Scarborough Fair

Sometimes you get to have a great weekend. 

Sometimes, the weekend gets to have you.  This is about one of those weekends.

In my continuing journey of figuring out what to have in my world as a foundation, and what to let go of, I spent the weekend in a series of emotional, heart opening, all in, don’t walk away until I was clear kind of conversations.  I learned some things.

First, I am not always present.  When I am, I know it.  I recognize this as grace.

I have written about this before, about how I think I know what someone else’s story is before they have told it, just from the gleaned details and sometimes even rumors.  I work on this constantly, realizing that I like things in little boxes that I can control.  My own tendencies towards co-dependency and the need to rescue and fix things.  It is hard for me to watch someone in pain, partly because I hurt for them, and partly because I hurt for myself at not being able to help.  I caught myself starting to do this. Not much, just a little, and thank the Universe I have made it this far. 

Lunch on Friday was divine.  Heartbreaking and village building, and hard, but divine.  I didn’t understand my friend’s level of commitment and forgiveness in the face of some really hard choices.  I didn’t understand how anger had not taken over.  I couldn’t imagine spinning in her Universe and holding it together so well.  

I stopped and listened to her heart.  She was holding it together by sheer will because really, if she didn’t, her whole world would implode in a nasty ugly way, and the wake would take out everyone it her path.  She was breathing, and making mistakes, and owning them, and being honest, and rambling, and confused, and scared, and moving forward and backward, all at the same time.  And I love her more than she could possibly know for allowing me to see her strength, and her need for support, all while downing a diet coke and fiddling with her bra straps.  I will be present for her any time she allows me. Love is like that. This was grace.

Dinner on Friday was divine.  I cooked dinner at a friend’s house, while he sorta puttered and played with is dog, and did dishes.  He left me alone to chop veggies and make polenta, after I had just told him that cooking is therapy for me.  He had been working on a friend’s car when I walked in, so we hadn’t really greeted each other.  So now, 45 minutes into my arrival, he stood behind me and wrapped his arms around me, and sorta snuggled in.  He whispered against my neck the words “Thank you for being here”.

I melted.  Not the way you melt with crushes or hot messes.  But the way that relaxes your whole body without even knowing you were needing it.  Actual physical touch.  Until that very second, I had been only in my head.  Spinning the conversation I was anticipating having, trying to figure out words that I had no idea how to create, tensing my muscles, brewing my own storm.  Thinking I knew already exactly how this was gonna go.  I had been in this place before, or thought I had.  Closed. Confused. Walls up. Afraid of what kind of hurt was possible, what kind of daggers I could throw, what kind of devastation I could create?  Just how badly could I fuck up my world, with no mercy?  

I stopped and listened to his heart.  He had been spinning the same things.  What kind of devastation was he bringing to my world?  How much heartache could he command before he lost himself?  How would he find the words he wanted to say, feeling like he had no practice at getting it right himself? Would being quiet and grateful be enough?  Would his vulnerability cause chaos or understanding?  Would all his walls up be better because then he couldn’t fuck up yet another relationship (romantic or not) the way he felt he had fucked up everything else. His world spinning, and he just wanted some peace, too.  Both of us slowing down just to enjoy dinner, and fresh washed flannel sheets was divine.  Love is like that.  This was grace.

Second, I am sometimes angry.  I am not at my best understanding when I am angry. When I choose to stop, and not walk away when all my instincts are telling me to run, I recognize this as trust.

Saturday night (it was really Sunday morning) I got into a fight with someone I love deeply.  He and I have known each other a long time.  Too long for the bullshit we spun with each other. He yelled.  I yelled. We both used the work fuck a few too many times.  We both walked away a few times with the other eventually convincing us to come back, or seeking them out, not allowing them to walk away.

I knew, even while we were arguing, that this would pass, and even if strained, we would be fine.  I could wrap my brain around that his anger was not directed at me, but was frustration bottled up in an out of his control situation spinning his world.  A life changing kind of out of control, that, for self-preservation’s sake, he had checked out on.  His fear and disappointment at the wasted possibilities and an unclear future had him feeling alone.  He could not trust me that I wasn’t walking out, too.  How could he?  What possible proof could I hope to provide that everything would be fine, when I didn’t have any?  

I could wrap my brain around that my anger was not directed at him, but at my frustration over not understanding.  How could he be so angry?  How could he not see how amazing a time this is right now for him, even in the chaos?  How could he not see that he was pushing away help and complaining about being alone at the same time?  How could he not see that right then, even though I was pissed, I wasn’t going to let him wade through his shit by himself?  No, this was not me being co-dependent (at least not in any way that put me at risk, please read my other blogs to get this).  I was not taking on his problems or fears, just shining a light that checking out is not gonna help, and angry that right then, at fucking 3am (probably still drunk, because a fight like this never happens without alcohol), while holding his hand, I had zero skills to convey this to him.  Zero, none at all and I was trying anyway.  Strength would come.  One step in front of the other.  Love is like that.  This was trust.

