Aye Aye Captain

 My daughter and I had a conversation yesterday that paralleled a train of thought I had been having about personal identity and how it relates to activities, events, and plans. And how really unhealthy I have been sometimes about it.

I have been dating.  And as is required during the first few dates, there are the required interview questions.  Where do you work? What college did you go to?  Tell me about your favorite vacation? All good enough questions to help paint the landscape.  But the answers were sometimes awkward in my head because of the pronouns I assigned.

See, if I talked about graduation, or jobs, that was pretty easy most of the time. *I* went to college in Sacramento. *I* have worked for the government for the last 16 years. *I* write a blog that let's my innermost thoughts be critiqued by the random public. *I* have a pretty fucked up sense of self that is wrapped around approval and permission from others. But when I talk about events, or travels, or activities, it always defaulted to *we*.

It is as if I had not gone to the White House.  That was a We Went.  I must not have gone on the ferry to Alcatraz, because WE went on the boat together. I couldn't have seen a Broadway play because WE sat next to each other.  We rode the cable car. We saw the band.  We sat in the box seats. We saw the world's largest knitting needles. We ate the fresh baked french bread. We. We. We.  As if I had no memory of doing them myself without that identifier.  Fuck, really?  This was MY story wasn't it?  The person I was telling the story would only get the details I wanted, and yet, here I was still giving credit to my journey to a couplehood that no longer existed, and that I was specifically trying to have not be part of my moving forward love life.

Turns out, my daughter does this, too.  And she and I together thought it was both funny and sad that we did this for not just major events like vacations, but for everyday things as well, like taking public transportation or grocery shopping.  Were we really so involved in our significant others that we had legit lost ourselves into the identity being as a couple? Apparently, yes. The partners in our lives (or formerly in our lives) had no problems with the word *I*, even if it was a couple event. They could easily say "I went to a really great steak place", or "I bought some really great fresh blueberries", even if both events only happened because either she or I were that responsible party.

She and I decided this was pathetic, and something women do more than men, and realized that changing it was going to be harder than it sounded.  There would need to be events we owned, and activities we participated in, and conversations about them after that we would describe to others using individual pronouns on purpose.  *I* went to the museum in Kansas City to see the Caravaggio.  *I* went to the Cirque du Soleil show in Vegas right before the shutdown. I bought this really pretty poster. I saw my favorite band. I climbed the Lyon Street street stairs to find the hidden SF Heart. 

She validated for me that I had, in fact, done lots of stuff. That I was both capable of doing them, and had experienced them with my own memory without that need for others to always be in the same memory bubble conversation.  I validated to her that I had probably modeled that for her, and she was doing the same memory building for herself, with her own activities and life, even if they happened to have someone else along for the experience.  They could own it, too, without either of our acknowledgment, and it took nothing away from anyone's experience to have it belong to ourselves. Especially in personal pronoun format when telling our stories to someone else.  We did not have to be beholden, or even share in the joy.  Each of us could be *I*, and anyone else that sailed in our ocean could be an *I* as well.

I truly hope to become part of an US and a WE again. I actually like couplehood, and  I am holding interviews right now for the position.  But I also need to see how MY identity and memories are completely separate from that, and how that is actually a much more healthy way to be.  Maybe I could model it for my daughter, and she won't get lost to it either. Our *I* identities are counting on it and there is too much stuff for she and I to do!

Unbound

 Last night I had a dinner with an old lover.

I hadn't seen him in a bit under five years.  Technically I hadn't talked to him in over five years either since he is terrible on the phone, though great over text, and we had texted a few times a year just to say hello even while I was with my ex.

Technically I don't think my ex knew this. See, early on in our relationship, my ex had a kind of meltdown involving a ridiculously long text message, a subsequent phone call,  and a weird kind of compromise because of his belief he was not on a level playing field with other men I had in my life. (He was completely wrong about this, as I already had feelings for him that made the others, including the old lover, not even on the field.) The text and conversation happened at like 3am on April 1st 2017.  I remember it because I laughed that is was April's Fools Day,  but having made another type of obligation for my three days off just after that, I rolled with it, hoping I wasn't being punked.  But the conversation also meant that while he was becoming the primary person I would commit to, I legit could not tell him I was not willing to let myself be swallowed into that confinement.  I was pretty sure, even then, that he would only feel safe inside of what he could control, and he would ignore or avoid the rest. The very very brief conversation we had when I got back was about the commitment I was making to him in the way he understood it and I would honor.  I never strayed from that. Bound to those commitments in a truly willing way. Attached.

I had done that kind of dedicated oneness before. My ex husband, my children's father, several boyfriends and a girlfriend along the way.  All became my entire world and I was lost inside of it.  I relied heavily on their love and company to fill my affection and physical needs, and often they were the only ones there.  I didn't talk to seriously, or go out for any activities with anyone but them. My therapist called this codependency. He was right.

So during that three days in April 2017, I went on a roadtrip at the suggestion (more like a command, but that is a different blog) of someone I had complete trust in, and had it suggested (again, told, but more about that part of my life some other time) that if my feelings for this man who would become my ex were legit, I better figure out what the other people in my life's roles were, and just how much or how little I wanted to keep, and what that looked like.

So I went.  I all but ignored my now-ex for those three days.  A couple texts and maybe a photo, but this was about me, and how I wanted, or didn't want to connect with others. I ended up seeing several people.  Old lovers, friends I rarely connected with, a couple people I barely knew, all in a whirl wind of drinks, and meals, and activities, and sex, and driving a total of about 1500 miles over several parts of the state with almost no sleep.  I made choices, and welcomed connections, and said good bye.  It may have been the most adult thing I have ever done.  And I own every minute.

The lover I met last night was one of the people I saw during that time (the last time as a matter of fact before last night)  He was always good for my body, never judgey or preachy, or in anyway demeaning to my choices.  I could tell him what was going on, but in the way you might write in a journal, or tell in a confessional, without having him try to fix it.  And the sex was always good, with him being more giving than I was most of the time, and I was satisfied physically without any of the emotional baggage that sometimes comes with that.  He was one of the people I did not say goodbye to even with the parameters changing.  He didn't have to know my heart; he never really had, and we both liked it that way.  His heart was often elsewhere as well. We had an understanding that we could, and would, always know the difference between sex and love, and sex could be what we did when it was uncomplicated by our own commitments. I always knew what that meant.

