides, I am really looking for someone to fit with me long before you will ever get introduced to them, but being there for me as I travel the parent road is desired. Maybe you are on the same road, and need me to stay the hell out of the way as you figure out your own parenting shit. I am good with that. Especially since I won’t be having any more biological children. Yep, that one is not negotiable.
I have also always been faithful inside of my relationships, and it never occurred to me to cheat on my partners. What I have done outside of a mutual relationship is no ones business but mine. I will tell you if you ask, but mostly just know that I consider sex as trust-based, no matter how quickly that trust is offered. Hours, days, weeks, whatever. I hope that is part of who you are, too, because it would really suck if I couldn’t trust you. It is not a forgiveness type thing either, just a place I would rather not go. If you have cheated on a previous commitment, that is a character flaw, and I have had partners cheat on me before. All of them had a history of doing it before they ever got to trashing me. So it is a lesson I learned, and you just have had to have been loyal. I will always be that. So hopefully, even if one of your past relationships ended badly (history, remember), as long as it ended before you took up with the next ex, we will have something to work with. Oh, and we will need to talk about all this shit, just in case you were wondering. Yeah, that way you won’t have to become a subject in a blog post.
Here is one more thing you will have to support me on to make this work. You will have to understand that even though I love you, you will not become my entire world (been there, done that). I have children. I have friends. I have work. I have a blog to write and a novel to finish. I pose nude and nearly nude with the help of other women who share their clothes and do my makeup. Say one nasty thing about any of it, and you can go away. Actually, say anything nasty and hateful to me that demeans me or tries to belittle, control, or use me, and while I like to think I would me a snarky bitch back, I will more than likely just walk away, shaking my head, wondering what I saw in you and why you couldn’t really man-up.
I hope I recognize you when I meet you. And give you even a glance if you are really a good guy (for me), because admittedly, recognizing that has not been my strong suit. I have picked based on old criteria and societal expectations. I am changing that, and it has been a while, but partnership is like that, right? Partnership and kissing. Definitely kissing.
I am a real woman. I am an adult, which means I have a history. And since I don’t expect you to be fresh from the womb, I am going to grant that you have a history, too. This does not mean baggage. It means you have done some things and I have done some things. We have grown up. I am happy to hear about them, and will tell you my stories, probably over a drink or two (or a blog or two, whichever) but I don’t let them define me in the present. At least I try not to. It is a work in progress. I don’t regret them, because they got me here. Unless your history makes me nauseous, I have already decided to not worry about where you have been. Not like I could change it even if I wanted to, so let’s move on.
Although, I have done some things that might shock you. But if I hadn’t, I would think I was boring.
And I am not boring. You might not be able to tell, because I tend to diappear behind dark clothes, and no make up. There have been times when I didn’t shave those parts that some men have come to expect to be shaved, but I am over that. Not the no shaving part, I still rarely do it, I just don’t care if you expect it. I always shower. I always brush my teeth, but still have morning breath sometimes, and will not really want to kiss until there has been some minty thing involved. This is not boring. This is hygiene. I expect both of us to have the basics down by now. I think someone along the way taught you to do your laundry. Wear clean clothes, even if they are not the most exciting. I hope to spend time with you not worrying about boring clothing.
Speaking of kissing, it is the one sure-fire way to turn me on. Yes, my clitoris is important, so please don’t allow your tongue to neglect it, but if you skip the kissing, I might not care what my other body parts are doing. Come to think of it, I might forget about them at all as it relates to you and just take care if it alone . Kissing is the one thing I can’t do to myself. But if watching me take care of myself turns you on, I am all for it. After we have made out on the couch, that is.
As a matter of fact, I am open to just about anything that we could enjoy. I have a list. I have probably already done most of them at least once. I still own some of the equipment. I won’t even discuss some of the really, um, “non-mainstream” (read that as disgusting) acts, so if that is your thing, we should split up now. No judgment, I assure you, but if they don’t turn me on, you and I will both be happier now if you just went ahead and found someone else to enjoy them with. Some other things have been eliminated as “never trying again”, sorry, because they involve pain. I don’t mean the fun kind of pain from play that involves rough sex, or spanking, or even denial of an orgasm as a form of control, but the actual pain that would involve blood, or stitches, or bruising. Play-pain, good. Emergency-room-at-3am-pain, bad.
This isn’t just a rule when it comes to sex, either. Any form of physical pain that is inflicted on purpose is not the best choice. I have been hit before (remember that history thing) and I didn’t like it. I have one scar from it. I was hit just the once, in the face, with the receiver of an old house phone, grabbed out of my hand because the guy thought I was ignoring him when I answered it. The flowers he sent the day after as an apology broke the paper shredder I used to destroy them, and probably ruined his car’s intake manifold from where I dumped them, but I wouldn’t know since I never spoke to him again. I guess the note I left on his windshield telling him I would call the police and show them the cut went well with the shredded roses. Don’t be that guy. I won’t be that girl. I won’t hit in anger or to inflict pain, because that is just worthless behavior. And I really like roses, and prefer to keep them. I like tea roses the color of apricots. They look very pretty in a vase next to purple irises.
But, you don’t have to bring me flowers. I mean, they are nice. I won’t turn them down, and might even thank you with a blowjob, but if you are going to spend money, can you pay my property tax instead? My water bill or electricity bill would be good, too, since I suspect that you and I might be showering together and watching movies together at my house. Contributions are welcome.
Money, however, is not important, unless you don’t have any. I work for mine. I have a full-time job. I spend my money wisely, and splurge when I want to on things that make me happy. I hope you do the same. If one of those things is you, and one of your things is me, then we can call it a draw. If you ask me, even once, to buy your drugs, pay your back due child support, or fund your girlfriend’s abortion, you can be fairly sure the answer is no. Having a job or a way to support yourself makes you sexier. Sexy is good.
It is not the only thing that makes you sexy, though. Supporting my choices is higher on the list. I don’t regret my choices along the way that were mine to make. I have had sex with whom I wanted when it was a choice I could make. I have participated in parties and multiple partner adventures, and public displays. I have always been disgustingly safe (condoms are your friend) and know I have never done anything that put my health in danger, sexual or otherwise. Without giving you a number, that is saying a whole bunch about my world and expectations. I have been tested, usually for peace of mind and to be respectful to new partners. If you want to go together, I am all in. But so you know, I have only had purposeful unprotected sex with two men in my life, and both were men I was trying to have children with and were long-term partners. I have been pregnant four times, resulting in a miscarriage, a stillbirth, and two amazing kids that I am raising on my own after splitting from their father.
Support of that choice is a must. Again, history. I don’t however expect you to be my children’s father. They have one, and would probably not like you if they thought you were getting in the way of that relationship. And besides, I am really looking for someone to fit with me long before you will ever get introduced to them, but being there for me as I travel the parent road is desired. Maybe you are on the same road, and need me to stay the hell out of the way as you figure out your own parenting shit. I am good with that. Especially since I won’t be having any more biological children. Yep, that one is not negotiable.
I have also always been faithful inside of my relationships, and it never occurred to me to cheat on my partners. What I have done outside of a mutual relationship is no ones business but mine. I will tell you if you ask, but mostly just know that I consider sex as trust-based, no matter how quickly that trust is offered. Hours, days, weeks, whatever. I hope that is part of who you are, too, because it would really suck if I couldn’t trust you. It is not a forgiveness type thing either, just a place I would rather not go. If you have cheated on a previous commitment, that is a character flaw, and I have had partners cheat on me before. All of them had a history of doing it before they ever got to trashing me. So it is a lesson I learned, and you just have had to have been loyal. I will always be that. So hopefully, even if one of your past relationships ended badly (history, remember), as long as it ended before you took up with the next ex, we will have something to work with. Oh, and we will need to talk about all this shit, just in case you were wondering. Yeah, that way you won’t have to become a subject in a blog post.
Here is one more thing you will have to support me on to make this work. You will have to understand that even though I love you, you will not become my entire world (been there, done that). I have children. I have friends. I have work. I have a blog to write and a novel to finish. I pose nude and nearly nude with the help of other women who share their clothes and do my makeup. Say one nasty thing about any of it, and you can go away. Actually, say anything nasty and hateful to me that demeans me or tries to belittle, control, or use me, and while I like to think I would me a snarky bitch back, I will more than likely just walk away, shaking my head, wondering what I saw in you and why you couldn’t really man-up.
I hope I recognize you when I meet you. And give you even a glance if you are really a good guy (for me), because admittedly, recognizing that has not been my strong suit. I have picked based on old criteria and societal expectations. I am changing that, and it has been a while, but partnership is like that, right? Partnership and kissing. Definitely kissing.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Pickle jars
This morning, while happily being lazy, cuddled up with my children in a big fluffy bed, we did a little game of “What was your favorite gift, ever?” With the holidays coming, the expectation of gifts about to be given, it seemed like a timely question. I realized I was trying to gauge importance based on my own way of evaluating gifts, and not on cash value.
With plenty of giggles, we reminded each other of gifts we recieved as recently as last year. The Squinkies in the Christmas socks was the most popular, and also the most played with of the gifts. The books were pretty high on the list, too. I also found out about some weird gifts my children have given to others that I knew nothing about. The Jesus-head snow globe (with real fabric body base) almost made me fall off the bed. These are definitely memory makers.
So I started thinking about gifts I have received, and why I remember them, and why, when I touch them or see them, they still have a memory and emotion attached.
I was given a small vile of perfume oil in a small metal box. The perfume oil was mixed especially for me, in a very small perfume shop, to match my body chemistry. The created perfume was given the name “rainy day” by the shop owner mixing it from listening to the man who purchased it for me. It warmed on my skin like the way sun warms your face in the summer, but then cooled to feel like a breeze after a rain. I learned later, from the shop owner, the meaning of the name was her impression of the man’s words describing what he wanted for me, and that he described me as refreshing, but in a way that snuck up on you, and melancholy and lingering. It was only half an ounce of concentrated oil, given a long ago, and I still have half of it left. I wear it only when I feel blessed and happy. The rest of the time it lives on shelf in a bowl with sea glass and pretty beads, and a bell I found at a lake. Every time I see it, I smile.
The winter I was pregnant with my first son, I was looking for things to make me feel safe and happy. I was loving that I could feel the baby kick, and had all the plans for what this unexpected child would be, but his father and I had been struggling. I wanted to feel like I could nest peacefully, be someplace restful, and just lull myself into a warm space of wife and mother. His father and I had taken a walk in early December through a small town, and come to a local furniture store and chatted amicable with the shop owner. We had been the only ones on the shop, and the owner, happy for the company, had shown us everything. Amish designed dressers. Shaker chests. An amazing sleigh bed in mahogany. We opened every drawer, pulled open ever cabinet, sat on every bench, laughed. It was delicious. The day before Christmas Eve, I walked into the room we were converting to the nursery and there was a beautiful Stickley-inspired mission-style oak rocking chair. It was the one I had fallen in love with on our walk. The note said “For you and the baby”. The chair is in my living room now. I read or write in it almost every day.