Monday morning I sat in a room with a whole bunch of other people struggling with unfulfilled expectations.  I held a friend’s hand as he accepted love from this group in the form of a small piece of aluminum. A tiny little reminder that for the last 60 days, one of those expectations was not quite as unfulfilled.  I was there, listening.  Keeping my heart open to my own way of understanding something that is not my issue.  My friend hadn’t asked me to come, not really, just told me he had someplace important to be that morning, and would I still be snuggled in flannel when he got back.  I knew all about it, of course, I had been paying attention for the last few months, and can recognize both jubilance and trepidation at the journey he is on.  It is new, and old at the same time.  Putting, for the first time, faith in himself.  For that morning, he needed a little bit of celebration and cheering in his life.  I think it is rare, and I had it to give without any cost to my own journey.  Maybe I needed to know, too, that he is strong, and I don’t need to take care of him, and couldn’t even if I wanted to.  But that I wasn’t afraid, because one step in front of the other has been working for me with my own special breed of addiction, and it could for him, too.  The whole room knew it. He was not alone.  Love is like that.  This was trust.

Third, and most important, I am sometimes doubtful and fearful.  I can spin things.  I can find fault in myself without even having to pause.  This weekend was not like that.   I recognize this as strength.

In all the times this weekend, I put people first.  For a woman like me who has spent years building walls with traps and devices and barbed wire all around to keep people out with fear of hurt and depression, that I didn’t wall myself up is amazing.  I was tempted, to just shut down.  Not connect.  Not join in.  Comply. Wait. Judge. Compartmentalize. Overthink. Spin. 

I let whatever was going to happen, happen.  No rules.  No shoulds.  No judgments.  I kept myself present, always in exactly what was happening, and not planning the next thing.  Not checking out. Not shutting down.  Not throwing matches.  I am sure there could have been some fall out, and I don’t pretend for one fucking second that I may not be a basket case in 5 minutes, but not this weekend.  The genuine me showed up.  Turns out, love is like that.  This was strength.

What happens next, I have no idea.  I am going to let grace and trust and strength find me again in all the small places I let in find me this time.  Maybe the word that sums it all up is faith.  Yep, love is like that, too.

Cornerstones

It is the new year.  You might think this is the time to leave old things behind, and move forward.  Trust me, this was my thought, too, as I started.  The whole letting go process is a strange beast, and I have had several conversations with friends recently about where our lives are moving, keeping ourselves open to possibilities, and just being happy.  I like it, and am actually in a really good place.

Except for tactile memories that keeping pulling me back into the past, and then (because why the fuck my brain works this way I don't know) start spinning about every single memory associated with that time.

This is one of them.  As this it the year of "bricks and matches" (bricks to use as foundations and solid pathways, and matches to burn the rest. No regrets.) I have an old memory to share.  A brick. Truth is this story belongs to one person, and a second person who I wanted to share it with.  That isn't going to happen any time soon because I don't fit in his world, but that does not change my need to share it.  Bricks and Matches.  Foundation and Letting go.

Sophomore year.  I was 15.  It was early November, just after homecoming, and in my confused little world, I had a small group of friends I was completely loyal to.  Sophomore girls bonded by being busmates, and periodically giggly, and senior boys that several of the girls were dating.  I actually think that is how we became friends with the boys at all.

I was NOT hooked up with any of the guys.  I was invisible and a tag along for the most part, and also for the most part, I liked it that way.  There was one guy in the group that was kinda like that, too.  Not invisible, but also not hooked up.  He and I spent lots of time together, not kissing, not holding hands, and not being giggly. We were friends.  Keep reading, because this distinction is important.

As football players (they all were, the boys, so of course), our regular routine for that autumn was to go to football games.

The last game of the season was out of town.  It was not an important game and, like all out of town games, was not really going to be well attended by our side. We, as a group, did not really attend the junior varsity game, saving all of our attention for the main event and meeting up after the game.  So when my friend asked us (the group) to show up to this out of town game, and to be sure to make it to the JV game, it seemed important.  I paid attention.

Of our group, I was the only one, besides the guy, to show up by the start of the JV game. 

In the space of the maybe ¾ of an hour he and I were alone in our section of the bleachers, one of those once-in-a-lifetime conversations happened.

I know I specifically asked him why he wanted us there at this game.  If you had known him, you would know he was one of the most reliable guys around, but not much of a talker.  Even in my childish immature brain I knew that when he started talking, whatever he said was important. I listened.

He told me he had to be at the game, start to finish, because his brother was playing.  His sophomore brother.  My friend would be graduating and this game was the last time, ever, that he would be able to do that. As a kid. As a highschooler with no responsibilities. With one small connection to his kid brother.  It was all about love.