So when I came back from the three days of self service (and it truly was all about me), I made some decisions.  I was heading towards making an exclusive emotional and physical commitment with James, if he and I could get through some other obstacles I was sure we could figure out.  I have never cheated on a relationship. I am not built that way. I know the boundaries. And like I said before, I completely honored them with my ex, verbally, emotionally, physically,  But I also know, having done a lot of self discovery and healing my own trauma since my relationship with my children's father ended, that I could never stop having other things in my life.  People, experiences, thoughts of my own. Values and excitement, and new adventures, even if they slowed to meet a partner's pace.  I didn't want to get lost, again, to the expectations and needs of someone who did not want to go there. 

And to be fair, for the last five years, I truly thought my ex was heading there with me. I wrote in another blog about how I had lost myself into him in some ways, but also recognize that a person can only give to the level of love they give themselves. He did not love himself very much, measuring his worth by money and titles mostly, neglecting his body, heart, and mind needs almost completely, and having that spill over into our sex life, or activities, and most prevalently into him dodging any talk of emotions, including love.  His go to emotion was anger, an easy enough emotion to live in if you have no other skills. I pushed, and tried patience, and even did some ignoring, all for the sake of the love I was giving by choice. And I did love him, do love him, I am just not sure he knew, or knew how to understand it.

But, I didn't completely lose myself this time.  I know exactly where I need to go to heal the grief I still feel, and be okay with others playing their roles. Friends. Lovers. Confidants. I am not alone. I am sad he never knew that, either.

So last night I had dinner with an old lover, and all the euphemisms that implies.  And our rules had stayed the same. I didn't lose myself to him in anyway I didn't want to.  I am pretty sure I never will,  even as I open up all the possibilities. I am going to be okay with the strings untied.

Piercing

 As I have been recently trying to navigate the dating world, deciding who to date, why to date them, if they are already interesting enough but also in the friendship category, I have been dissecting what I want to do differently if and when I get into another relationship.  Do I want to have a talk about finances early, or never?  Do I want my adult children to approve, or meet them only when absolutely necessary? Would I want to live with someone, or have the freedom of separate households? It worked for Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, right? Would we have to have the same political views if we never talked about politics? What about free time, sporting events, sushi?  How much of myself do I share, and how much do I know there is no room for compromise? Who will they be in my world, and will I know if they are right for now, or forever?

Most importantly, I needed to know what was truly missing that I would want for sure from myself so that I would know if I was not getting it or giving it.

My answer: Earrings.

I wasn't expecting that to be the answer either when I started thinking about it, but it is true.  Everything could be summed up in whether or not I was willing to wearing earrings.

See, I love earrings.  I don't mean lots of earrings like on those multi packs from Claire's. I mean earrings that I put on because they make me happy, and feel pretty or sexy, or at least pulled together and caring about stuff.  Days I put on earrings are days when I have thought about what I look like, what I want other people to see, what activities I might be doing, and how much I care about the earrings being lost or taken off in the process.

I have a pair of stylized cat earrings.  The tail is the hook that goes through your ear, so you have to put them on from the backside.  They are silver and a little heavy,  but they make this great whoosh sound when I turn my head.  They were a gift from my boyfriend when I was 19, along with a cute little black dress I still own, so that I would have something he wanted to see me in to go out that night. It was a whim, and a total testament to youth and lack of planning.

I have a pair of light green Big Sur jade earrings.  They are triangles and dangle against my neck. They are always cool to the touch even in the hottest weather. They look best when my hair is up, or smoothed back in some way.  They are so thin, the light shines through them, and they feel like fragile pieces of china instead of stone.  I bought them for myself with money I had forgotten about in an account I opened the day my ex husband and I spilt in 1998.  I had opened my first account without him, and it was the first account I had that I didn't share with anyone else, and have never shared with anyone since.  I had "found" the money because of one of those "lost money to the state" searches, went in and closed the account, receiving cash, and spent it almost immediately on the earrings at the farmer's market that night.  I have been known to wear them on first dates.

I have a pair of earrings made from old typewriter keys with the letters H and M (my children's initials) on them. The earrings don't technically match, but look like a pair nonetheless. I got them from a small booth at an antique faire I went to alone because the person I was seeing was too hungover to get out of bed that morning.  He had wanted me to stay, but I went ahead and did our plans without him.  I wear those earrings to important events that celebrate my kids.

I have a pair of niobium rainbow sunset earrings. No idea where I got them but I have had them forever.  They hum when I walk.

I have pearls. I used to wear them to job interviews.  They live in the jewelry box now. I hear that when you don't wear pearls, they lose their shine.  I think they are too stuffy and expectant, and try too hard.  I am not sad that they are kind of meh.  Things change, priorities change. I keep them, like a gift and a touchstone, but I never wear them.  I don't need them anymore.

I have a single earring left of what is still my favorite "pair".  I bought them with my own money from my first paycheck at a summer job when I was 18.  They are drop squares, sterling silver, the perfect every day earrings.  I used to wear them daily, and for every occasion for years, decades even. I lost one of them at a strip club in Vegas just a couple years ago.  I had gone with my ex, because he had never taken a woman to a strip club, and was unsure I would like it. It was kinda a test. He had gone to them often, in different cities while on work assignments or living apart from his family, so he knew his way around.  He thought I didn't because I hadn't really told him everything there was to know about my mid twenties.  I should have known better than to wear earrings at all because true to their professions, beautiful nearly naked women enjoyed his lap, or the padded cocktail table in front of me, fondling and nuzzling.  It was super fun, until it was wasn't.  Might have been the alcohol.  Might have been the last couple of girls paying more attention to me than him.  Might have been me enjoying it a little less demurely than he had seen before, and being a woman on my own in what he had sorta deemed as his territory.  Years of doing that will give you that impression. We left, and an earring and a pair of sunglasses was the price for the ride. The rest of the night was a blur of being turned on and disconnected at the same time.  Lost and founds in strips clubs don't really exist.  I wear the singular earring now when I can feel something shifting, but don't have a clear picture of what it is. A blur of anticipation, knowing that whatever it is, I am in the space alone for a while. I have been wearing it most of the week.