I am a writer, so once in a while beside this blog, I write things for other publication. I enter a contest almost every year that asks you to write an entire story using 101 words or less. It is complicated in its simplicity, and something that, when I have been published, I am damn proud of. You are allowed to enter up to three stories for consideration. One year, I had all three published. Since I don’t actually *expect* anyone to read what I write (a total self-esteem issue, all writers (except maybe Steven King) think this way) knowing that if anyone does is kind of a gift itself. I got asked to lunch (maybe it was drinks) a little time after the publication date. During the meal (or drinks) I was handed a laminated sheet of the cover of the magazine that published my stories. Under the lamination, on top of the cover, were the three stories themselves, cut-out and artfully placed so that it made it look like the stories were the only thing in the magazine, and you did not need to read any further. This had been hand done. Custom. There is only one in the world. I put a frame around it, and it hangs on my wall next to kindergarten art and an old baseball pennant. I think of the man’s hands, imagining scissors and glue, and a laminating machine, knowing he thought about me for that small space of time, every time the shiny lamination catches my attention. It is divine.
I was gifted a leather journal. The edges are faded and soft. I use it while sitting in my rocker.
I have a pair of sapphire earrings that I never wear, made from the stones that used to be in my engagement ring. I really should sell them.
I sometimes wear a little black dress that was purchased for me at a flea market. It comes just above the knee, has a kicky little A-line, sleeveless with the perfect darts to enhance my bust line, and laces up the back. In all my different sizes (and that is a lot), this dress has always fit. I have danced for hours and hours in this dress. I have traveled in this dress. I have both undone the laces for someone and had them undone for me. I always feel sexy in this dress. The man who bought this for me sends me a Christmas card every year, usually with photos of his kids, and I send him a birthday card, usually with a drawing of a dress on it. The dress hangs in the back of my closet, so I see it when I am searching for something to wear when I haven’t done laundry. Without fail, I feel tingly when I touch it. It has been 28 years. It never gets old.
I have a jar that sits on my desk at home. I forget about it most of the time, under piles of papers and unfolded laundry. It is just an old pickle jar. It still smells slightly of dill, especially if it is summer and the morning light warms it up. The lid has a slit cut in the top, like a piggy bank, and it is decorated with china markers and layers of Holly Hobbie angel stickers. My children don’t remember that they made it for me. They were only 3 and 5 at the time the gift was offered. It is the “whatever money” jar. As explained to me at the time, when two little kids had no idea about cost of things, but only that money was important and we had none, this jar was so once in a while we could have some whatever-money to spend. It has been raided plenty of times over the last 7 years, giving us ice cream on hot summer days, or popcorn at the free movies, or pennies for wishes, or replacement checker pieces, or quarters for the dryer on the days we washed all the stuffed animals. It has never been empty. I have yet to put any money in, yet there it is, on my desk, somehow filled with coins. I only seem to remember it when we need it the most.
I think there must be more things like this filling my house, the way most gifts are for me. Sweet little memory touchstones that hold my heart, allowing me love when I am struggling to find it. I guess today was a gift, too. Maybe my favorite, ever.
With plenty of giggles, we reminded each other of gifts we recieved as recently as last year. The Squinkies in the Christmas socks was the most popular, and also the most played with of the gifts. The books were pretty high on the list, too. I also found out about some weird gifts my children have given to others that I knew nothing about. The Jesus-head snow globe (with real fabric body base) almost made me fall off the bed. These are definitely memory makers.
So I started thinking about gifts I have received, and why I remember them, and why, when I touch them or see them, they still have a memory and emotion attached.
I was given a small vile of perfume oil in a small metal box. The perfume oil was mixed especially for me, in a very small perfume shop, to match my body chemistry. The created perfume was given the name “rainy day” by the shop owner mixing it from listening to the man who purchased it for me. It warmed on my skin like the way sun warms your face in the summer, but then cooled to feel like a breeze after a rain. I learned later, from the shop owner, the meaning of the name was her impression of the man’s words describing what he wanted for me, and that he described me as refreshing, but in a way that snuck up on you, and melancholy and lingering. It was only half an ounce of concentrated oil, given a long ago, and I still have half of it left. I wear it only when I feel blessed and happy. The rest of the time it lives on shelf in a bowl with sea glass and pretty beads, and a bell I found at a lake. Every time I see it, I smile.
The winter I was pregnant with my first son, I was looking for things to make me feel safe and happy. I was loving that I could feel the baby kick, and had all the plans for what this unexpected child would be, but his father and I had been struggling. I wanted to feel like I could nest peacefully, be someplace restful, and just lull myself into a warm space of wife and mother. His father and I had taken a walk in early December through a small town, and come to a local furniture store and chatted amicable with the shop owner. We had been the only ones on the shop, and the owner, happy for the company, had shown us everything. Amish designed dressers. Shaker chests. An amazing sleigh bed in mahogany. We opened every drawer, pulled open ever cabinet, sat on every bench, laughed. It was delicious. The day before Christmas Eve, I walked into the room we were converting to the nursery and there was a beautiful Stickley-inspired mission-style oak rocking chair. It was the one I had fallen in love with on our walk. The note said “For you and the baby”. The chair is in my living room now. I read or write in it almost every day.
I am a writer, so once in a while beside this blog, I write things for other publication. I enter a contest almost every year that asks you to write an entire story using 101 words or less. It is complicated in its simplicity, and something that, when I have been published, I am damn proud of. You are allowed to enter up to three stories for consideration. One year, I had all three published. Since I don’t actually *expect* anyone to read what I write (a total self-esteem issue, all writers (except maybe Steven King) think this way) knowing that if anyone does is kind of a gift itself. I got asked to lunch (maybe it was drinks) a little time after the publication date. During the meal (or drinks) I was handed a laminated sheet of the cover of the magazine that published my stories. Under the lamination, on top of the cover, were the three stories themselves, cut-out and artfully placed so that it made it look like the stories were the only thing in the magazine, and you did not need to read any further. This had been hand done. Custom. There is only one in the world. I put a frame around it, and it hangs on my wall next to kindergarten art and an old baseball pennant. I think of the man’s hands, imagining scissors and glue, and a laminating machine, knowing he thought about me for that small space of time, every time the shiny lamination catches my attention. It is divine.
I was gifted a leather journal. The edges are faded and soft. I use it while sitting in my rocker.
I have a pair of sapphire earrings that I never wear, made from the stones that used to be in my engagement ring. I really should sell them.
I sometimes wear a little black dress that was purchased for me at a flea market. It comes just above the knee, has a kicky little A-line, sleeveless with the perfect darts to enhance my bust line, and laces up the back. In all my different sizes (and that is a lot), this dress has always fit. I have danced for hours and hours in this dress. I have traveled in this dress. I have both undone the laces for someone and had them undone for me. I always feel sexy in this dress. The man who bought this for me sends me a Christmas card every year, usually with photos of his kids, and I send him a birthday card, usually with a drawing of a dress on it. The dress hangs in the back of my closet, so I see it when I am searching for something to wear when I haven’t done laundry. Without fail, I feel tingly when I touch it. It has been 28 years. It never gets old.
I have a jar that sits on my desk at home. I forget about it most of the time, under piles of papers and unfolded laundry. It is just an old pickle jar. It still smells slightly of dill, especially if it is summer and the morning light warms it up. The lid has a slit cut in the top, like a piggy bank, and it is decorated with china markers and layers of Holly Hobbie angel stickers. My children don’t remember that they made it for me. They were only 3 and 5 at the time the gift was offered. It is the “whatever money” jar. As explained to me at the time, when two little kids had no idea about cost of things, but only that money was important and we had none, this jar was so once in a while we could have some whatever-money to spend. It has been raided plenty of times over the last 7 years, giving us ice cream on hot summer days, or popcorn at the free movies, or pennies for wishes, or replacement checker pieces, or quarters for the dryer on the days we washed all the stuffed animals. It has never been empty. I have yet to put any money in, yet there it is, on my desk, somehow filled with coins. I only seem to remember it when we need it the most.
I think there must be more things like this filling my house, the way most gifts are for me. Sweet little memory touchstones that hold my heart, allowing me love when I am struggling to find it. I guess today was a gift, too. Maybe my favorite, ever.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Lovers
No relationship is perfect. This one came close:
I have written about my “drama” boyfriend before. This is not about him, but about a time during our first “break” from each other (that I didn’t yet know was a just a “time-out” that would last for 9 months, but thought was a forever break up, complete with heartache. Whatever.) I was nursing my broken heart with keeping busy, writing, going to parties, hanging with friends who let me cry, and tried to hook me up. I was not ready for a “relationship” in my rebound mode. I wanted to be left alone mostly, and give my heart a chance to stop spinning in my head and throat. Loud music and lots of alcohol was the only plan.
And is the case with most times of self discovery, this did not happen. Instead, I was stressed about finishing school work, finding a summer job, paying my rent, sick friends, the guy who lived upstairs with the really loud Persian music played nightly at top volume, and my piece of crap car. It was early April, and I didn’t know if I was pregnant, (Thank god I wasn’t!) (Because remember DramaBoy?) (Yeah, it had been about 3 weeks, and I was late.) (Yes, we were using birth control.) (Stress will make you skip, can we be done now?) and decided that going home to see my parents for a couple days was a good idea. That was a mistake that lasted about 6 hours, and I headed back to my Sacramento apartment probably more stressed than I was before.
To try to shake it (read that as cry hysterically in my car) I stopped at the vista point half way home. I was just getting ready to leave, and a truck blocked my path. And did not move. Like 20 minutes of this.
When I finally got angry enough to risk being raped by some creepy, smelly, Neanderthal truck driver, I met HIM.
For months, through my birthday, his birthday, 4th of July, a screaming hot summer and sensuous autumn, he was my lover. Every Tuesday. Every Friday. 7pm to 5 am. No other part in each other’s lives. What-so-ever.
Sounds strange until I explain. It was Tuesday. We met at the vista point, said good bye. Ended up at the same restaurant 90 miles down road, said good bye again. Walked into the same perfume shop in old town, and laughed. We went for drinks, talked about nothing personal and went to his hotel room. I didn’t know his name, he didn’t know mine. I still didn’t the next morning, and he said he would tell me it if I would meet him on Friday at the perfume shop.
That first Friday was awkward. The conversation was about sex, and love, and desire. I told him I wasn’t ready to trust anyone with my heart. He said he wasn’t in a place to be that person anyway. We made some rules about what we could give, and when. Rules like “Tuesdays and Fridays”. Rules like “out of the hotel by 5 am”. Rules like not knowing each other’s name, or where the other lived, or the other person’s phone number. And nothing at all about what was going on in our real world. In our little ten-hour fantasy world, nothing else existed. We would meet at 7 on the appointed day at the perfume shop, and from that second until 5 the next morning, we belonged to each other. All in.
We agreed to sex as experimental, and fun. We agreed to accept whatever the other person wanted as just a part that was allowed in “our” world. We never argued about who would bring condoms because the answer was that we both would.
We would eat dinner together, get drinks, walk around. We went to the movies a couple times. We snuck in back stage at Music Circus. Mostly, we grabbed take out and headed to the hotel room.