And we talked about it.  About love.  About sex.  About responsibility.  About truth, and friendship, and showing up.  It was just me, and him, and the whole world.  I heard in his words, and his presence, that connection was important, even when we were too young and too dumb to have words for it. We felt it, in a big way, and it was everything.  Nothing else mattered, no matter what ever else we ended up doing, stay in the moment. And for that magical 45 minutes, we did.  Just us.  Wrapped up in a friendship we could not possibly have known would happen, and could not possibly sustain.  The moment, right then, was what mattered, at least for me.  It changed how I saw lots and lots of things from that moment on, even when, as an adult, I forgot. 

If it mattered to him, I have no way of knowing, if he even remembers the conversation at all.

Of course, I was young, and stupid, and could not possibly have come up with the words to tell him I loved him.  Could not possibly have come up with the words to tell him how the conversation, short and intense, had just changed me.  How him loving his brother, and then staying present with me, in the only way he had, had registered in my immature little world.  I had listened and learned and had no way to thank him.

So as things in my life this year have become more and more amazing, this theme of staying present has resurfaced. Maybe I never lost it, but that conversation three decades ago really has been a grounding spot.  Some truth I forgot or ignored.  And staying present to not be afraid of the deeper meanings and connections has been amazing.  It is freeing. And grounding.  And real.  I am grateful.  Turns out love is like that.  My friend knew that.  Actually I think we both did, right that second, in the bleachers, in November of 1981.  A brick I did not even recognize, that is truly a foundation I cherish.  I hope he knows that I love him, somewhere deep.  I hope his brother knows it, too.

Cracks in the mortar

I met someone. 

Before you starting thinking this is a sappy love story, or worse, a crap breakup story, it is neither.  Not that I wouldn't write about either of those here (It is my blog after all, and well, if you have ever read it you know that I write what ever I am feeling with no apologies) but this is not that.  This is about gratitude that I wasn't even expecting.

I divorced a little over five years ago.  And having never actually been legally married in the state of California to my children’s father, this was a rather easy process.  I packed up all my shit, with the help of overly organized friends, and several pitchers of watermelon margaritas, and just got shit done.  My whole house, with everything that I considered mine or my kids’, accumulated and scattered, now neatly packed in boxes and ready to carry out to the truck.

That giant wall of cardboard really was the beginning a larger internal wall I created.  Not just created, but cultivated.  I would even say proud of because all that heartache and loneliness that came with the end of my decade long marriage was barricaded.  All that emotion could stay there, and I could just go on with my life, empty though it was, in relative peace.  I could be strong and compotent.  I could be reliable and steady.  I could be heartless and distant, all in the name of never feeling hurt.  I had had enough hurt to last me until the day after forever (read the other blogs, you will know this) and this would be no different. It was familiar territory.

A few months ago, at an event I wasn't even planning to be at, something changed.  To back up a bit, and to be fair to the other people who have wandered into my life, I HAVE been able to “feel” something a few times, and even tentatively try to move something forward.  All with limited success, which I take full responsibility for because I don’t think I was all in, and my fear based attempts kept any of them (read that as men) from actually getting to know me.  My previous models had taught me that you hide your true self, only ask questions you already know the answers to, wait and give only what has been deemed proper for the situation.  In my case that has ranged the gambit from going camping (I hate camping), to eating out at places I did not enjoy, watching movies that I thought were stupid, to sex, and lots of that, without bothering to ask for anything. 

That may seem strange to those of you reading who are well adjusted, not depressed, and functioning in the healthy world. But in my head, how could I possibly ask for anything?  I wasn't worthy of things.  I don’t deserve them, because, well, you only get things when you are beautiful, and strong, and loved, and as a complete failure at that, proven by the end of my first marriage, the end of my relationship with my children’s father, and the death of my son, I did not deserve it.  Yes, all that stuff still spins in my head.  It is complex and simple at the same time.  Logical and insane, both.

So back to the event.  I was there, having a great time with people I had not seen in a very long time, and one person connects.  I was not ready for it, but I didn't fight it either.  That was new.  It was easy.  Granted, there was alcohol involved, and since none of the people in the room are in my same everyday circles, I could be whomever I wanted, and no matter what that was, didn't matter.  I could have been the ruler of Nigeria and a Nobel Prize winner, and it would have been the same.  That kind of energy is periodically wonderful, until that one person presented as real and genuine and, without even knowing how it happened, I was doing the same.   The real me was there.  The laughter and the happiness was real.  The conversation was delightful and witty and charming, and before I knew it, the evening was over, and I was missing it already.

Missing it?  Missing what?  My big old wall up around me, sealed with a history of abuse and insecurity and pain, there to protect me from feeling anything that could hurt, was no where to be found.  It wasn't there.  I was a big vulnerable dork, doomed it seemed, to figure this out without any walls at all.