Yes, this week is when I started wearing earring(s) again, as I have been writing and thinking about what I want.  I hadn't been wearing earrings for the last 18 months or so, stuck in my own head of not needing them, not wanting them, not wanting to lose them.  I had done it to myself (again) and forgot that I existed.  I started not wearing them because I thought they didn't matter.  My whole rack of earrings, collecting dust for the most part, only occasionally get spun around to see if something felt right here or there.  Without earrings on, I could be invisible. 

This week I remembered that every time I buy or wear earrings purposefully, I feel different.  Every time I wear earrings, I feel more myself and comfortable with my choices.  Every time I wear earrings I know I have tried for myself to get out of my head, out of my own way, to make a choice.  And own the choice, too, without having to explain it, even if it would never make sense to someone else. It is not their earrings. 

So what does this have to do with dating?  I realized that everything I do from now on, is wide open.  I can try the people on like earrings, and see if they fit.  That ever time I have something new, I get to form an opinion and a memory just like that. I can, if I want to, wear it for a while, and then not ever again.  All those differences for new people in my world, and what I want to do with them, can be like my spinning rack.  Maybe today, it is a the gold antique hoops. Maybe tomorrow it is the filigree and amethyst. Maybe it is just one, maybe it is a pair. Do I wear my hair back and show them off to a new date, or do I take them off and put them in my purse (not my pocket because we know how well that went last time, HA!)?

Maybe I will even buy a new pair.  

 

 

Scarred

Did you know that you can Google "how to get rid of a wedding ring indent?" and there will be dozens of articles and advice tips in less than a nanosecond.  I learned that today.

I was sitting on my porch, sipping tea, reading, sun just high enough to not be in my eyes, but still warm on my legs. and I look down at my left hand to see the dent on my third finger.  To be honest, it took me a second to realize what it was, then another second to be mad, then sad, then frustrated that it was there.

I wore a ring there for a little over four and a half years. I took it off to shower sometimes, or to sleep if it was hot.  I would take it off when my hands would swell if I was walking, or had eaten too much salt the day before. But for the most part, I wore it daily since the day in June it was given to me.

It was his grandmother's ring. A lovely wedding band type, set with channel diamonds in antique cushion cut.  Not expensive; the engagement ring to the set would have cost more.  He didn't have the engagement ring, he said, because the jewelry had been divided up when the grandmother died, and this was what he got.  He had never let anyone else wear the ring before, and had pulled it from a plastic film container he had retrieved from his junk drawer.

It never came with a question, and I liked it that way.  He had been married before, and so had I, and while we planned a future, the idea of matrimony never came up for longer than to work out if a certificate once we retired would make finances better.  It would be a transaction.

But as I looked at the dent on my finger today, and thought about the memory of the day he gifted it to me, all I could think was that the word transactional was actually the best word for most of our relationship.  

I gave him a ring later that year, just before Christmas.  At first he didn't want to wear it.  I asked him about jewelry, and he said that was not the issue, he had worn rings before.  I ask him about comfort, and he said that he was okay with wearing rings that fit him.  So I asked the elephant in the room question, and wondered how he felt about outward physical signs that our relationship was more than casual. 

This is where he balked. He wanted me to wear a ring, but he didn't want to.  He wanted the casual freedom of not having to be asked about his "wife" (the reason men wear rings on their third finger on their left hand) and then either have to explain that I was his girlfriend (that got some looks a few times), or cringe at the word. It was okay for me to have to explain, but he didn't want that. Because almost invariably the questions would become about why we weren't married, when we would get married, how long had we been married if we chose not to talk about girlfriend status.  Fielding them when we were together was easy, I had more language for the ways to answer.  And after a couple times when he had just rolled his eyes, or said something truly vile like "Oh God no she's not my wife!" my responsibility was clear. If he was going to wear a ring, I was to protect him from looking like a flake.  Men whose opinion he valued, and women whose attention he desired, needed to think he was shiny.

So on the day I gave him his ring, and he didn't wear it, I put mine in a bowl on the nightstand and didn't wear mine either.  This bothered him.  He didn't have my undivided adoration right then. Manipulative, maybe, but more than anything, I wanted us to be equal.  Partners without the paper.  If rings meant something to him if I wore one, I needed for him to have that same kind of faith.

He broke the first ring.  It was black hematite and shattered completely one day, without a good reason.  The next ring I got him was titanium. 

The day we ended, we had been out for a walk.  As I said before, my hands swell and, like had dozens of times before, I took the ring off and put it in the inside zipper pocket with my wallet of the jacket I was wearing.  It was his jacket, and I loved it almost specifically for the pocket that held my wallet and ring so perfectly.  When I left that night, I took my wallet, but not the jacket, and hadn't put the ring back on after coming home. When I left that night, I didn't take the ring with me.  When I left that night, he still had his ring on.

He told me two days later that he wanted the ring back. Another day went by before I told him he already had the ring, and where to look.  He informed me it wasn't there.  The ring is gone.  Maybe still in the lining of the jacket. Maybe on his floor near his dining table from it coming out of the pocket when I took my wallet.  Maybe on Market Street somewhere. I don't know.  I only slightly care.

When I returned his keys, dropping them with his concierge without seeing him, he texted later and asked about the ring again. I told him again that I didn't have it, but asked if he was willing to talk about something other than possessions.  He wasn't willing, and honestly, I am glad he was just as transactional this time as he had been with most everything else. He didn't give back his ring, so maybe it lives in the film canister now. No matter, I didn't ask for it or want it back. 

But what I have is this dent where the ring used to be. I took a photo to see if it was truly noticeable to anyone but me. It is, but barely.  Google says the only thing that truly gets rid of it is time.  I added lotion just in case.  I am hoping it just stops being there, and I don't notice when. Apparently, not yet.

I semi-wonder how long his dent will be there, but not really.

Pinks

I just started watching Modern Love.