Sometimes the sex was playful. Sometimes it was rough. Sometimes it was painfully needy. Sometimes it was boring or we didn’t have sex at all. Once, I showed up with a fever, he brought me wonton soup from the Chinese restaurant across the street and fed me slowly. Once, he showed up with scrapes all down his side and leg, so I brought him arnica salve and massage oil, and Tylenol and a bottle of Jack Daniels from the drug store around the corner. We cuddled a lot, kissed a lot, gave lots of foot rubs and watched TV or porn. We slept in the same bed. And then we went about our lives. We messed up a few times here and there, and let our real world slip in with anger or sadness, but we always got each other back on track, usually with a really good blow job or some insane new clitoral toy.
From him I learned about the many uses of men’s silk neck ties, and to enjoy certain types of sex neither one of us had tried, and to let go of any expectations. He was not my boyfriend. He was not even a friend in the traditional sense either. I never talked about him to anyone in my everyday life, maybe just out of being selfish to want that part to belong just to me, on my terms, without the pressure of it having to be something else. He was my sex partner, helping me (me helping him?) understand that the world was both bigger and smaller than either of us could control, and that love (yes, I said love) comes in a whole bunch of different packages.
We both knew it would eventually end. We didn’t talk about it beyond the rule “If we go four meetings in a row (basically, two weeks) without seeing each other, without prior scheduling, we are done.” No discussion, no tears (though there were some on my end, eventually, but I don’t regret them) and no holding it against anyone else. As a matter of fact, we both said (in one of the few times we slightly broke the rules) that having Tuesday and Friday, for 10 hours at a time, probably kept us sane in our real world, until we were strong enough to not need it.
In early that November, I got back together with DramaBoy. I stopped going to the perfume shop. I don’t regret.
So why am I writing about this now? Because this week I epically failed at creating this again. I mean, crash and burn. I am nursing a broken heart, and enjoying alcohol and loud music, and I thought that little piece of trustful sex would be awesome. All in, no connection to my real world of work and laundry and children. I wanted it on Wednesday and every other Friday. I just wanted the man to show up and be present for 2-hours and 10-hours respectively and then go back to his real world, to love me (yes, I said love) without reservation or expectation of anything outside of that tiny bit of space. No jealousy, no forever. Rules, but only as they would relate to us, that we would create. But, I couldn’t even get to that part of the conversation, mucking myself up in superficial conversation about movies and other fluff. I had already let my real world creep in instead of just asking for what I wanted. To be fair, he had no clue what I was there for. He already had his own expectations and walls and experiences, and we had a past together that, looking at it from a couple days away, had already doomed it.
I have already let go. Writing blogs is like that for me, thank god. No regrets, for sure, and maybe a little more knowledge of how to help myself. I plan to figure out what is next over a bottle of Jack Daniels this weekend, while my kids are away and I can watch porn. Maybe I will see if my girlfriends wanna come dance with me and talk shit about our exes. And if I meet someone who can be serendipitously amazing, I will know what it looks like. Who’s in?
I have written about my “drama” boyfriend before. This is not about him, but about a time during our first “break” from each other (that I didn’t yet know was a just a “time-out” that would last for 9 months, but thought was a forever break up, complete with heartache. Whatever.) I was nursing my broken heart with keeping busy, writing, going to parties, hanging with friends who let me cry, and tried to hook me up. I was not ready for a “relationship” in my rebound mode. I wanted to be left alone mostly, and give my heart a chance to stop spinning in my head and throat. Loud music and lots of alcohol was the only plan.
And is the case with most times of self discovery, this did not happen. Instead, I was stressed about finishing school work, finding a summer job, paying my rent, sick friends, the guy who lived upstairs with the really loud Persian music played nightly at top volume, and my piece of crap car. It was early April, and I didn’t know if I was pregnant, (Thank god I wasn’t!) (Because remember DramaBoy?) (Yeah, it had been about 3 weeks, and I was late.) (Yes, we were using birth control.) (Stress will make you skip, can we be done now?) and decided that going home to see my parents for a couple days was a good idea. That was a mistake that lasted about 6 hours, and I headed back to my Sacramento apartment probably more stressed than I was before.
To try to shake it (read that as cry hysterically in my car) I stopped at the vista point half way home. I was just getting ready to leave, and a truck blocked my path. And did not move. Like 20 minutes of this.
When I finally got angry enough to risk being raped by some creepy, smelly, Neanderthal truck driver, I met HIM.
For months, through my birthday, his birthday, 4th of July, a screaming hot summer and sensuous autumn, he was my lover. Every Tuesday. Every Friday. 7pm to 5 am. No other part in each other’s lives. What-so-ever.
Sounds strange until I explain. It was Tuesday. We met at the vista point, said good bye. Ended up at the same restaurant 90 miles down road, said good bye again. Walked into the same perfume shop in old town, and laughed. We went for drinks, talked about nothing personal and went to his hotel room. I didn’t know his name, he didn’t know mine. I still didn’t the next morning, and he said he would tell me it if I would meet him on Friday at the perfume shop.
That first Friday was awkward. The conversation was about sex, and love, and desire. I told him I wasn’t ready to trust anyone with my heart. He said he wasn’t in a place to be that person anyway. We made some rules about what we could give, and when. Rules like “Tuesdays and Fridays”. Rules like “out of the hotel by 5 am”. Rules like not knowing each other’s name, or where the other lived, or the other person’s phone number. And nothing at all about what was going on in our real world. In our little ten-hour fantasy world, nothing else existed. We would meet at 7 on the appointed day at the perfume shop, and from that second until 5 the next morning, we belonged to each other. All in.
We agreed to sex as experimental, and fun. We agreed to accept whatever the other person wanted as just a part that was allowed in “our” world. We never argued about who would bring condoms because the answer was that we both would.
We would eat dinner together, get drinks, walk around. We went to the movies a couple times. We snuck in back stage at Music Circus. Mostly, we grabbed take out and headed to the hotel room.
Sometimes the sex was playful. Sometimes it was rough. Sometimes it was painfully needy. Sometimes it was boring or we didn’t have sex at all. Once, I showed up with a fever, he brought me wonton soup from the Chinese restaurant across the street and fed me slowly. Once, he showed up with scrapes all down his side and leg, so I brought him arnica salve and massage oil, and Tylenol and a bottle of Jack Daniels from the drug store around the corner. We cuddled a lot, kissed a lot, gave lots of foot rubs and watched TV or porn. We slept in the same bed. And then we went about our lives. We messed up a few times here and there, and let our real world slip in with anger or sadness, but we always got each other back on track, usually with a really good blow job or some insane new clitoral toy.
From him I learned about the many uses of men’s silk neck ties, and to enjoy certain types of sex neither one of us had tried, and to let go of any expectations. He was not my boyfriend. He was not even a friend in the traditional sense either. I never talked about him to anyone in my everyday life, maybe just out of being selfish to want that part to belong just to me, on my terms, without the pressure of it having to be something else. He was my sex partner, helping me (me helping him?) understand that the world was both bigger and smaller than either of us could control, and that love (yes, I said love) comes in a whole bunch of different packages.
We both knew it would eventually end. We didn’t talk about it beyond the rule “If we go four meetings in a row (basically, two weeks) without seeing each other, without prior scheduling, we are done.” No discussion, no tears (though there were some on my end, eventually, but I don’t regret them) and no holding it against anyone else. As a matter of fact, we both said (in one of the few times we slightly broke the rules) that having Tuesday and Friday, for 10 hours at a time, probably kept us sane in our real world, until we were strong enough to not need it.
In early that November, I got back together with DramaBoy. I stopped going to the perfume shop. I don’t regret.
So why am I writing about this now? Because this week I epically failed at creating this again. I mean, crash and burn. I am nursing a broken heart, and enjoying alcohol and loud music, and I thought that little piece of trustful sex would be awesome. All in, no connection to my real world of work and laundry and children. I wanted it on Wednesday and every other Friday. I just wanted the man to show up and be present for 2-hours and 10-hours respectively and then go back to his real world, to love me (yes, I said love) without reservation or expectation of anything outside of that tiny bit of space. No jealousy, no forever. Rules, but only as they would relate to us, that we would create. But, I couldn’t even get to that part of the conversation, mucking myself up in superficial conversation about movies and other fluff. I had already let my real world creep in instead of just asking for what I wanted. To be fair, he had no clue what I was there for. He already had his own expectations and walls and experiences, and we had a past together that, looking at it from a couple days away, had already doomed it.
I have already let go. Writing blogs is like that for me, thank god. No regrets, for sure, and maybe a little more knowledge of how to help myself. I plan to figure out what is next over a bottle of Jack Daniels this weekend, while my kids are away and I can watch porn. Maybe I will see if my girlfriends wanna come dance with me and talk shit about our exes. And if I meet someone who can be serendipitously amazing, I will know what it looks like. Who’s in?
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Don't blink.
I have had three different men on my mind for the last week.
Before you go making a judgment, and before I tell you about these men, the good the bad and the ugly, please read the whole thing. And remember that I write for myself. If you have read my blog then you know that I don’t filter here, so I am about to make myself hugely vulnerable. I actually hope to talk to all of them again, so while burning bridges is not a stated goal, it might happen. Vulnerability is like that. This isn’t about them. It is about me.
As a way to frame this in both time and space, I should tell you something about why I noticed it THIS week, and about “eye contact” in my world, and maybe in your world, too. First, I rarely avoid it. I like looking someone in their eyes and having them read me as I read them. This is scary for me, but something I try really hard to do. I had spent years with my head down. I hated that feeling. Second, if and when I do avert my eyes, it is never out of shame or guilt. It is completely out of self-preservation. I am not afraid anymore of owning the negative emotions, or even the positive ones for that matter. I can handle anger, and love, and sadness. What I can’t handle is vacancy, in the face of my own emotions. If the other person doesn’t feel anything, and can’t do anything about it, I have nowhere to go with that. I look away so I don’t have to admit my own attraction, my own neediness. I can pretend it isn’t there, my own desire, and then I can figure out a different way to dispel it. Sounds like a pussy move on my part, but really, at that point, the only person struggling with the emotion is me, and the other person can be of no help whatsoever. I am not backing off of the conversation or fight, there simply is no conversation or fight to have.
The first man is a friend. A good friend. One of my best, actually. I have never felt anything except friendship for him, so I would have no problems with his wife reading this. And I love him, also something that I am open to let anyone know. I have been able, without fail, to look him in the eye for several years. We have had disagreements (arguments actually), have shared stuff that would make some cringe, have been disgustingly honest, cried, laughed, everything you would expect from friends. I haven’t looked him in the eye for about a week. Because about a week ago it hit me that in a little under 8 months, he moves away. I am excited for him. It is an amazing opportunity, and also his job. It won’t be in harm’s way, even if the terrain is ugly, and he will be safe. He will be able to concentrated on himself, and his education, and his career, and his family in a way that has been missing for a long time. It is exactly what he needs to be doing, and his beautiful wife will be able to have him at home without the stress of his current environment. It will be awesome. Me? Oh yeah, this is my blog. I can’t look him in the eye because think I will start crying, and I am not ready to miss him yet.