So I did.  I admitted to the man that I had been thinking about him.  I admitted I wanted to spend time with him. I asked for times just to get to know more about him.  I listened very very carefully to everything he said.  I was paying attention, looking for all the good things, and not being my usual doubtful fearful self.  The self that finds ALL of the reasons why something won’t work before anyone with a sledgehammer comes anywhere near my wall.  Scared, and out of my comfort zone. There was no wall.

To his defense, he could not have possibly known any of this.  He could not possibly have known that his presence in my world came with old, old memories of someone he and I both love, and a story about him I (still) badly wanted to share.  He could not possibly have known that when I was asking him questions about himself and his world,  I truly wanted to know, and not just as superficial conversation.  He could not possibly have known that my persistence at wanting to see him was just excitement and happiness that for the first time in a really long time I felt safe enough to not hide. He could not have known that I had been screaming from the other side of the wall, and that an unexpected whisper was what made the wall evaporate.  He probably thought I was needy and insane, when nothing is further from the truth. I was confident and happy and letting whatever I was feeling and thinking just be.  It is disconcertingly calming, making being in my everyday world happier.  No fear. and that should have scared me, but weirdly, didn't.

I am sure he is just a regular guy, with no extraordinary powers or God-given insight into healing hearts.  I am sure he is nursing his own wounds (I was paying attention, remember) and just living his life. So really, this wall being gone is not about him at all.  The small cynical side of me that says I know better than to think that connection like this happens as a two way street, is fully aware that he was not asking questions and listening to me the way I was to him.  The small cynical side of me knows that I was making all the effort, and that he was just being polite to respond at all.  The small cynical side of me knows that he could not possibly have kept up with, or even understood, how I could sustain the excitement, because this was ME, tearing down my own wall.  I let him just be a catalyst, and the small cynical side of me has no doubt that he has no idea, (any more than the person we both love has any idea just what kind of importance he played, decades ago) in me figuring out a tiny portion of love for myself.  If he does read this, I hope he recognizes himself as important and loved, even if I am not part of his world.

So yeah, I am feeling a little wounded, but mostly I feel grateful.  Yep, that’s what I said, grateful.  It means that that wall hasn't taken over completely.  That I am not so damaged that there is not truth and possibility, and love.  I am grateful that I am being kind and good to myself, and could recognize that kindness in someone else, even un-reciprocated. It means that I get to allow hope back into my world with out feeling like I am going to die if the wall has any cracks.  I am not saying that the wall isn't back up.  It fully is, without a doubt.  I just know now that it doesn't have to always be there, and that I am just as strong on this side.

Maybe instead of a wall next time, I will just find wings. It isn't about meeting someone after all.

Back to our regularly scheduled writing.

It is the middle of the night.  Like insomnia Hell.  Too many thing rattling in my brain. If I were to write a blog right now, and I am still not sure this will end up as a blog, I would start by telling you that I HAVE been writing, just not here, and not about my life.  Maybe that is a problem. I guess I am about to fix that.  After midnight is a strange creature.

I have been working on short stories and novellas.  I hope to submit them, eventually, and that portion of my creative juices have been all over the map, much like my life, and I have been enjoying the process, for the most part, when it happens at like normal hours.  No such luck today, but whatever. 

November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and I have succeeded in registering.  That means only 10,000 words to go and I have more of the never-ending-novel done.  This is completely unrealistic, and deliciously un-doable, but I will be attempting it anyway. Not tonight, because the spinners are taking all my time.

So,  THAT writing process will not happen at all it I don’t get some of the things spinning in my head and heart out on paper first, thus, this blog. So here goes, a sorta stream of consciousness about where I am at.

I was dating a very *nice* man.  Yes, I met him online.  He is cute, has beautiful blue eyes (they melt me), has a job, is buying his house, has grown children, and likes puppies.  He drinks his coffee with cream, brings his dog breakfast leftovers, and knows how to fix anything on a car. He is a good kisser (more about this in a second), and is a gentleman when it comes to things like opening doors and paying the check (I tried to pick it up, he wouldn’t let me). I met him at his house one time, and (found out) he smokes heavily (like lighting one cigarette with the other one), his house smells like he chain smokes, with the additional lingering smell of “medical marijuana” (his roommate’s) mixed with stale beer (his, in bottles all over the counters and kitchen table). I have only been to his house that once, because previous to that one time, I had met him for dates at public locations, he didn’t smoke in front of me (never mentioned it actually, or had it listed on his dating profile), brushed his teeth and wore clean clothes,  making the kissing at the end of the dates very nice.  During those times he smelled like soap and laundry detergent, and coffee (we usually met for breakfast), and that good kind of man smell that goes with nice, hard working guys.  The time at his house was the most turned off (I didn’t even kiss him goodbye, and I liked kissing him) I have been in a really long time. It made me sad and unable to really talk to him because I haven’t yet figured out exactly how to tell him that I liked that being near him (yes, just the one time, the other times away from his house were fine)  but now it makes me want to take a shower.  Without him. At my own house. Immediately. I think I was in shock.  It goes with how much more I must really need to work on, because I can’t accept it, and don’t want to even try to move forward with it.  He has texted me every day since then, and I have answered, reminding him just how much I hate text conversations, and could he please call later that night after 9pm (kids in bed, priorities) and we can talk then.  He starts these texts (yes, every day) with “Sorry I couldn’t call last night.  Had a couple beers and fell asleep watching a movie”. I want to tell him why I won’t be seeing him again, but not via text. So I guess I have breakfast with him one more time. Publicly. No kissing.  I know this sounds like I am a bitch, but it would make me crazy on about 100 different levels to never be able to go to his house (presumable for sex, eventually, which would be a turn off, sorta defeating the whole thing, right?), and I don’t want to change him at all. I don’t even want to try to live with it.  I know, bitch.  But I have done this already, both the expecting a guy to change AND the saying nothing about it but living with it.  I am not saying that relationships aren’t compromises, but if something as basic as smoking and drinking is the thing that turns your partner off, shouldn’t you just acknowledge it and move on.  Politely (though how the hell I say “I’m sorry, can’t kiss you anymore, or come to your house, because you kinda smell bad.” is beyond me). 