For those that don't know, Modern Love is a New York Times weekly essay post, a pod cast,  a miniature story section called Tiny Love, a book, and a recently renewed for a second season Amazon series.  It takes the stories that have been submitted by readers and honors them with either published essays, or mini movies, or stories you can hear being read through a channel as you ride the subway, or board a plane. It is part of the style section on the Times, and the section you should turn to, skipping the headlines, that makes you feel good first before turning back to educate yourself.  The innocence of the style section, all superficial and chatty, is just the thing sometimes.

It reminded me of my early 20's.  I was going to school in Sacramento, working during the week, and taking as many classes as I could and still stay just under the advisors' radar for unit overload.  I was in my own apartment, having skipped the drama of the dorms for the drama of two story apartment life in a slightly less than upscale neighborhood, but one that had a pool. One bedroom, one bath, ground floor, spectacular view of the parking lot, no air conditioning.  But I also had a boyfriend who lived in Oakland, and I spent as much time with him over every weekend as possible.

On Sunday mornings when I was there, we always woke early.   There was a cheap little bodega around the corner in Oakland that had not very good pasties, and even less good coffee, and we would grab both, then pick up the Sunday San Francisco Chronicle just to get the Pink Section. 

For those that remember, that was the part of the paper officially called the Date Book. It might still be a thing, but I have not picked it up in years to find out.  It had all the entertainment, happenings, listings, style, movie reviews (praise to the Little Man!), and anything else entertainment related you wanted to know.  We would take our coffee, and pastries, and our newspaper back to bed, and that was how we decided the day.  If the Pinks told us about something interesting, we would get re-dressed, and head out.  Day concerts, art openings, festivals, street fairs, anything really that caught our attention that was close enough (SF was okay, Sausalito was too far) and free (that was an important criteria) then off we would go. If nothing appealed to us, we usually stayed in bed for the rest of the day, reading through the other parts of the paper and enjoying the aspects of poverty and youth.

So Modern Love is not quite like that because the Pinks never really concentrated on the personal aspect of anything SF related, and stuck to the public view of art and entertainment.  I can appreciate that; every paper has its own brand, but it would have probably kept me in bed even longer if I could have read a little of the SF loves stories along the way. It didn't matter though, because we were our own little love story, and it was a perfect slice of fleeting happiness I still think of.

I will probably binge watch the rest of the season over a weekend here soon, and maybe binge watch Season 2 as well.  And I think I will write an essay about periods of love I have been lucky enough to have in my life, and submit them for consideration.  I am super happy I can still think of love as something worth seeing, hearing, and celebrating.  I hope I continue to notice. 

Dodge

I had a  dream nightmare about you.

We were in your car, and you were driving too fast on a really long wooden pier towards a docking platform for a ferry we were going to catch. The ferry wasn't there yet, and I kept asking you to slow down. This went on for a while. We were over the water a long time.  I was asking you over and over to just stop, get out, watch the water together for a while. You wouldn't.

Eventually you looked over at me, then sped up and crashed through the rail at the end, plunging the car, and us, into the water.

As the car went down, I reached my hand over and unclicked your seatbelt, then unclicked mine and started pushing on my door until the water balance allowed it to open. I swam up, and over, and reached a ladder that ran the depth of the  piling on the edge of the dock, and climbed out.

The water was really deep, but crystal clear, as I looked back down to surface level to see the car now sitting on the bottom, full of water and sunk, weirdly still running. I could see my open door. I could see you were able to move, but you just sat there, still revving the engine and banging your hand on the steering wheel.  I knew you were completely unaware that you were drowning, and very angry that the thing you had always thought you had been in control of was failing you.

There was no one else around, empty dock, no boats on the very still ocean. Eventually the ferry pulled in and blocked my view of the car.  I got on, and the ferry pulled away. I could make out the car for a little while, but then I stopped looking and went to the front of the boat.

I woke up and I cried. You know how that works. You have been there for them.



One day I hope you figure out how to stop being angry long enough to realize the car is going nowhere.  Your seatbelt is unbuckled. Your door can open if you push on it, and the other door is already open. Even if you can't swim there is a ladder on the dock, and you can, if you want to, climb out of the water. 

The ferry isn't coming back, and I'm gonna be fine even after the crash you caused. But maybe someday you will realize you owe me an apology because I tried, and you will know how to reach me. 

Dry off first. There is probably a pay phone at the far end of the pier.

I loved you.

I don't even need a band-aid.

I thought I lost a friend this week. 

Turns out I didn’t “lose” anything.  I know right where he is.  And though it is a claim that he was walking away, and that I was going to be no longer allowed in his heart and life, truth is, he hasn’t been going anywhere but in circles under a wandering star for a long, long time, and I had been making steady progress on my journey of self-reliance and solid values, and he had not come along at all. And when it got hard, and required actual putting foundation into practice, test the stability he so desperately needs, he bailed.  

I thought I would be hurt.  Truly, I love him.  But what I feel more is relief.

In the past few years, I have had things happen.  If you have read this blog at all, you will understand the road, and know that getting myself out of an almost debilitating depression and codependency has been a tortured path.  I was not always successful, and had lots of times when I stood still, or took steps backwards.  This often happened when I was hit with a 2x4 to the back of the head, bleeding and damaged, and some ugly monster came out and tried to pull me back under. 

It was, and is always, a fight. It is not pretty. I can get moody.  And by moody, I mean fucked up neurotic.  I am selfish, and distant.  I get quiet, then unpredictably angry.  I forget things. I cry. I am not particularly helpful and have a hard time understanding your world while I am caught up in mine.  But, to my defense, while this used to be my norm, it is now my exception.

Let me say that again.  It is my exception.

Recently, I had one of the exception times show up full force.  My ex (you can read about him all you want in other blogs, and it will give you some insight into who he was/is and how I got out) decided to drag me back into court. The reason and justification for why is not even the issue, because honestly, he and I will not be happily co-parenting, ever, and this is just one more way I have to deal with him.  It was a 2x4, for sure. It put me on the floor, the way it does for most people when they are smack in the middle of their old lives without much choice but to get through it with some semblance of grace.  I was not succeeding in the grace department, but was blessed with knowing I would get out of it. I had before, I would again. I just needed the reminder.

The reminder came in the form of being held while I cried.  It came in the form of long conversations with my children.  It came in fun activities. And movies. And good sex. And a truly deep happiness that I would try to suppress, because, well, I am stupid about my own happiness sometimes. And stability. And being still.  It did not need to pursue anything else.  I already had the tools and the gifts. 