I met man number two in May. He fit all my usual parameters. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes. It was instant. If you were to ask several of my friends they would tell you that I was going to fall hard. He met all the right qualifications of straight, single, available, employed, cute, and, when I finally talked to him, interesting. I had been handing out cake at an office birthday party and offered him a plate. Instead of the usual thanks or no thanks, or a polite refusal by way of saying he was full or allergic to chocolate, he said “I don’t eat cake”, and then walked out of the room. I was perplexed, and intrigued, and definitely attracted. That comment was the perfect segue into our first conversation later that day while being literally introduced at the water cooler. No one else would know (it is a small and gossipy office sometimes) that he and I started talking. It was wonderful and discreet. We had lunch a few times, coffee a few times, and lots of phone conversations, emails, texts. It was flirty. It was serious. It was fun. It even involved an argument or two involving politics, and money, and plans. What it didn’t involve was a “real” date. Months of this, with schedules not quite matching, timing just always being off for moving it past flirting. And then he kissed me. And then he stopped talking to me. Yep. I called and asked what was up? Crickets. I emailed and said I was worried something was wrong, was he okay? Crickets. He went away for a two-week work trip and I texted him to welcome him back home. Crickets. That was September.
Now, I have been blown off before, and I know what this looks and feels like, so for a solid month I have not called, texted, emailed or facebooked. I could throw a rock from where I sit at work and hit his desk (okay, if there wasn’t a wall there), and I have not gone by or sat in his chair like I did for June, July, and August. And other than a single good morning I have not said a word to him. He did not say good morning back. I know better than to want something from him. That isn’t going to happen. I am actually grateful that he showed me who he is, really early on, and the few red flags I am willing to admit to from the months of flirtatious nothingness are not things I have to deal with. I know all the reasons why this is a good thing, deserve better, happiness in the future, blah blah blah, so please don’t ask me about it, (or, god forbid say anything to him!) because I will be fine. And when I looked him in the eye to say that one “good morning” last week, facing my fear, I got exactly what I thought would be there. Crickets. I haven’t looked at him since. Not because I am not angry, or not worried, or not attracted. Because I am ALL those things still, but what I got back was empty. His emotions, if there was any to begin with, are not there now. I can’t look him in the eye because I think I might start to cry. And I am not ready to miss him yet.
I don’t have a category for man number three. I have known him for years. I have been drunk with him, danced with him, been to events with him. We have been together in groups. We have been alone. He has been to my house. He has met my kids. He has given me small but perfect gifts, and I have given him at least one that I remember. I think we might have been on a date a couple times, but I am not quite sure. I love his company. He makes me laugh, and makes ordinary occurrences feel like events. I am never disappointed to see him, and miss him when it has been a while. I guess we are friends. But then again, I don’t kiss my friends. And he did kiss me, twice on the same night last week. It was unexpected, but not unwelcome. Actually, it was a turn on and kinda hot, and visibly enough so that the group of women present when the first kiss happened wanted to know why I hadn’t slept with him yet. They actually encouraged me to meet him later that night, something I hadn’t really been planning. He would have got a kick out of the conversation actually because sex, along with most other topics this particular group of women feels no shyness about. would absolutely not be off limits for him either. We had talked about them all, in one from or another, a bunch of times over the last several years. He has lots of women in his life. Friends, buddies, women he dates, women he fucks. Until a very recent conversation (only a couple days before the night of the kiss actually) I would have flat-out rated him a player, and known exactly where the boundaries were. Now I am not so sure. I care about him enough to want to figure out where we fit with each other, find a definition that works for both of us, without both of us running and screaming about complicated emotional and physical entanglements. Friends? With benefits? Good friends with a different set of benefits? Honest or superficial? Group only activities, or can we still drink too much wine and cuddle on the couch and watch a pirated movie just the two of us?
I went to see him yesterday for a few minutes. I caught myself not looking at his eyes. I am sure that I am afraid I will look and will see nothing staring back. I am sure that I thought if I looked I might start to cry, and I am not ready to miss him yet.
Hoping for some eye contact this week, from any of the three, with a little more of my strength and confidence intact. (Okay, that is not exactly true. One of them, now that I wrote this, I could care less if I talk to again. I love when I write cathartic blogs that way!) So maybe two of them will send me a text message inviting me to coffee or a beer, with a message like “I am not ready to miss you yet either”, and when I see him next time, I will look right at him and know I will be fine, whatever happens, and it won’t require self-preservation.
Before you go making a judgment, and before I tell you about these men, the good the bad and the ugly, please read the whole thing. And remember that I write for myself. If you have read my blog then you know that I don’t filter here, so I am about to make myself hugely vulnerable. I actually hope to talk to all of them again, so while burning bridges is not a stated goal, it might happen. Vulnerability is like that. This isn’t about them. It is about me.
As a way to frame this in both time and space, I should tell you something about why I noticed it THIS week, and about “eye contact” in my world, and maybe in your world, too. First, I rarely avoid it. I like looking someone in their eyes and having them read me as I read them. This is scary for me, but something I try really hard to do. I had spent years with my head down. I hated that feeling. Second, if and when I do avert my eyes, it is never out of shame or guilt. It is completely out of self-preservation. I am not afraid anymore of owning the negative emotions, or even the positive ones for that matter. I can handle anger, and love, and sadness. What I can’t handle is vacancy, in the face of my own emotions. If the other person doesn’t feel anything, and can’t do anything about it, I have nowhere to go with that. I look away so I don’t have to admit my own attraction, my own neediness. I can pretend it isn’t there, my own desire, and then I can figure out a different way to dispel it. Sounds like a pussy move on my part, but really, at that point, the only person struggling with the emotion is me, and the other person can be of no help whatsoever. I am not backing off of the conversation or fight, there simply is no conversation or fight to have.
The first man is a friend. A good friend. One of my best, actually. I have never felt anything except friendship for him, so I would have no problems with his wife reading this. And I love him, also something that I am open to let anyone know. I have been able, without fail, to look him in the eye for several years. We have had disagreements (arguments actually), have shared stuff that would make some cringe, have been disgustingly honest, cried, laughed, everything you would expect from friends. I haven’t looked him in the eye for about a week. Because about a week ago it hit me that in a little under 8 months, he moves away. I am excited for him. It is an amazing opportunity, and also his job. It won’t be in harm’s way, even if the terrain is ugly, and he will be safe. He will be able to concentrated on himself, and his education, and his career, and his family in a way that has been missing for a long time. It is exactly what he needs to be doing, and his beautiful wife will be able to have him at home without the stress of his current environment. It will be awesome. Me? Oh yeah, this is my blog. I can’t look him in the eye because think I will start crying, and I am not ready to miss him yet.
I met man number two in May. He fit all my usual parameters. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes. It was instant. If you were to ask several of my friends they would tell you that I was going to fall hard. He met all the right qualifications of straight, single, available, employed, cute, and, when I finally talked to him, interesting. I had been handing out cake at an office birthday party and offered him a plate. Instead of the usual thanks or no thanks, or a polite refusal by way of saying he was full or allergic to chocolate, he said “I don’t eat cake”, and then walked out of the room. I was perplexed, and intrigued, and definitely attracted. That comment was the perfect segue into our first conversation later that day while being literally introduced at the water cooler. No one else would know (it is a small and gossipy office sometimes) that he and I started talking. It was wonderful and discreet. We had lunch a few times, coffee a few times, and lots of phone conversations, emails, texts. It was flirty. It was serious. It was fun. It even involved an argument or two involving politics, and money, and plans. What it didn’t involve was a “real” date. Months of this, with schedules not quite matching, timing just always being off for moving it past flirting. And then he kissed me. And then he stopped talking to me. Yep. I called and asked what was up? Crickets. I emailed and said I was worried something was wrong, was he okay? Crickets. He went away for a two-week work trip and I texted him to welcome him back home. Crickets. That was September.
Now, I have been blown off before, and I know what this looks and feels like, so for a solid month I have not called, texted, emailed or facebooked. I could throw a rock from where I sit at work and hit his desk (okay, if there wasn’t a wall there), and I have not gone by or sat in his chair like I did for June, July, and August. And other than a single good morning I have not said a word to him. He did not say good morning back. I know better than to want something from him. That isn’t going to happen. I am actually grateful that he showed me who he is, really early on, and the few red flags I am willing to admit to from the months of flirtatious nothingness are not things I have to deal with. I know all the reasons why this is a good thing, deserve better, happiness in the future, blah blah blah, so please don’t ask me about it, (or, god forbid say anything to him!) because I will be fine. And when I looked him in the eye to say that one “good morning” last week, facing my fear, I got exactly what I thought would be there. Crickets. I haven’t looked at him since. Not because I am not angry, or not worried, or not attracted. Because I am ALL those things still, but what I got back was empty. His emotions, if there was any to begin with, are not there now. I can’t look him in the eye because I think I might start to cry. And I am not ready to miss him yet.
I don’t have a category for man number three. I have known him for years. I have been drunk with him, danced with him, been to events with him. We have been together in groups. We have been alone. He has been to my house. He has met my kids. He has given me small but perfect gifts, and I have given him at least one that I remember. I think we might have been on a date a couple times, but I am not quite sure. I love his company. He makes me laugh, and makes ordinary occurrences feel like events. I am never disappointed to see him, and miss him when it has been a while. I guess we are friends. But then again, I don’t kiss my friends. And he did kiss me, twice on the same night last week. It was unexpected, but not unwelcome. Actually, it was a turn on and kinda hot, and visibly enough so that the group of women present when the first kiss happened wanted to know why I hadn’t slept with him yet. They actually encouraged me to meet him later that night, something I hadn’t really been planning. He would have got a kick out of the conversation actually because sex, along with most other topics this particular group of women feels no shyness about. would absolutely not be off limits for him either. We had talked about them all, in one from or another, a bunch of times over the last several years. He has lots of women in his life. Friends, buddies, women he dates, women he fucks. Until a very recent conversation (only a couple days before the night of the kiss actually) I would have flat-out rated him a player, and known exactly where the boundaries were. Now I am not so sure. I care about him enough to want to figure out where we fit with each other, find a definition that works for both of us, without both of us running and screaming about complicated emotional and physical entanglements. Friends? With benefits? Good friends with a different set of benefits? Honest or superficial? Group only activities, or can we still drink too much wine and cuddle on the couch and watch a pirated movie just the two of us?
I went to see him yesterday for a few minutes. I caught myself not looking at his eyes. I am sure that I am afraid I will look and will see nothing staring back. I am sure that I thought if I looked I might start to cry, and I am not ready to miss him yet.
Hoping for some eye contact this week, from any of the three, with a little more of my strength and confidence intact. (Okay, that is not exactly true. One of them, now that I wrote this, I could care less if I talk to again. I love when I write cathartic blogs that way!) So maybe two of them will send me a text message inviting me to coffee or a beer, with a message like “I am not ready to miss you yet either”, and when I see him next time, I will look right at him and know I will be fine, whatever happens, and it won’t require self-preservation.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
The problem with mercy.