I totally know that I need to be okay with this decision, letting go and all, so read on.

  

There is another man I met recently.  Not online.  Not in a bar, though we were drinking.  The conversation was funny, interesting, easy, flirty, and we both mingled, talked to other people, had a great time the whole evening. I stole his Karate Kid button from the front of his shirt, and he kissed me good night.  It made me feel tingly.  I know, that sounds so teenager, but I don’t have a better word to describe it.  I am sure he has zero interest in going out with me, and we didn’t exchange numbers or anything, so it is kinda moot, but it reminded that I love that feeling.  The easy attraction.  The laughter and no jealousy.  The end of a really good evening, and the idea that it could be that easy all the time.

I miss that.

Some of you will read this and think what a pathetic loser that sounds like.  Giving up a guy who is interested in you because it doesn’t feel right, and feeling squishy over someone who doesn’t know you exist in the real world.  But it doesn’t sound pathetic to me.  It sounds, for the first time in a long time, as NOT desperate.  That if I really thought about it, I want someone in my life who makes me tingle without trying.  Maybe it’s not the guy with questionable taste in 1980’s movies paraphernalia, but it is not the guy with the pot-smoking roommate, either. 

And it is not a bad thing that I want it.  I want someone who meets my values, my interests, my background, my work ethic, my desires, my past choices, my beliefs, and my plans for the future.  Is it really too much to ask to meet someone who has not been arrested for DUI (I never have been arrested, is it really that hard?); or who doesn’t borrow money from his parents to pay his electricity bill (I haven’t done that in almost 30 years); or who votes (yeah, like for President) and doesn’t think you are wasting your time when you do; or has a passport (because it is an important document for things like, um, travel); or who has books on a shelf anywhere in his house (books he might actually have read)?  I can do all of that for myself, so why would I want anything less from a partner?  Why would they want anything less for theirs?  I WANT the conversation and I want the lust.  I want the giggles and I want the shoulder.  I don’t want someone just to sleep with, but someone to wake up with.  I want someone who I love and trust when we aren’t sleeping together .  I want a best friend who is also a lover.  A lot to ask, but why not?  The other way hasn’t worked, and I’ve end up feeling stressed about not getting enough, or frustrated by giving too much.  And since I am clearly single, and not really that sad about it, why is picking something better than what I have had a bad idea.  The worst that could happen is that I would still be single, duh, and make choices for myself that I get to enjoy. 

But I would watch Fast Times at Ridgemont High.  Maybe while writing, since, no doubt, this whole blog was just to kill time (and clear my head) instead working on my novel.  A little over 1400 words, too.  Just about what I would need to write daily for NaNoWriMo to have it matter. Good job, Elise, now that you are not spinning stuff in your head, maybe a good short story is in order. Or sleep, whichever.

Green is the new Black

This morning, when I saw my daughter after her weekend with her father, she ran up to me and gave me a big hug.  She then pulled me aside and whispered “Mom, I am wearing a new bra.”

As a woman, I totally understand how new bras make you feel.  Pretty, worthy, flirty.  Do I dare say perky?  They are expensive items that are often rare in a poor girl’s world.  I was totally happy for her.  She picked out a totally appropriate bra for her age and size.  She is 12.  This is not her first bra; she has been “developing” for over a year, and the “first bra” ritual was over a year ago.  The one she showed me, and the two she described, were pretty cotton,  no push-ups or lacey things, and the exact right size for her long and lean, but growing body.

Her excitement was palpable.  I completely understood.

So it took every bit of my energy and theater skills to not sink in utter desperation that she did this not with her dad, but with her dad’s wife.