What is did not look like was the constant instability this friend lived in.  It did not look like pretty words without a lot of follow through.  It did not look like a list of desires without any work towards them. Or blame when personal actions caused the instability. Or like excuses for others who did not move forward together.  It did not look like having to find myself in a different place because I could not face any of the mess. 

On the literal contrary, it looked like actually being in the mess daily.  There was no avoidance on my part.  I was blunt, maybe to the point of shock.  I was non-accepting of people who were also a mess and doing nothing about it but felt empowered to try to drag me there, too.  There was no more desire for connection to people who did not meet the rules of the Yes List, or who were flat-out on the No List.  I would not develop relationships with rude alcoholics making noise in the middle of the night.  I would not wait for yet another phone call from a manipulative suicidal narcissist whose needs were so heavy that it stopped all progress toward other goals.  I would not try to get to know temporary romances from 1200 miles away that barely sparked of passion and could only be had in 48 hour blocks of time once every 6 weeks or so.  I was in no position to create yet another black hole emotion vacuum just for the sake of the newness, when I wasn’t making the stuff I already had my sights set on, work.  I was staying put.  Roots. Fight. Stability. Grounded.

This is not where this friend is. At least not with me. I had picked moving towards strengthening MY emotions with the people in my life who said they would stay. I had to trust them. I had said that I thought I didn’t have a tribe, but what I really found out was that I do have a tribe, just, sadly, one that did not include him.  I thought maybe I had just been too raw with someone else who was also too raw and that maybe we could not support each other.  But that wasn’t true.  I might have pushed hard, and been distant, but I never walked away, never said encouraging connected words only to not mean them, and I never used the excuse that there were others that thought I should eliminate people from my life and then actually listened. I have come to trust myself, my core of knowing where I came from, how it plays in my life, and what I am both willing and unwilling to do to keep it that way. My core about it is totally defined, and not at all by others, even when I listen to their counsel.

Nope, I take full responsibility for my own choices, supported or not, because that is part of my journey as well.  I am no longer interested in how things can’t be fixed.  I want to stomp and whine about them, and then put in the real work, even when it is hard.  Even when it looks like I am alone.  Then I want the people who say that they will stick by it to actually do that. If you can’t? Well, you can go.  I will not be examining it further except to realize I want the stability I have created.  My job that pays my bills.  My lack of bills to begin with. My house. My running car.  My amazing children and the learning they are doing, even with the bumps, and my role in that.  My belief in parenthood and everything I have done to make that as my first priority, regardless of the boulders that sometimes seem to block my path. My desire for communication inside my partnership, and having that get stronger every single day.  Love on a much deeper level.  One that knows that in order to actually have all the good stuff, you have to get through the bad stuff. And that even when it looks uneven, it all comes around to settled when it is working.  No books, no meetings, no unprecedented clarity. Just everyday ordinary heartbreak and redemption.  I take it. Life, with all of its compromise and thorns, and joy and forgiveness, and ache and laughter.  I get to have this. I get to stay.

So yeah, I thought I lost a friend. Turns out I didn’t lose anything.  He is right there, still spinning in his universe wondering what happened to get him to where he is at, and how he believes he will have to change his life and start all over. Again.  I am grateful for getting to stand perfectly still this time and just kinda wave as he floats away on yet another star. I am not going anywhere, and for that hard won stability, I am grateful.

What does Proverbs 31:26 know?

I hope the decisions I am making stick.

That sounds like I could be flaky.  Maybe, but only to myself really.  I can’t tell you how many “eat healthy” plans I have started, how many resolutions I have made to exercise, how many times I have made plans to clean, purge, organize, only to feel like a failure when not one, but all of them have fallen apart. I have not finished (or even worked on) the novel.  I have not bagged up all those clothes that I hate (they are still on my closet/bedroom floor).  I have not cleaned my garage, or my Tupperware cabinet, or my bathroom cabinet (or floor, really). I own a really good set of hand weights and a treadmill.  I try to dust them periodically.  I think I still own a bike.  Somewhere. Maybe.

But that is such a different thing than what I do for people.  Everyone except me, it seems.

I make it to work every day.  I make sure my children have underwear and lunch.  I have gone on field trips, and baked cookies, and been the taxi for a lot of events. I visit friends who are only in town for the day, or travel to them when they are “close”, having come in from another state or country and really, California is not *that* big, right? I make phone calls to meet time zone requirements, even at the price of sleep.  I listen to heartaches and joys, sometimes when the space between us makes me ache to touch them.  Truly. I love doing it.  My children, my family, my friends. Connection. People are the reason I breathe. 

So why is this the wrong thing to do inside of potentially romantic relationships? Or actual romantic relationships? Or just dating? Or sex hookups?  Why is the connection not allowed?  They are people, right? These men I invite into my head and heart and bed, they *are* actually people, right?

But that doesn’t seem to be the case.

I get really excited meeting new men.  Very much actually.  I figure I have weeded through 10 gazillion profiles, of men who are cheating on their wives (please don’t tell them), who are bi and just want a chick to hang out and watch them while they take it from the guy (maybe my boyfriend, you know, if I could just arrange that for him),  who are only looking for FWB-hookup-bootie-call-wanna-do-it-in-the-park-car-rent-by-the-hour-motel-could-you-pay-cuz-I-am-behind-on-my-child-support. So if I got past all that, to an actual date, I have to be both insane, and stupidly hopeful.  And one date is great.  Two dates is better.  Talking on the phone, texting to say hi, laughing as we get to know each other is perfect.

But maybe not.

Because I have got to date three or four a few times.  I have been hopeful that the guy meant the texts and comments that said they were enjoying themselves, and please could we see each other again.  I have for sure kissed them.  I probably had sex with them.  I have probably contemplated how to have a date that includes my friends (vetting, it is a real thing), and I have probably shared some of my disasters.  We will have laughed, because we are all just people, and people are more than likely similar, and have the same stories in different packages.