It occurred to me recently that discussions of Mercy and Compassion have come up a lot recently. Might be a friend’s post about her own seeking of the divine mystery of Mercy. Might be the potential bombing of Syria. Might just be my own relationships and how I have recently been accused of not showing any mercy to someone I am choosing not to have in my life.
So here goes my take on mercy, its relationship to benevolence, and the need or desire for compassion.
Mercy is an action. It, as I see it, is the act of taking away someone else’s torture. How this happens is never really up to the receiver. It is up to the granter. Taking away torture could mean a multitude of things, but most it is an act that makes it stop. Mercy does not make things better. Take a man in Roman who has been a slave his whole life. As he begs for mercy as he is dying of thirst from a Roman soldier, and the soldier kills him, the soldier’s act was merciful. It ended the suffering. It ended the torture. It was an act, not a feeling. It was completely in the control of the decider. Torture is like that, in that the receiver of a torture really has no choice. Mercy is a position of power.
Related to that is Benevolence. As I see it, benevolence is the act of mercy, with kindness attached. It may not look any different on the surface that straight-forward mercy, but the difference is intent. Benevolence allows the giver of mercy to act with kindness to end suffering. But here is the kicker, it is still an act. It is still at the view point of the giver, and granted by the giver. The power to end the torture still resides outside of the tortured’s grasp.
So in comes compassion. This is the hard one. Compassion is the emotion. The act of compassion may result in neither mercy nor benevolence, but is the act of doing as the person who is asking wishes.
Let’s go back to the Roman slave. If he was killed and it ended his torture, it may have been mercy. If his death ended the slave’s suffering, it may even have been benevolent. But what if the slave asked for water for other slaves? What if he asked for a bath? What if ending his torture was a baseball cap and a fly swatter?
I know that sounded like I just trivialized slavery. That was not my intent. What it was meant to illustrate is that Compassion is about listening. Mercy and benevolence is nothing if compassion does not allow for the receiver of the mercy to decide his or her own fate. I can’t be inside someone else’s head and know their pain. I cannot know what haunts them. I cannot know what tortures them. I cannot know, or even begin to pretend I am helping if I don’t listen.
All of us have those people in our lives. You know the ones, the ones who can’t seem to get it together no matter what we do to help them. And we have tried to help them, honestly, with everything we have done. We have been both merciful AND benevolent in our dealings with them, and yet, they are just still so messed up. We throw our hands up and wonder what else we could possibly do.
The answer: Nothing. We can do nothing. Our mercy and benevolence is not enough if what we are looking to do is help in a meaningful way. THAT, requires compassion. It requires us to stop thinking inside our own box, and act based on what we learn from an individual.
For me personally, there are things I torture myself with that all the benevolence and mercy shown by other people cannot make better. They cannot alleviate or end the torture with any act on their part. I might be able to do it for myself one day, but it is still my torture to bear. Compassion in this case is all someone can offer. A basic listening to the terms that would end my torture, whether they could fix it or not.
See, not so easy. We are built to want to fix things through actions. Fix it and call ourselves merciful. Fix it and call ourselves benevolent. Fix it and call ourselves compassionate. What the hell do we know about a slave's wishes for freedom? What do we pretend to know about an entire country struggling to right its own wrong? What do we think we know about water rights, and marriage quality, and racial profiling, and gang affiliations, and death?
I don’t know anything. I only know that those around me who profess to be merciful and benevolent while having no clue about the restorative power of compassion, even compassion without action, are a waste of my time. I will sit here and quietly torture myself without your mercy, thanks.
So here goes my take on mercy, its relationship to benevolence, and the need or desire for compassion.
Mercy is an action. It, as I see it, is the act of taking away someone else’s torture. How this happens is never really up to the receiver. It is up to the granter. Taking away torture could mean a multitude of things, but most it is an act that makes it stop. Mercy does not make things better. Take a man in Roman who has been a slave his whole life. As he begs for mercy as he is dying of thirst from a Roman soldier, and the soldier kills him, the soldier’s act was merciful. It ended the suffering. It ended the torture. It was an act, not a feeling. It was completely in the control of the decider. Torture is like that, in that the receiver of a torture really has no choice. Mercy is a position of power.
Related to that is Benevolence. As I see it, benevolence is the act of mercy, with kindness attached. It may not look any different on the surface that straight-forward mercy, but the difference is intent. Benevolence allows the giver of mercy to act with kindness to end suffering. But here is the kicker, it is still an act. It is still at the view point of the giver, and granted by the giver. The power to end the torture still resides outside of the tortured’s grasp.
So in comes compassion. This is the hard one. Compassion is the emotion. The act of compassion may result in neither mercy nor benevolence, but is the act of doing as the person who is asking wishes.
Let’s go back to the Roman slave. If he was killed and it ended his torture, it may have been mercy. If his death ended the slave’s suffering, it may even have been benevolent. But what if the slave asked for water for other slaves? What if he asked for a bath? What if ending his torture was a baseball cap and a fly swatter?
I know that sounded like I just trivialized slavery. That was not my intent. What it was meant to illustrate is that Compassion is about listening. Mercy and benevolence is nothing if compassion does not allow for the receiver of the mercy to decide his or her own fate. I can’t be inside someone else’s head and know their pain. I cannot know what haunts them. I cannot know what tortures them. I cannot know, or even begin to pretend I am helping if I don’t listen.
All of us have those people in our lives. You know the ones, the ones who can’t seem to get it together no matter what we do to help them. And we have tried to help them, honestly, with everything we have done. We have been both merciful AND benevolent in our dealings with them, and yet, they are just still so messed up. We throw our hands up and wonder what else we could possibly do.
The answer: Nothing. We can do nothing. Our mercy and benevolence is not enough if what we are looking to do is help in a meaningful way. THAT, requires compassion. It requires us to stop thinking inside our own box, and act based on what we learn from an individual.
For me personally, there are things I torture myself with that all the benevolence and mercy shown by other people cannot make better. They cannot alleviate or end the torture with any act on their part. I might be able to do it for myself one day, but it is still my torture to bear. Compassion in this case is all someone can offer. A basic listening to the terms that would end my torture, whether they could fix it or not.
See, not so easy. We are built to want to fix things through actions. Fix it and call ourselves merciful. Fix it and call ourselves benevolent. Fix it and call ourselves compassionate. What the hell do we know about a slave's wishes for freedom? What do we pretend to know about an entire country struggling to right its own wrong? What do we think we know about water rights, and marriage quality, and racial profiling, and gang affiliations, and death?
I don’t know anything. I only know that those around me who profess to be merciful and benevolent while having no clue about the restorative power of compassion, even compassion without action, are a waste of my time. I will sit here and quietly torture myself without your mercy, thanks.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
The things you forget.
It's been a busy morning. Busy week actually. Coffee, check. Garage sales, check. Summer camp with swimming (and all the daily gear!), check. Oatmeal and an actual work out, check. Kids with their dad for the Father's day weekend, check.
If writing were to become my full time profession (from my lips to the goddess' ears, please) I would have rocked it this week. While I can't say I made the 1000 words a day quota, I did get at least a half a page in every day. I joined a writer's group. I showed an acquaintance writer friend my first complete chapter (yikes!) of a novel I have been writing for the last 100 years. Progress.
But today, the blog fairy tapped me on the shoulder and said I needed to write just to hang out with my friends. That would be all of you in case you were wondering.
It has been a while since I just hung out and did not have anything in the back of my head that I should be doing. No laundry. No house keeping. No bills to pay ( and no money to pay them with even if I had them, ha!). So the slow down is both welcome and awkward. Like I wonder (as a Facebook post recently reminded me) if I really do have free time, or have I just forgotten everything I need to do.
So I should say that I am about to head into another busy week. No, I mean like "oh-shit-how-the-hell-did-this-happen" kinda busy. Two different summer camps. Work daily (I work for the government, and we are about to be furloughed. My office is handling the coordination of that. Yeah, it sucks). Another chapter due to be "edited" (read that as torn apart with no mercy). Oh yeah, and I get to prepare for court next week with my children's father. Thank the goddess that I don't have any pesky boyfriend hanging out, because while I admit that the sex would probably be an awesome stress relief, the idea of having to have another adult in my life demanding/expecting my time in an intimate way just sounds nauseating right now.
I am also putting my emotional health back to front and center. I started taking the vitamins and supplements again, noticing that the lack of them had made it hard to function. I gave up caffeine a while ago, and well, that blew, so I am back on my enjoyment of coffee. I am much happier, or so my co-workers tell me, since I have a added back my daily grind. To celebrate my return to the habit, I purchased several tin wall hangings for my kitchen with kitchy sayings about the love of coffee. They make me smile.
I made an appointment with my "women's health" professional (add that to the things I will be doing during the next hell-week) because honestly, my hormones have been fucked up, and I don't like it. One minute horny, the next wishing that I knew where to buy a good gun. It has not been pretty. It actually scares me because it might mean the depression is back. I fucking hate the depression. I don't want to be there again. And one of the ways I used to know the depression was bad? I would write dark shit . Yep, the last couple of chapters in the perpetual novel have been on the verge of suicidal. Well that just won't cut it this time around. I have a pre-pubescent daughter who is already in a hormonal cycle of her own, and a son who just-now figured out that his dad plays favorites, and is sad about it. I don't have time to waste figuring out my own shit if, in the process, I throw them under the bus. Might be time to get a good handle on my own physical stuff. Thus my workout this morning. Get strong again. Keep it that way.
Now that you have read all this, know that in my head I got to hang out with you. I need more of this. I do much better when I feel connected, even if just in the virtual reality of a blog. And when I have nothing else keeping me so busy that I forget to take care of own head, I do better then, too. Not quite back to square one, and faster in recognizing it, but a boot to the head might be good today. Or a beer. Or dancing. Or walking on the beach. Or watching a sunset. Or hanging out. Damn, I have been forgetting to do that.
If writing were to become my full time profession (from my lips to the goddess' ears, please) I would have rocked it this week. While I can't say I made the 1000 words a day quota, I did get at least a half a page in every day. I joined a writer's group. I showed an acquaintance writer friend my first complete chapter (yikes!) of a novel I have been writing for the last 100 years. Progress.
But today, the blog fairy tapped me on the shoulder and said I needed to write just to hang out with my friends. That would be all of you in case you were wondering.
It has been a while since I just hung out and did not have anything in the back of my head that I should be doing. No laundry. No house keeping. No bills to pay ( and no money to pay them with even if I had them, ha!). So the slow down is both welcome and awkward. Like I wonder (as a Facebook post recently reminded me) if I really do have free time, or have I just forgotten everything I need to do.
So I should say that I am about to head into another busy week. No, I mean like "oh-shit-how-the-hell-did-this-happen" kinda busy. Two different summer camps. Work daily (I work for the government, and we are about to be furloughed. My office is handling the coordination of that. Yeah, it sucks). Another chapter due to be "edited" (read that as torn apart with no mercy). Oh yeah, and I get to prepare for court next week with my children's father. Thank the goddess that I don't have any pesky boyfriend hanging out, because while I admit that the sex would probably be an awesome stress relief, the idea of having to have another adult in my life demanding/expecting my time in an intimate way just sounds nauseating right now.