I am going to out-myself right this second and say that my main emotion was a kind of seriously fucked up jealousy.  Not just envy.  This was a total green-eyed monster bitch that almost made me pull out an nail file and sharpen my nails.  How the fuck did the psycho bitch my ex fucking married end up having any kind of girl bonding moment with MY daughter?  I mean, how the fuck does that happen?  And why the fuck did my daughter go with that bitch anyway?  Isn’t buying a bra (not the give-me-money kind of buy, THAT would have been acceptable) the kind of thing you do either alone, with your mom, or with someone you are having fun with (girlfriends and lovers are in the category)?  So what the fuck. How was this not something I was a part of.  I am her fucking mom.  

 My.Fucking.Job.She.Is.My.Fucking.Daughter.So.Hands.Off.Bitch.

Yes. Thank you.  That was my rant.  I felt every single bit of that rage kind of emotion in the first five second.  And then, I bit my tongue, told my daughter how pretty she was and that she made a good choice, and choked back the absolute knowledge that other people get a piece of her and I get no say. Not one tiny bit.  She gets to pick who and what she wants in her life, and I get to stand back and watch.  I can choose to either be the supportive mother I hope I am modeling (93% of the time), or I can be the controlling, angry, mean, psycho that reared her ugly fangs before getting a grip (and a clue) and taking a stab at the highroad.

So in the 15 seconds of ugly, and the five hours since of it rattling in my brain, I came to conclusion that kinda startled me (yeah, what delusional world was I living in?) and maybe made me grow up just a little.  I figured out that my daughter gets to have her own life (duh!) but that maybe, just maybe, I get my own life, too.  She can figure out what she wants, who she chooses to get it from, how the interactions go, whom she trusts, why someone is in her life, and what her own boundaries are.  And, wow, if I can get past my own fucked up head, so do I.

She is clearly handling this better than I am, the letting go of other people’s choices that have nothing to do with me.  I still crave consistency and control, left over insecurity from the chaos that was my relationship with my daughter’s father.  I wrap myself so tightly into the identity of her (and her brother’s) mother from a time when if I did not have that identity, I surely would have spun off the planet into some dangerous nebula of toxic gases, leaving in my wake a type of destruction that only addicts and asylum patients can relate to. (You did read my rant above, right?  Yeah, Jack Nicolson’s got nothing on me some days.)

I will go home tonight, and do the good mom thing, and fix dinner, and do laundry, and read over homework.  I will play some board game, and read to them, and talk about our days.  I may tell my daughter of my feelings, admit my weaknesses, but probably not.  I think I will also text some friends, read some porn, watch an R rated movie with my headphones, and paint my toenails, and try, somewhere in the midst of all of that, to keep trying to find my identity, and not be afraid to have it be something else, that letting go of the fear might just help me find another place to hang on.  Maybe that next place will be kinder, and feel like a star instead of a blackhole. 

I also think I will buy myself a new bra.

A stronger place

A week from today, my sister comes to California. 

I will see her.  I don’t yet know how I will react.

The story, for those that don’t already read my blog and have heard about it is that I have three sisters, and three brothers.  As an adopted child, I never even knew about five of these siblings until I was in my late 20’s, just the one I consider my actual brother, raised in the same house, also an adoption.

The ones I was not raised with live in Germany.  I don’t know them, not really. I met one of my sisters, the same one that is coming next week, 11 years ago.

This is where my story gets to be rated as drama.

Back 11 years ago, when my sister decided to visit from Germany, I had only been talking to *that* family for about 3 years.  This had been through letters and emails.  We had talked on internet chat, and once, a phone call.  We had exchanged pictures and polite Christmas cards. The sister that was the most in contact (and eventually the one that came to visit) was naturally the one that has the best English skills, and the best access to computers.  It was exciting to talk to her, learn about the way she and my other siblings grew up, and had I not been adopted, would have been a part of.  The idea of meeting, in person, was the most perfect thing ever.

She came to visit when I was still married.  I also happened to be 7 months pregnant with my youngest child.  I was in my deliciously and delusionally happy phase of my relationship, with a toddler who made me smile every second of the day, and having an easy pregnancy even with my own deep-seated fears about death of a baby, and the unreconciled depression I had not yet dealt with from the stillbirth of my first son 3 years earlier.  I was happy to be entering this new relationship with a sibling, and introducing her to my family and friends, not to mention my husband and daughter,  and it was fitting in perfect with the way I thought I wanted my life.  It seemed like my trust and fear issues were being resolved in one planned 16 day vacation.  I was in heaven.

The first two weeks were delicious.  My husband and I had to work during the day, each for a few hours, me at my interpreting job, him at his office supply job, and my daughter went to her grandparents, while my sister borrowed my car and did all her exploring.  In the evening we went to dinner, or cooked, or went to friends, just like we did any other time, and she just came along.  We played with clothes and make-up and giggled.  We dressed my daughter (then only 18 months old) in funny outfits and went for walks. 