So when did it become a terrible thing that I actually WANT to be in contact with someone I am getting to know?  No, I did not invite you to move into my house.  No, I did not ask you to let me move in to yours.  No, I did not ask you to come to my daughter’s debate team luncheon (I barely want to go to these events, I would not torture you with it), or be an umpire at my son’s baseball game, or help me sort books at the Friends of the Library sale.  I didn’t ask you to pay my taxes, or drive three hours for a lunch date, or meet my brother, or even ask you to stop dating other people (yet.  We haven’t had that conversation.)  I didn’t ask you to get a tattoo of our anniversary date, or buy me a ring, or get on one knee.  What I asked for was to say Good Morning back when I texted, maybe just once every couple days.  I asked you to actually call when you said you would. Like at 9 or so, after the game is over, and the kids are in bed, and you are not too drunk to hit redial. I asked you to plan a date you said you wanted when you left on Sunday morning, sometime before I accept another one with someone else because you didn’t make plans. 

I am not clingy or needy or bitchy because I want you to be interested, too.  Get to know me, too. Is it too much to expect you to find out a little bit about why I told you I like the new Maroon 5 CD, or why I am pouring a glass of the new Napa Valley Riesling, or if you had ever seen a particular movie, or if after telling me you were gone hiking without cell coverage on Friday, though the weekend, that you say you made it safely out on maybe Monday or Tuesday?  I am not trying to take over your world.  I am trying to share mine by whatever means we have available to each other in the limited amount of time and space in our very very busy universes.

That said, the fact that you are not coming through says something.  Maybe it is me.

Am I just flaky, or are you expecting me to be because of what society has said to you about the nature of commitment? Should I be a FWB, GGG, DTF, BDSM, 420, BBW, DDF, and HUR? Is that what I need to be to get your attention?  How about instead of all that, I just be myself? 

So this goes back to my original line about hoping my decisions stick.  I have made some of the decisions about relationships, and weight, and exercise, and cleaning before.  Resolutions, promises, plans, blah blah blah.  What I think has been missing is a really true loving kindness to myself.  I am kind to others, why not to myself? Why do I need to be sexy, thin, seductive, demure, readily available yet distant and uninterested, a mom, a cheerleader, super forgiving, never angry, AND have a clean house, no baggage, and the self-esteem of a mosquito to meet another person’s requirement?  And more importantly, do I HAVE TO keep beating myself up about it because I am not perfect?  Of course you didn’t call back, because I know all my flaws and I could not possibly live up to being normal, much less fantasy, material, right?  I know it, because kindness and forgiveness to myself is not really possible in this body, in this house, in this history.  I don’t deserve you.

So the decision is to not feel that way with EVERY.SINGLE.PERSON I meet. It is about finding value in exactly who I am and in the amazing things I offer. While at the same time being kind and willing to see my flaws, embrace them and change the ones I can, without judgement. I seriously wonder what that is gonna look like in practice.  Maybe like a clean kitchen.

*She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.* ~~Proverbs 31:26

 

 

 

 

Single-hood-ness-ish-like

I have had a lot of folks around me in the last several weeks talking about their current relationships. 

Some of the relationships are ending.  Some are leaving marriages (or have been left).  Some are dumping boyfriends or girlfriends.  Some are even mutually agreeing to go their separate ways.   These always have reasons.  Reasons for some of them seem obscure and out of left field, and I am sad to see these end because in the world-that-I-spin-in-my-head these are the relationships I had pinned my hopes to, the ones that offered the best glimpse of connections that are working.  I feel shocked when I hear the stories, always from the side of the person I am closest to at the time of the split, because who are we kidding, none of us are really gracious enough to stay truly neutral to friends who were “couple friends” once they aren’t a couple any more.  I can say, at least for myself, that I have very few couple friends even among the friends who are still in relationships.  I wonder if they ever really were “couples”, and that was how I always saw them, or if I really ever only wanted to be friends with one of the two, and the other person was just part of the package deal. A two-fer that I didn’t mind, but would not have picked. So hearing that person’s side sorta divides the camp anyway, but there is still a person missing at the end.  I wonder who I miss.

And there is always some terrible story.  Dishonesty in heart and body; addiction and selfish behavior; finances lost; lack of sex and affection; complete and total loss of love.  It breaks my heart.  I so want them to work, right up until I don’t, and then I have an opinion and can’t go back even if I wanted to.  I get it that I will support the friend that is left, and help them through whatever emotional disconnect they reign upon themselves, even if they are (in my opinion) stupid for trying to get back together.  I mean, didn’t I just hear their entire story of adultery and betrayal.  Didn’t I just hear about the gambling, and the drinking, and the never bathing, and how he or she wouldn’t change a diaper, but had no problems hoarding the remote?  Wasn’t I supposed to form an opinion?

But those who eventually recognize all the misery they are leaving, even if it was by mutual decision, are not the ones who worry me.  They will be fine.  They found love, found their limits, let love go, and moved on.  There is an adjustment time, depending on the severity and reasons for the split, but eventually, they do okay.  Time will heal them, and, given the right amount of friends who landed on their side of the line and a good vintage on a few bottles of wine, they won’t regret it.

The ones I worry about are the ones who jump out of one relationship they have labeled as “bad” back into another one.  It is my friends who have just been cheated on and so the relationship ended, who started dating someone who is still married.  It is my friends who left a relationship because there was never any money who hook up with someone who is unemployed.  It is my friends who have been fighting with their children’s other parent about lack of child support coming on time and missed visitation who get involved with someone who hasn’t seen their own child in months, and can’t remember the last time they wrote a check or called on a birthday. I want to shake them and yell “What the fuck are you doing?”  What makes that guy who is still married and cheating so great?  Why is the chick who ran up $70,000 in credit card debt and asks you for grocery and cigarette money so hot?  Since when is the dude with his drug dealer on speed dial and a history of having domestic calls to his apartment all that?  Misunderstood? Doing his best? Really a great guy? Emotionally mature but just fearful of commitment?  Who are these losers, and why are you even speaking to them? 

Maybe my friends are just living the life I would live too if my head was wrapped a different way.  I used to think I needed to have someone (anyone?) in my life who would have me just to keep from feeling alone, being alone.  Yes, it is crazy making to be raising two kids on my own, and a little adult help would be awesome.  Yes, an adult beverage in the form of happy hour after work with someone of equal desire for a laughs would be so welcome.  Yes, sex on a regular basis with someone who has a toothbrush in the cupholder on the sink would be great. But what of myself do I have to give up (again?) this time to have that?