I am also putting my emotional health back to front and center. I started taking the vitamins and supplements again, noticing that the lack of them had made it hard to function. I gave up caffeine a while ago, and well, that blew, so I am back on my enjoyment of coffee. I am much happier, or so my co-workers tell me, since I have a added back my daily grind. To celebrate my return to the habit, I purchased several tin wall hangings for my kitchen with kitchy sayings about the love of coffee. They make me smile.
I made an appointment with my "women's health" professional (add that to the things I will be doing during the next hell-week) because honestly, my hormones have been fucked up, and I don't like it. One minute horny, the next wishing that I knew where to buy a good gun. It has not been pretty. It actually scares me because it might mean the depression is back. I fucking hate the depression. I don't want to be there again. And one of the ways I used to know the depression was bad? I would write dark shit . Yep, the last couple of chapters in the perpetual novel have been on the verge of suicidal. Well that just won't cut it this time around. I have a pre-pubescent daughter who is already in a hormonal cycle of her own, and a son who just-now figured out that his dad plays favorites, and is sad about it. I don't have time to waste figuring out my own shit if, in the process, I throw them under the bus. Might be time to get a good handle on my own physical stuff. Thus my workout this morning. Get strong again. Keep it that way.
Now that you have read all this, know that in my head I got to hang out with you. I need more of this. I do much better when I feel connected, even if just in the virtual reality of a blog. And when I have nothing else keeping me so busy that I forget to take care of own head, I do better then, too. Not quite back to square one, and faster in recognizing it, but a boot to the head might be good today. Or a beer. Or dancing. Or walking on the beach. Or watching a sunset. Or hanging out. Damn, I have been forgetting to do that.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Living up to potential is hard.
Siting on the corner of my desk in a book called Six-Word Memoirs. On top of the book is a small stylized metal statue of a woman in lotus-pose that I affectionately call my "yoga girl", and my fountain pen filled with orange ink.
For the FengShui aficionados, this is the TWO area of the desk's bagua, which represents the relationship area of my life if you are following that ancient art of Chinese placement. I keep this area as clear as possible, but for these three things, considering that most of the rest of my desk is often piled with work that represents a paycheck in process. I wish I could say that it is my creative work, but sadly I work for someone else in a crowded cubical-farm, and thus most of the work is others-directed. But I digress.
In this TWO area, I realized, is an encapsulated miniaturized version of my current relationship status: a woman in a uncomfortable awkward position, trying to hack-out short-lived quippy bits of meaning from others, while trying to create my own using a dusty pen with dried-out ink.
And so begins the TWO year of my life. Following more of that Chinese number crap, 47 is a two-year (4+7=11, 1+1=2). It is a time of creating and deepening relationships with self, others, spirit, earth. To that end, this blog is going to become both an outlet tool, and a way to stay accountable to my desires, my plans, my actions, and my inspirations. Lucky you, you've read this far and get to be part of this process. You should run. Run! Run now!
Over the last two years I have written a lot (and I mean A LOT!) about my past. I like to pretend, in my happy little denial fantasy land, that it was all preparing me to let go and move forward, but really I think it was a bit of a whiny pity-fest sometimes and I would like that to stop. So instead, this TWO year in mind, I am creating a list of things "relationship" related I want to call into my universe. Things that are currently missing. Creating my future.
1) I will have a more healthful relationship with food. I do not mean "healthy" because I have heard the term "healthy-as-a-horse". Been there already and have the current poundage to prove it. This new healthful relationship will involve more vegetables and less refined sugar. It will mean cooking more and eating out less. It will mean less caffeine (sigh) and more water. It will mean applying the shit I already know. Eating chocolate cake is in. Eating A chocolate cake is out.
2) I will have a healthy relationship with romantic encounters. This means (more) sticking to basic criteria for potential partnership, and less trying to fix obviously incompatible parts. This includes, but is not limited to having a potential partner be single (not married, since I don't need that drama), available (not gay or involved with other drama, like a baby mama), financially responsible (a job here would be good), interesting (to me, and willing to talk to my friends), intelligent (with more than 2 topics to talk to my friends about, one of them not being just about me), funny (to me, with some basic social graces), and cute (again, to me). There is definitely more here to think about, but let's stick to the basics for now, since up until very very recently (could that be this weekend?) I have not really done even that. Basic healthy is good.
3) I will have a cordial relationship with my children's father. By cordial I mean will probably not talk to him at all, and when I do it will not to be to laugh at him. With this cordiality I will refrain from saying anything at all about him if it involves sarcasm, rudeness, or toxicity, especially in my children's presence. I fully expect to backslide on this one given what a great guy he has been so far (told you I needed to work on the sarcasm) but that is the mean reason for this blog; accountability.
4) I will remember to love myself. I will exercise my body because loving myself includes keeping it is as good a condition as it can be kept given the time and space. I won't go all hating on my flab and start a binge/laxative routine and liposuction surgery fund, but I will move more. This might involve dancing (I could do that), tennis (cute men in shorts, I would do that), or yoga (doubtful). It will also involve massages, pedicures, photo shoots (naked on the beach?), new sheets, visits to my gynecologist and primary care physicians, remembering to take my vitamins and supplements, cute comfy shoes, jeans that fit, a rad pair of sunglasses, and some candles (just because I like them).
5) Sex. (see #2)
6) I will write. Yeah, I know I have said this before, so thank you to my friends who bug me about this. But more than just writing here (blogs are not going away), I will write with a purpose towards publishing. A short story? A novella? A novel? Not sure what it will look like when I am done, but this is all going to lead to a relationship (see, that TWO thing again, I have a theme!) with an editor, an artist, a marketer, a publishing company and, eventually, a book signing. While drinking champagne. On my yacht. Off the coast of Crete.
Some of you may wonder why my kids are not mentioned on this list. Remember what I said in the beginning? About needing to call into my life things that are missing? Yeah, my kids aren't one of them. My relationship with them, even when difficult, is working. It is actually ROCK ON SOLID as I really am a kick ass mom. I don't really want to call the universe for any changes to that. Getting the rest of my life to the exact same level of awesomeness is what my TWO year is all about. Don't fix what ain't broken, the rest is up for auction.
Oh look, six things got written down! The Six-Word Memoirs book is working already. And the title of this posting? Yep, six words!
For the FengShui aficionados, this is the TWO area of the desk's bagua, which represents the relationship area of my life if you are following that ancient art of Chinese placement. I keep this area as clear as possible, but for these three things, considering that most of the rest of my desk is often piled with work that represents a paycheck in process. I wish I could say that it is my creative work, but sadly I work for someone else in a crowded cubical-farm, and thus most of the work is others-directed. But I digress.
In this TWO area, I realized, is an encapsulated miniaturized version of my current relationship status: a woman in a uncomfortable awkward position, trying to hack-out short-lived quippy bits of meaning from others, while trying to create my own using a dusty pen with dried-out ink.
And so begins the TWO year of my life. Following more of that Chinese number crap, 47 is a two-year (4+7=11, 1+1=2). It is a time of creating and deepening relationships with self, others, spirit, earth. To that end, this blog is going to become both an outlet tool, and a way to stay accountable to my desires, my plans, my actions, and my inspirations. Lucky you, you've read this far and get to be part of this process. You should run. Run! Run now!
Over the last two years I have written a lot (and I mean A LOT!) about my past. I like to pretend, in my happy little denial fantasy land, that it was all preparing me to let go and move forward, but really I think it was a bit of a whiny pity-fest sometimes and I would like that to stop. So instead, this TWO year in mind, I am creating a list of things "relationship" related I want to call into my universe. Things that are currently missing. Creating my future.
1) I will have a more healthful relationship with food. I do not mean "healthy" because I have heard the term "healthy-as-a-horse". Been there already and have the current poundage to prove it. This new healthful relationship will involve more vegetables and less refined sugar. It will mean cooking more and eating out less. It will mean less caffeine (sigh) and more water. It will mean applying the shit I already know. Eating chocolate cake is in. Eating A chocolate cake is out.
2) I will have a healthy relationship with romantic encounters. This means (more) sticking to basic criteria for potential partnership, and less trying to fix obviously incompatible parts. This includes, but is not limited to having a potential partner be single (not married, since I don't need that drama), available (not gay or involved with other drama, like a baby mama), financially responsible (a job here would be good), interesting (to me, and willing to talk to my friends), intelligent (with more than 2 topics to talk to my friends about, one of them not being just about me), funny (to me, with some basic social graces), and cute (again, to me). There is definitely more here to think about, but let's stick to the basics for now, since up until very very recently (could that be this weekend?) I have not really done even that. Basic healthy is good.
3) I will have a cordial relationship with my children's father. By cordial I mean will probably not talk to him at all, and when I do it will not to be to laugh at him. With this cordiality I will refrain from saying anything at all about him if it involves sarcasm, rudeness, or toxicity, especially in my children's presence. I fully expect to backslide on this one given what a great guy he has been so far (told you I needed to work on the sarcasm) but that is the mean reason for this blog; accountability.
4) I will remember to love myself. I will exercise my body because loving myself includes keeping it is as good a condition as it can be kept given the time and space. I won't go all hating on my flab and start a binge/laxative routine and liposuction surgery fund, but I will move more. This might involve dancing (I could do that), tennis (cute men in shorts, I would do that), or yoga (doubtful). It will also involve massages, pedicures, photo shoots (naked on the beach?), new sheets, visits to my gynecologist and primary care physicians, remembering to take my vitamins and supplements, cute comfy shoes, jeans that fit, a rad pair of sunglasses, and some candles (just because I like them).
5) Sex. (see #2)
6) I will write. Yeah, I know I have said this before, so thank you to my friends who bug me about this. But more than just writing here (blogs are not going away), I will write with a purpose towards publishing. A short story? A novella? A novel? Not sure what it will look like when I am done, but this is all going to lead to a relationship (see, that TWO thing again, I have a theme!) with an editor, an artist, a marketer, a publishing company and, eventually, a book signing. While drinking champagne. On my yacht. Off the coast of Crete.
Some of you may wonder why my kids are not mentioned on this list. Remember what I said in the beginning? About needing to call into my life things that are missing? Yeah, my kids aren't one of them. My relationship with them, even when difficult, is working. It is actually ROCK ON SOLID as I really am a kick ass mom. I don't really want to call the universe for any changes to that. Getting the rest of my life to the exact same level of awesomeness is what my TWO year is all about. Don't fix what ain't broken, the rest is up for auction.
Oh look, six things got written down! The Six-Word Memoirs book is working already. And the title of this posting? Yep, six words!
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
wallflowers
I don't write much about my ex-husband.
Not my children's-father-ex-husband. I write about him. A lot. I am talking about my first ex-husband. The one I married completely for love.
I know that sounds like a bit of a contradiction, to say you marry for love. Of course you do, marry for love that is. I did, but I did the first time without having any other requirement list to accompany the love. Most of us don't. A requirement list? How much more unromantic could that be? So I didn't have one. Yes, he had to be single and heterosexual, breathing, born male, willing to live in my time zone if not in my zip code, and not have been convicted of any felonies that involved things we all would rather pretend did not exist in the world.