About 5 days in, she told me about her day at the beach, and about a man she met there, and how she was going back the next day to see him, and maybe they would have lunch.  I listened intently and a bit jealously because he seemed divine, and a summer fling would have been just my speed when I had been single.  I did not begrudge her anything because she had already told me about the very recent and tragically painful end (like 6 weeks before her vacation) of her 7 year long marriage to her first love.

So maybe you all saw this coming, but it hit me like a ton of bricks.

The man she met “at the beach” was my husband.  The time they spent together was time he secretly took off of work.  It was not until months and months later, after she had left, we had started counseling, and she met someone else did I really even begin to understand the depth of the betrayal.  He told me about it on the drive home from the airport when we dropped her off, and he could not stop crying.  He told me about it again when I found the emails he sent asking her to come back.  He told me again when he said it was all my fault for being so stupid fat and ugly, and her being so beautiful and smart and perfect, the he could not control himself.  He told me again when the $347 dollar phone bill arrived and I refused to pay it. I gave him a kind of ultimatum that said if she came back, I would leave, and take my beautiful daughter, and my pregnant-fat-ass-soon-to-be-son away, and that she could have him, but that no, I had zero interest in seeing either one of them again if that was their choice.  I did all this of course while begging him to pick me, telling him I would do better to make him happy, get thinner, have more sex, love him.

 They carried on via email and chat for several months after she left.  Then she met someone, and wanted it all to stop, and asked me to tell him to leave her alone.   I ignored the request, and let her deal with it on her own because by then I had a newborn and a serious depression taking all my time. I don’t think I ever really forgave my husband, even with the hours of counseling, and weekends away trying to be together.  I hid a lot of it, maybe for survival, because I never stopped being blamed for his infidelity.

She and I have never talked about it since then, not really.  She went on to marry the guy who she met after leaving, and having a daughter herself, and having that same husband cheat on her and leave her.  She has remarried again, her third, and together they are the ones coming to the area for their vacation.

My marriage ended five years ago.  I still have trust issues as some of the men I have dated will attest to. I am fine with that because sometimes it has helped me see the red flags I would have never noticed in my pre-affair days.  I am stronger because of it in some ways.

What I do next I am not sure.  I don’t even know what she and I will talk about, or even how much time we will spend together.  She contacted me, and asked to see me, which she didn’t have to do.  California is a big state and she could have avoided me without my effort, so I am trying to give her the benefit of the doubt that she is making some kind of amends.  I have yet to figure out what I want to say, because maybe it is too late.

My daughter, now 12, and my son, now 10, get to meet their cousin, now 9, and if nothing else, that is a good thing.  They just got swept in the wake and have no responsibility here except to themselves.  I am good with that, and will not deny them the chance to have actual family in their lives.  Me?  Oh, I think I will play it by ear and see if I am still hurting and afraid, or if I really am as strong as I believe I am.  Strong enough to get back a piece of a connection I was so happy about before.  Or maybe strong enough not to even need it.

 

 

Spilled Perfume

This took me three days to write, so forgive me that it is long, and kinda all over the map.  Maybe you will understand.

I woke up on Sunday morning desperately lonely.  Please don’t think this blog is now about some poor-girl pity party.  It isn’t.  Read on.

On Saturday, after having an experience that is all too few in my recent years (my last blog, if you want to know what happened), I went off and did some other wonderful things, all by myself. I shopped for clothes (something I rarely do).  I went for a drive up the coast.  I took out my drawing materials and played with watercolor pencils I hadn’t gotten around to trying yet, though I purchased them over a year ago.  I rode my bike. I went to the movies.  I read.  All completely delightful, and totally needed, and refreshing in a personal kind of way that we all need once in a while.  Especially in the happiness I had been feeling since early that morning, and the adventure I had opened myself up to. I could even use the word divine.

So Sunday, when I woke up, what I most wanted to do was share that.  And by share (I confirmed with a friend via Facebook) was collaborate.  I wanted Sunday to not be about me, per se, but about the possibility for connection and trust.  About giving and getting, without having to walk around any issues, or hide any feelings, or pretend to be something I am not.  Or to ask, and for no other reason than convenience, have your really basic needs rejected.  I wanted someone else to totally get what I was saying, and “share” their perspective and help me move forward, as I was helping them.  Staying in the moment, because if I don’t have the time to do it right the first time, when will I ever have time to fix it.

It took me a long long time to get motivated.  I had woke up alone, in my house that was empty, without any clue who I could find that piece with. 

I was gratefully enough to find one friend that dialed back after I had called him.  I hadn’t left a message, because my need felt too immediate to wait through a voicemail.  I was lonely, and before I could move, I needed a human voice.

It shocked me that at first, I couldn’t speak.  The word “hello” came out more as a sob as I realized I hadn’t actually spoken to anyone, not one person, in over 24 hours.  All that time I spent in my own head, and doing ONLY things for me had left a void.  It had not made space for real connection.  Real communication.  Real people. Voices and words, and not typing on a screen, or a post to the ether of a social media site.  I had missed that PEOPLE in my life are not just a function, but a necessity.