I have been legit single from my marriage for about 6 years.  I have been single from a boyfriend of 9 months for about a year.  I have dated several people for a couple months at a time, and also not dated at all.  I have had both the excitement and tingliness of new people, and the boredom of it when they are not the right one and I stay anyway.  I have both turned into a mushy little cupcake of wanting to please the person by becoming what they want most (I am actually really good at being a codependent little flake), and being exactly the opposite of what they desire on purpose so they can just go away.

What this says about me, mostly, is that I am no longer accepting of behaviors that don’t move me, my likes, my life, and my love forward.  It says that I actually kinda like my life, flaws and all, as something I want to not compromise.  That really strong feeling that I am happy, all by myself, and that if I am blessed enough to meet someone who can move me to believe I want to change that, I will be open and willing.  Whoo hoo, a whole person I do not have to fix, who’s best quality is going to be his love, and life, and authenticity as it melds in my world, as much as I meld in his.

Back to the relationships of others for a second.  Trust me when I say there is no judgement in my desire for my friend’s happiness, I mean it.  I want them to feel whole all by themselves, and feel valued and loved in healthy, happy ways.  I also want them all to find the line that makes another mistake minimized.  Not to cut off love before it starts, but to cut off heartache.  Is that really too much to ask?  Too much to model?  Too much to work every day for?  I don’t think so.  But then again, I am single, in a really amazing relationship with myself.  I will (continue) to let you know how that is working out. Maybe over coffee (or wine) and we can share some of it together.  Build a good relationship that lasts.  I’m in.

 

 

Honey-Dos

I haven’t written a blog since July of 2015.  Yep, six months ago.

At my last posting I had just had my heart stomped at the end of a 9 month affair with someone that was not really every right for me, but who I loved just the same.  I don’t miss him, not really, at least not the actual him, but more what I loved about being inside of an “us”.  I realize I like the idea of being married or partnered, if not the actuality of being married, and want the stuff that goes with the partnership (and not just the sex, though…).

I got to have what I call a “husband” moment a few times recently.  By “husband” I mean that a man helped me with something man-like, and did it because I asked.  It was not that I could not have done it.  I could have.  I am actually really good at lots and lots of stuff that is traditionally male, and so are my girlfriends (we actually excel at this as a group, so this is not a feminist issue at all).  But there really is something kinda great about having a man in your life, outside of the bedroom, to just do stuff.

My daughter is working on a project that needs construction.  This involves power tools.  I own power tools.  I have a miter saw, a tile saw, a sander, a skil saw, a router and router table, and a wood lathe.  What she needed was a jigsaw.  I do not own a jigsaw.  So I asked a friend if he had one.  He did. He came over, brought his jigsaw and pack of saw blades, and cut the item she needed cut.  Could I have done it? Absolutely! Could I have just gone to the hardware store and purchased myself another power tool? You bet! The fact that he showed up, did it with me, and that we talked and laughed and worked as a team just because I asked is was what made it a husband moment.  I love him for it.

I have a queen-sized bed.  Well, really, I have a queen sized box spring and mattress on one of those metal Hollywood frames.  The frame is up on cinderblocks for the footing because I wanted the bed a little higher.  This, however, makes the mattress harder to turn and move, and the frame squeaks. I needed to turn the mattress, and tighten the screws.  So I asked a friend to help me. He did.  We moved the mattress, he moved the box spring, and with tools he carries in his car (people do this? Oh wait, um, men do this), he adjusted the frame, added a stabilizer, put felt pads on the bottom of the cinderblocks, and helped put the bed back together.  Could I have moved the bed? Yep, too easy.  Could I have found tools in my garage to tighten everything and add a bracket? Sure, no problem! The fact that he showed up, did it with me, and that we talked and laughed and worked as a team is what made it a husband moment.  And I love him for it.

A couple weeks ago, my son finally had the beginning of what I hope is his light bulb moment.  He has been struggling for a while with puberty, loss, existential thoughts of his place in the world, and boredom.  I am his mom, and though I get it that he is changing, I am still female, and even with a wonderful tribe of strong women, our estrogen is not really going to meet his testosterone needs. I needed a male just to talk to him, figure out what is going on, and try to explain it to me so I can participate.  So, I asked for help. And set up a Skype call to one of my best friends, a guy who understands my language, and could translate my son’s language for me.  After the video call, I got the debrief and heard, from a male point of view, what my son is saying and doing.  Could I have been there for my son for all the things listed? Of course, and I am, and always have been.  Could I have found a way to talk to my son the same way? Maybe. But my friend is male and that was the part that made the difference.  The fact that he showed up, did it with me, and that we talked and laughed and worked as a team is what made it a husband moment.  And I love him for it.

So, how does this translate in to my real world, and my desires?  I know that it means I know that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself and my kids. I think it also means that I can recognize in myself that just because I am strong and able, doesn’t mean I can accept assistance.  I think it also means that I absolutely appreciate the things that only men in my life provide.  No, I am not changing my absolute knowledge that women are amazing and worthy and really do run the world with their energy and abilities and skills.  I know that, deep down, I have zero issues in getting things done when they need to be done. 

There is not neediness in the statement that I like the partnership that men provide me.  I love men.  I’d love to have one (even any of the ones listed above) in my life in a partnership beyond what they already provide.  I can see it, without any of the requirements to doing it in any traditional fashion, or even any of the moves to make it happen.  None of it is so pressing that I am worried about it, but it did make me realize that I like it.  I mean like in a way that makes me open to having partnership in a real way.  For the first time in a while (could it be six months?) this feels like an okay thing. It might just be happiness talking, or maybe just being more comfortable in my own skin to ask for help, but I like it.

If nothing else, it got me to write a blog. 

Love and Sadness

I have been sad for the last little bit. 