That said, he met 99% of my basic unwritten list. He missed-by-this-much the being single part, since technically he was still married to his first ex wife at the time he popped the question to me, but that worked itself out within several weeks, and, since I said before, I was in love and had already said yes, this wait was just a footnote in what was planned as forever.
This was seriously before I saw the movie "Perks of Being a Wallflower". I know, what can you learn from watching another person relive their high school trauma? Just this: You accept the love you think you deserve.
My ex was a great guy when I met him. Funny. Cute. Into me. He could cook, he liked the same music, he was willing to learn to dance. I can remember our first kiss. I can remember the day he gave me my engagement ring. I can remember the last time we made love.
I can also remember that he gave me pots and pans as a gift on our first Christmas. He said it was so he could cook for me at my house. He worked most evenings as a chef for a restaurant, so I cooked for myself a lot. I used my old pans. I eventually bought for him a set of professional cookware that I still have hanging from a pot rack in my kitchen. I love them. That other set that he purchased me? He took what was left of them when we split up.
I can remember that at first we went out dancing at the club we met in. I loved to dance, and prior to meeting him was out in the clubs 3-4 days a week. Turns out he hated dancing. He never really learned the steps. He didn't really want me dancing with anyone else (my gay friends excepted) and so, eventually, I stopped going dancing.
I remember the conversation we had early on about cheating. About how I had never, not once, ever cheated on a boyfriend. And while I had been unceremoniously dumped a couple times by boys who wanted to chase someone else, I had always appreciated the guys who did that over the guys who stepped out. I wanted my ex to know that while I hoped he would not want to stop being with me, that if he was heading that way with someone else to please have the decency to end our relationship first before jumping into bed with someone else. I was totally in for doing the same. Wanna guess how well that ended up working?
In all that I somehow learned to accept less that what was presented. I was presented with a "great guy" who initially was a dancer, a short-order cook, and a faithful partner. And when that was not fulfilled, I accepted it. I mean, I had married the guy. I had made the commitment without the requirements list. I had married for love. I accepted the love I thought I deserved.
I did that a couple more times since then, accepting what I must have thought I deserved, sure (or convinced?) that I was too fat, to ugly, too stupid to deserve better.
I have changed. I think better of myself and my desires now, and have spent a little time thinking about how I got to that frame of mind in the first place. Family history, traumatic events, life, all just getting in my own way. I might just be alone for a while more. I am okay with that, because I love myself a whole bunch now, and if accepting the love I think I deserve is true, I am getting everything I deserve, and more.
Not my children's-father-ex-husband. I write about him. A lot. I am talking about my first ex-husband. The one I married completely for love.
I know that sounds like a bit of a contradiction, to say you marry for love. Of course you do, marry for love that is. I did, but I did the first time without having any other requirement list to accompany the love. Most of us don't. A requirement list? How much more unromantic could that be? So I didn't have one. Yes, he had to be single and heterosexual, breathing, born male, willing to live in my time zone if not in my zip code, and not have been convicted of any felonies that involved things we all would rather pretend did not exist in the world.
That said, he met 99% of my basic unwritten list. He missed-by-this-much the being single part, since technically he was still married to his first ex wife at the time he popped the question to me, but that worked itself out within several weeks, and, since I said before, I was in love and had already said yes, this wait was just a footnote in what was planned as forever.
This was seriously before I saw the movie "Perks of Being a Wallflower". I know, what can you learn from watching another person relive their high school trauma? Just this: You accept the love you think you deserve.
My ex was a great guy when I met him. Funny. Cute. Into me. He could cook, he liked the same music, he was willing to learn to dance. I can remember our first kiss. I can remember the day he gave me my engagement ring. I can remember the last time we made love.
I can also remember that he gave me pots and pans as a gift on our first Christmas. He said it was so he could cook for me at my house. He worked most evenings as a chef for a restaurant, so I cooked for myself a lot. I used my old pans. I eventually bought for him a set of professional cookware that I still have hanging from a pot rack in my kitchen. I love them. That other set that he purchased me? He took what was left of them when we split up.
I can remember that at first we went out dancing at the club we met in. I loved to dance, and prior to meeting him was out in the clubs 3-4 days a week. Turns out he hated dancing. He never really learned the steps. He didn't really want me dancing with anyone else (my gay friends excepted) and so, eventually, I stopped going dancing.
I remember the conversation we had early on about cheating. About how I had never, not once, ever cheated on a boyfriend. And while I had been unceremoniously dumped a couple times by boys who wanted to chase someone else, I had always appreciated the guys who did that over the guys who stepped out. I wanted my ex to know that while I hoped he would not want to stop being with me, that if he was heading that way with someone else to please have the decency to end our relationship first before jumping into bed with someone else. I was totally in for doing the same. Wanna guess how well that ended up working?
In all that I somehow learned to accept less that what was presented. I was presented with a "great guy" who initially was a dancer, a short-order cook, and a faithful partner. And when that was not fulfilled, I accepted it. I mean, I had married the guy. I had made the commitment without the requirements list. I had married for love. I accepted the love I thought I deserved.
I did that a couple more times since then, accepting what I must have thought I deserved, sure (or convinced?) that I was too fat, to ugly, too stupid to deserve better.
I have changed. I think better of myself and my desires now, and have spent a little time thinking about how I got to that frame of mind in the first place. Family history, traumatic events, life, all just getting in my own way. I might just be alone for a while more. I am okay with that, because I love myself a whole bunch now, and if accepting the love I think I deserve is true, I am getting everything I deserve, and more.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Remembering Seth...
I wrote this two years ago, on what would have been Seth's 10th birthday.
I am sharing it today, remebering his 12th birthday.
I am grateful that I had him in my life. I am grateful I do not cry everyday anymore. I am grateful I can smil when I think about him. I am grateful for the two amazing children I live with and love every day that share his DNA. I am grateful I can talk to others and hopefully help. I am grateful for love.
AN ELITE MEMBERSHIP
I am a woman. That alone is enough to keep half the people out of the sub-set. I am also a mother, so a smaller group still. But then there is an "elite" group to which I belong, whose membership comes with every wish that I did not belong to it at all. It is the group of mothers who have immediate and unaltering knowledge that babies die. Their babies. My baby. Not the news report kind of dying, with a deep sigh at the loss. But the world-has-just-come-to-an-end-and-I-am-at-the-center kind of dying. Dead, before they took a breath. Still. Quiet.
My son Seth would have been ten years old today, February 8, 2011. All the positive thoughts of love and energy, and sadness that grandparents feel, and the wishes of the people I hold dear raining on me with the softness of a summer shower quiets my breath, and stills my heart. I feel it. All that goodness that lives in my life. I get that others feel sadness today, too. They all get to remember the excitement of a new baby, the tingling you get when you know someone you love is pregnant and hopeful, and all of the potential, each with their own kind of pain and loss when all that is suddenly pulled out from under them, like a rug. More like a trap door really, because there is a kind of free fall first, before they hit the bottom. For those in that "potential" group, the tumble is quick, the hit is hard, and there are others who also fell waiting to help you up.
Then there is my elite membership. The one I get by myself. The one that says I know he lived. I felt the little hiccup flutters, and the need to pee. I heard his heartbeat on a little staticy machine. I felt the kicks in the middle of the night, and voiced my annoyance at not being able to sleep, secretly thrilled that this little being picked me to be his mother. I would have plenty of time to get back at him later, with homework, and timeouts, and embarrassing pictures of him naked in the bathtub to show to his girlfriend right before the prom. He would play baseball, and love Barbie clothes, since truthfully, I call him HE now, but then I did not know for sure his gender. It did not matter. I would dress him in red and feed him graham crackers and build blanket forts and read him Harry Potter and Winnie the Pooh. He would know how to change the oil in the car. He would like neon colored band-aids. He could be tricked into drinking his milk if I gave it to him in a cup with a swirly straw, because everything tastes better through a swirly straw. He would like fish sticks.
I talked to him quietly, this baby in my belly. He could already make me cry with my ache to hold him, meet him, start the second phase of our existence together when my voice did not sound underwater to him, and his kicks would be playful under the fluffy white blanket I already had in the crib in the freshly-painted nursery.
Today, I will pick up Seth's brother and sister from school early, and we will go get balloons. Ten of them. We will take Sharpie markers and write love notes on each one while we sit in the car. We will drive to the beach, and release them all at once, and sit, with our toes in the sand and watch them drift away until we can't see them anymore. We will play at the beach, write wave wishes in the sand with an old piece of driftwood, and laugh. We will go get icecream. Four dishes. One for each of us, and one for us to share that would have been Seth's. We will argue about what kinds of toppings Seth would have liked, Haysten thinking that he needed more cookie dough, Mariah thinking he needed more candy, me, just wanting the whipped cream. We will laugh at that, too. We will have invited their dad to come with us, celebrate his son's life. He won't, but we have learned to let that go like the balloons.
I am part of an elite group. At the ten year mark, I still want my membership revoked.
I am sharing it today, remebering his 12th birthday.
I am grateful that I had him in my life. I am grateful I do not cry everyday anymore. I am grateful I can smil when I think about him. I am grateful for the two amazing children I live with and love every day that share his DNA. I am grateful I can talk to others and hopefully help. I am grateful for love.
AN ELITE MEMBERSHIP
I am a woman. That alone is enough to keep half the people out of the sub-set. I am also a mother, so a smaller group still. But then there is an "elite" group to which I belong, whose membership comes with every wish that I did not belong to it at all. It is the group of mothers who have immediate and unaltering knowledge that babies die. Their babies. My baby. Not the news report kind of dying, with a deep sigh at the loss. But the world-has-just-come-to-an-end-and-I-am-at-the-center kind of dying. Dead, before they took a breath. Still. Quiet.
My son Seth would have been ten years old today, February 8, 2011. All the positive thoughts of love and energy, and sadness that grandparents feel, and the wishes of the people I hold dear raining on me with the softness of a summer shower quiets my breath, and stills my heart. I feel it. All that goodness that lives in my life. I get that others feel sadness today, too. They all get to remember the excitement of a new baby, the tingling you get when you know someone you love is pregnant and hopeful, and all of the potential, each with their own kind of pain and loss when all that is suddenly pulled out from under them, like a rug. More like a trap door really, because there is a kind of free fall first, before they hit the bottom. For those in that "potential" group, the tumble is quick, the hit is hard, and there are others who also fell waiting to help you up.
Then there is my elite membership. The one I get by myself. The one that says I know he lived. I felt the little hiccup flutters, and the need to pee. I heard his heartbeat on a little staticy machine. I felt the kicks in the middle of the night, and voiced my annoyance at not being able to sleep, secretly thrilled that this little being picked me to be his mother. I would have plenty of time to get back at him later, with homework, and timeouts, and embarrassing pictures of him naked in the bathtub to show to his girlfriend right before the prom. He would play baseball, and love Barbie clothes, since truthfully, I call him HE now, but then I did not know for sure his gender. It did not matter. I would dress him in red and feed him graham crackers and build blanket forts and read him Harry Potter and Winnie the Pooh. He would know how to change the oil in the car. He would like neon colored band-aids. He could be tricked into drinking his milk if I gave it to him in a cup with a swirly straw, because everything tastes better through a swirly straw. He would like fish sticks.