This is not depression.  I know what depression is, and how it feels in my body and in my head.  When my son, Seth, died, THAT was depression.  I walked through mud.  I don’t know if my heart was beating because I wasn’t listening to it anyway.  I made it to work and was disgustingly efficient in my job.  Not because I gave a shit, but because if not, I would have had to slit my wrists with the tediousness of it all.  I did not have the energy to move, to breathe, to feel.  It was all a wash, I was the clouds, nothing felt good because nothing felt bad.  I was feeling nothing.  No pain. No anger. No hurt.  No love. No gratitude. No guilt. No connection to anyone or anything.  I didn’t even have the energy for lonely, because that was a far way off, and I couldn’t get there. I just didn’t care.

So this, this is sadness.

To be very clear, this is not about any one person.  He, well, he is just a starting point and an ending point to this little piece of the story.  I miss him.  Something terrible if truth be told, but not enough to hate him, or want what I thought we had, back.  I have learned.  What I miss, and what I am struggling with, is the part of myself that I felt while being there.  I miss how open I felt.  I miss how honest I was.  I miss the sense of building, and staying present, in the quiet spaces that seemed a thread in my world. I miss how I felt worthy.  How the sharing of deeper thoughts and deeper love moved me, helped define me, made me better.  I had seen through, and past, all the very surface flaws, in him and in myself, and had accepted that for grace.  I have no regrets.

In the process of learning all this, the feeling I have of missing part of who I was, and who I still want to be, I shared the whole thing with my children.  Yeah, yeah, go ahead and give me the lecture about adult conversations around children, but since this was directly in their path, their input on their mom’s journey is important.  Here is what I learned:

      

     My son was totally taken in by the facade.  He believed the lie.  He had adapted himself to believing that people are always good, something I had always encouraged.  He understands about lies, and actually thinks he is a good liar (He is not, but he is 11. He might get better). He also understands, without a doubt, that lies are a choice.  That there is never a good excuse for a lie, no matter what you tell yourself, and that lying never actually helps, even if you think so in the short term.  He also gets that he had nothing to do with the lie, and it said nothing about him, and everything about the teller.  My son has lied, been caught, had to pay the consequences, and more important, been decidedly made to actually have to stand up for the lies, own them. In person. Take the fall out.  He learned, perhaps the hard way, that not everyone sees life that way, and won’t come through for him.  But he doesn’t want to give it up. That would be a dangerous place for him.  It would mean that the lie won.  And from an 11 year old perspective, there is only win and lose. For my end of it, and what I learned about myself is that I take full responsibility for his anger, his doubt, and his ability to adapt.  Bad things happen, but who you are in the midst of bad things is actually the best judge of your worth.  I put someone capable of lying in his path, and trusted, myself, that my judgment was not skewed. I was wrong. My judgment was completely wrong, blinded even, but I helped my son understand that even though there was a lie that caused the pain, it was not his or my lie.  We stayed intact, and true to our own beliefs about trust and love, and that we did not want any of that to change. Not ever.  We would not let this, my son’s disappointment and confusion, define us.  We got to stay exactly who we are. And he was sad.

      

     My daughter was not even remotely taken in by the facade.  She saw everything.  She knew, for her, and without a doubt, that talk is cheap, actions mean more, and that consistency of actions make the most impact.  She knows that people are flawed, but that recognizing flaws and doing better is the only way to make things work.  Watch, learn, do something different the next time.  Apologies are not needed in her world if not accompanied with actions that make the apologies real.  So, lie, but figure your shit out and don’t do it again, like ever.  Judge, but figure your shit out, and don’t do it again, like ever. Be sarcastic, and cruel, and distant, and hurtful, but do it because you didn’t know better, and then when you know better, do better.  She saw, without a doubt, that the same mistakes were being made in our world that had been made in others, all without remorse, responsibility, or attempt at change. And that while she knew that my son and I were being taken in the wake, she was gonna stand out and watch until we figured it out, and did better.  She knew we would.  She had seen both of us live with our hearts on our sleeves before, and come through when we finally had it stomped enough to have a lightbulb moment.  She decided she loved me, if not the relationship, and knew, even as I doubted myself, that I would get out of it eventually, ethics and honesty would win. She was right.  And could point it all out in black and white, accurately and unquestionable.  She was worried that I had lost myself, that I didn’t see. And she was sad.

     

      Me.  Well, I saw the facade, ignored it, and let my heart lead.  I saw how things didn’t add up, but also believed that “surface” was not my point of view.  I was confident about my own worth, about my own authentic part.  I was truthful and forgiving, and accepting, in a way that I wanted the real people in my life to be.  I was my son and daughter combined. Open, but too trusting.  Honest, but giving away too much.  Building and present, but with a foundation that was too unstable. Aware, but too forgiving.  I had done exactly what I had hoped I wouldn’t do, and exactly what I wanted to do at the same time.   No matter how healthy I was in my approach, in my actions, in my trust, if the other person I picked couldn’t keep up or adapt, then my progress forward both inside and outside of the relationship was flawed.  I could do nothing about it, but watch the trainwreck occur, sure, for some completely unnameable reason, that love would be enough. And I was sad.

So back to the sadness.  I am sad because I miss him.  Something terrible if truth be told, but not enough to hate him, or want what I thought we had, back.  I have learned.  What I miss, and what I am struggling with, is the part of myself that I felt while being there.  I miss how open I felt.  I miss how honest I was.  I miss the sense of building, and staying present, in the quiet spaces that seemed a thread in my world. I miss how I felt worthy.  I am sad because, for this one moment in time, I was wrong, and love was not enough.  That is a rough lesson. 

But here is the other lesson I needed to remember.  Love is an action.  Love as a verb meant that this was perfect. I knew exactly how it looked, how it felt, who I was, and what kind of gratitude I was made aware of every day simply because of the flaws.  I had my own beliefs about love tested, and I did not fail.  My sadness is that there are still people in my world, in my children’s world, who don’t get it.  Who still see love as some kind of feeling that requires no work.  It took having this sadness to realize that maybe I need to work on it more for myself.  Love myself with the same kind of love (as an action) as I have been giving.  Let myself feel everything I experienced in giving it away to stay in my world and grow.  The sadness is that it is not there yet.  I am still in doubt.  Can I do it, find love where it already lives and work to keep it, grow it, cherish it? No matter what kind of package it comes in, especially if the package is me?

Nope, not depression. I care about this.  And sadness will serve me just fine to move me forward.