I talked to him quietly, this baby in my belly. He could already make me cry with my ache to hold him, meet him, start the second phase of our existence together when my voice did not sound underwater to him, and his kicks would be playful under the fluffy white blanket I already had in the crib in the freshly-painted nursery.
Today, I will pick up Seth's brother and sister from school early, and we will go get balloons. Ten of them. We will take Sharpie markers and write love notes on each one while we sit in the car. We will drive to the beach, and release them all at once, and sit, with our toes in the sand and watch them drift away until we can't see them anymore. We will play at the beach, write wave wishes in the sand with an old piece of driftwood, and laugh. We will go get icecream. Four dishes. One for each of us, and one for us to share that would have been Seth's. We will argue about what kinds of toppings Seth would have liked, Haysten thinking that he needed more cookie dough, Mariah thinking he needed more candy, me, just wanting the whipped cream. We will laugh at that, too. We will have invited their dad to come with us, celebrate his son's life. He won't, but we have learned to let that go like the balloons.
I am part of an elite group. At the ten year mark, I still want my membership revoked.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Hand cramps and thought jewelry
What do normal people think about?
I mean, here I am having a conversation with myself about what to write down. Do I write it in pencil or pen? Do I skip straight to the computer? If I do write it in pencil, do I erase or scratch out so if I needed the thought again later I would still have it, right there, all written down for me already? And when writing in long hand instead of typing what kind of paper do I use? Do I even have any lined paper? Yes. Get some from your ten-year-old’s notebook. Don’t tell her you went into her room. Wow, the room is messy. Walk away, walk away.
All this while wondering why I am bothering to search. I have nothing to write anyway. Seems the only time I try to write lately is when everything gets all glued together in a giant jumble just needing to be sorted out. Like a tangle of necklaces at the bottom of the jewelry box. The whole mass of chains, where no matter which strand I start with, I eventually follow the lead to a huge knot, all wrapped and snared with other strands, that I don’t have any clue where it is going.
My thoughts are like that today, and consequently, so is my writing. Forgive me now, and know that I sincerely hope there is a some kind of conclusion to this madness, but sorta doubt it. You are forewarned to stop reading now. Do people really think like this? Damn, we are all doomed.
I have been thinking a lot lately about a man I ran into the other day. I have known him since we were about 8, and we played baseball together growing up. He wrote his phone number on my glove one time back then. Years after, his then-girlfriend saw the phone number on my glove and she hit me. I beat the crap out of her before finding out why she had punched me in the first place. She got suspended for starting a fight, and I used the phone number on the glove to call the boy and tell him his girlfriend was retarded. (Yes, not politically correct, but I was 12, sue me) They stayed a couple about another week if I remember, some junior high record I am sure, before they broke up forever and he and I were allowed to be friends again. We kissed each other once, the Christmas we were both 17. I still remember how it tasted.
If he were to read this blog now, he would know it was him I was thinking and writing about in these wandering thoughts immediately. At least I think he would. Maybe not though, and since he probably will never see it, I could probably get away with admitting that in that tangled hot mess of thoughts have been lots about him. Him dressed. Him naked. Him at the beach, in my bed, flying a plane. It is one of my current favorite thoughts actually.
And while I have been thinking about him in various, um, scenarios, I have also been thinking about remodeling my bathroom. A really awesome orange color on one wall with the rest a crisp white. Sorta retro-modern. Heated stone floors.
But that thought gives way to thoughts about a good friend. Worried about him as work stress (involving having to deal with a suicide) makes for people he barely knows relying on him for more than his fair share. I miss seeing him smile. And my thoughts become angry because I know there is not a damn thing I can do about it.
I think about my kids a lot. My daughter is competing in the spelling bee, thinks her hair is weird, and is concerned she will not make any friends in middle school. It is only 8 months away. She is already counting it down. I worry that she is missing the joy of fifth grade in the process.
Back to the boy for minute. I really liked his moustache and goatee. And the salt and pepper color on his temples. And that he drinks coffee.
My son has been sleeping a bunch. A combo of illness and a growth-spurt that put him in bed at 6:30 last night. I think he is going to be tall. Damn, I think I will have to buy him some more shoes.
Surprisingly, my ex hasn’t been hovering constantly (or much at all actually) in my thoughts. I would think he would get some more air time considering he is about to begin divorce proceedings from his third wife, and un-amazingly they are both blaming me and my kids for their breakup But I am already bored with his drama so the thought usually go away pretty quickly. He got a paragraph, whoo hoo.
Other thoughts in the cue: Sesquesestration is a really long word for meaning I might be without a job for 22 days this year. No work, no pay.
I think I could supplement my income by being a writer. Note to self, start finding freelance work. Second note to self, start submitting manuscripts.
I like the taste of greenish bananas but I hate peeling them. I bet my son could invent something so I wouldn’t have to do that.
Tight jeans look really good on fit 46-year-old men. Especially ones I have had a crush on for 30 plus years.
I really should have typed this to begin with. My hand is cramping. My thoughts are wandering. Did I learn cursive in the fourth grade? I really should take a refresher course.
I just looked up. It is dark outside. Does that happen that fast every day? When was the last time I watched a sunset?
Maybe normal people do think this stuff and I am the only one crazy enough to write it in a public blog. Not much coherent thought today, but I warned you. . Not much coherent thought today, but I warned you. Normal is overrated. You feel more put together now, right? My job is done.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Courtroom confessional
I was raped in 1991.
Until today, there were about 6 people (not including cops, rape specialists, investigators, criminologists, prosecutors, attorneys, and a few more cops, but I don't really count them as "people") who I had told of my own volition.
The list does not include either of my ex husbands. This list does not include any of my ex boyfriends or men I have dated. This list did not include (except for one) any of my closest friends. This list did not include even one family member. Not my cousins. Not my brother. Not my parents. Obviously I needed to write it in a blog 22 years later.
I made it through a day of hell, a week of crying, and about 4 months of court-related crap before I did my best to ignore it.
Now I am not asking for a single comment that says "oh". I probably won't listen. In the purest sense of the word, the actual rape part of the whole thing has not effected me. I have no lingering fear of sex (I quite enjoy it actually). I have no problems with dark alleys or men looming near me, given that I have worked in prisons and in drug areas, and lived in sketchy areas. What I do have is a total fear that my judgement is completely fucked up.
Here is the story.
I met "Dan" when my friend "Greg" introduced us at a party. It was an April Fool's Day party and we were having a blast. Dan and I hit it off immediately. He was smart, and funny, and sexy. We did the whole attraction dance and (in the days before cell phones) he asked for my number.
The first date was fun, and we talked for hours. So were dates two thru five. Magical even. Five dates in four weeks for a girl with a full time job and a guy in his third year of law school was golden. Date six was on May Day, and a day of flying was planned. Dan was a small craft pilot, and had a plane on loan for our use for the day. Heaven.
Arriving back at his apartment I was ready to spend the whole evening telling him, and showing him, just how into him I was. I never took my coat off. He excused himself to the bathroom, and in the time it took me to look around the apartment and see a few of the photos and things, he had stuck a plunger full of meth into one of his veins and came out of his bathroom naked with a hard-on, and seriously ready to fuck and hit me. He did both.
How I talked my way to safety, and how the police arrested him in his apartment, and how he confessed, well, that is all just logistics.
Fast forward to today.
I was asked to do some homework on "Why do you think you are not getting what you want?" as it relates to relationships and men in general. My answer came in one simple word: fear. Not fear of being raped. Like I said, I enjoy sex, and am not afraid of being hurt physically. My fear, it seems, is that my judgment about men is so fucked up, that even if a really nice guy wanted to love me and understand me, I would not believe for one second that he was sincere. So instead, I pick familiar, which is guys who won't actually beat or rape me, but will do a damn good job of ignoring me, evading emotions, keeping their lives and trust distant, because I confuse that kind of familiar with safety.
So I figured out I don't get what I want because I don't trust anyone to be my safe place to fall. I only trust them enough to get them in my life and then accommodate their needs. Fucked up, much?
So I am learning that maybe there are safe good men out there, ones that are totally worthy of me, and I of them. Trusting myself to know that is going to be the next step. If you want to comment about THAT, I will listen.
Until today, there were about 6 people (not including cops, rape specialists, investigators, criminologists, prosecutors, attorneys, and a few more cops, but I don't really count them as "people") who I had told of my own volition.
The list does not include either of my ex husbands. This list does not include any of my ex boyfriends or men I have dated. This list did not include (except for one) any of my closest friends. This list did not include even one family member. Not my cousins. Not my brother. Not my parents. Obviously I needed to write it in a blog 22 years later.
I made it through a day of hell, a week of crying, and about 4 months of court-related crap before I did my best to ignore it.
Now I am not asking for a single comment that says "oh". I probably won't listen. In the purest sense of the word, the actual rape part of the whole thing has not effected me. I have no lingering fear of sex (I quite enjoy it actually). I have no problems with dark alleys or men looming near me, given that I have worked in prisons and in drug areas, and lived in sketchy areas. What I do have is a total fear that my judgement is completely fucked up.
Here is the story.
I met "Dan" when my friend "Greg" introduced us at a party. It was an April Fool's Day party and we were having a blast. Dan and I hit it off immediately. He was smart, and funny, and sexy. We did the whole attraction dance and (in the days before cell phones) he asked for my number.
The first date was fun, and we talked for hours. So were dates two thru five. Magical even. Five dates in four weeks for a girl with a full time job and a guy in his third year of law school was golden. Date six was on May Day, and a day of flying was planned. Dan was a small craft pilot, and had a plane on loan for our use for the day. Heaven.
Arriving back at his apartment I was ready to spend the whole evening telling him, and showing him, just how into him I was. I never took my coat off. He excused himself to the bathroom, and in the time it took me to look around the apartment and see a few of the photos and things, he had stuck a plunger full of meth into one of his veins and came out of his bathroom naked with a hard-on, and seriously ready to fuck and hit me. He did both.
How I talked my way to safety, and how the police arrested him in his apartment, and how he confessed, well, that is all just logistics.
Fast forward to today.
I was asked to do some homework on "Why do you think you are not getting what you want?" as it relates to relationships and men in general. My answer came in one simple word: fear. Not fear of being raped. Like I said, I enjoy sex, and am not afraid of being hurt physically. My fear, it seems, is that my judgment about men is so fucked up, that even if a really nice guy wanted to love me and understand me, I would not believe for one second that he was sincere. So instead, I pick familiar, which is guys who won't actually beat or rape me, but will do a damn good job of ignoring me, evading emotions, keeping their lives and trust distant, because I confuse that kind of familiar with safety.
So I figured out I don't get what I want because I don't trust anyone to be my safe place to fall. I only trust them enough to get them in my life and then accommodate their needs. Fucked up, much?
So I am learning that maybe there are safe good men out there, ones that are totally worthy of me, and I of them. Trusting myself to know that is going to be the next step. If you want to comment about THAT, I will listen.
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