After he and I hung up, I made a plan for the day.  A little experiment based on things that I was unsure about from the previous 48 hours or so.  Social connection or solitude?  Friendships based in mutual dynamics leading to deep understand, or head-clearing aloneness?  Me? Them? Us?  How did it fit, what did I want, where are my strengths, and what is missing?  And when I have known what is missing, did I ask for it?  And more importantly, did I ask the right person?

As part of my now motivated quest, I made some rules for myself to follow for the rest of Sunday.

First, I had to try to see if what one person I know suggested would help.  (Trusting the advice of others is part of the whole building real connection thing I am going for here.) He said what works for him is going to the beach, and “seeing” the white noise.  My thought was that every time I have tried one of those “white noise” machines I have only heard nails on a chalkboard.  It annoyed me, like mosquitoes in my ears, and the idea of having that be my visual scared me.  Would I get lost in the noise, or would it, like it does for him, help you think of nothing? A perfect little tool of not having to have the noise in your head at all.

So I went to the beach.  I tried to think of the waves washing over me, the light being just a warm spot, of the noise from the crash of the surf as the only thing I needed at the time.  A way to slow down.

I failed miserably, if the idea was to see and feel nothing.  The thoughts in my head are always there, always require my attention.  I noticed the way the sand felt under my feet, the way it shifted, the grains, the change in colors as each swell retreated and the water absorbed back into the shore.  I noticed the people, swimming, walking, playing.  I saw them getting wet, the legs on their pants changing from pale to dark.  I noticed how their shirts pushed against their bodies in ripples as the wind shifted.  I watched as the birds did the same, moving their bodies to give them the balance and grace to stay aloft.  I picked up sea glass, but left the shells.  I smelled the seaweed and the ash from the night before’s bonfires.  I heard the laughter. 

And each little piece, each little space of someone else’s experience was interwoven with mine.  I knew the sand, and could remember days at the beach.  Foggy ones. Bright ones.  Rainy ones.  Days filled with talk and play, and hand holding, and searching, and every other thing I could have possibly done at the beach was right there with me, right in that moment.  There was no white noise.  The space was full.

I did learn a few things while there, though. 1) I have a hole in the bottom of my (formerly) favorite sandals. 2) I can’t touch the fronts of my knees and the backs of my heels together at the same time (admit it, you just tried).  If you just said “yeah, um, duh”, then I have to confess that I have never tried this before, or probably never even thought about it before Sunday.  And 3) I don’t want to find the white noise.  I absolutely, without a doubt, want to think, feel, see, hear, remember and know EVERYTHING.  It is all going to be there anyway, so trying to push it away in hopes that I can find nothing is not even remotely appealing.

So this brings me to my second “rule”.  I had to talk to people.  There were no rules about what this talking would entail, just that it would happen.  I was going to start conversations with anyone and everyone I wanted to. 

One conversation was between me, the sales lady, and another customer in an art gallery, about these beautiful artisan made earrings, and the story of calla lilies that inspired them.  We talked and laughed, and shared stories about our own favorite pairs of earrings, and getting our ears pierced and our daughters.   The lady and I each ended up buying handmade earring the sales lady had behind the counter.  She apparently had been making these earrings for a long time, and was too shy to ask her boss to put them out for sale, so she just had them in a plastic bag near the cleaning supplies.  This could have been a really good sale ploy, but I doubted it.  The woman was shy, and not at all confident about just how much her artistry would be appreciated.  She did not have them priced, and I paid $10 for my pair of silver and amethyst dangles.  I wore them all day, smiling.

Another conversation was with a man buying an antique lamp for his wife for her birthday.  He knew what she wanted (apparently she had picked it out the weekend before, good man!) and he just wanted to know why women liked these things.  I thought the lamp was ugly, and told him so.  He laughed and wondered how long it would be before he could sell it at a garage sale.  He hoped she was not putting it in the bedroom because it was a serious mood killer.

I overheard as the owner of another shop I wandered into left a message on someone else’s voicemail.  He told the guy (I assumed it was a guy) on the other end that he understood about never being able to reach him because of his overwhelming social calendar, but did he realize that when he died, there would be no one at his funeral because just because you are always busy with people did not mean you actually had any friends (I have no way to describe just how much sarcasm and humor was in this message, except to use the word “dripping”.)   This cracked me up, made me sad, and was the most perfect opening for a conversation I have ever heard.  I asked the shop owner about his message, and why the recipient of the message did not have any friends.  We talked about how friends actually share (see, there was a theme here) and connect.  I agreed, and told him that I did not expect anyone, and especially not friends or partners, to have a clue what I need if I don’t bother to tell them.  They are not mind readers, divining my desires out of thin air. We did both think that if we asked someone directly for something we wanted or needed, and the answer was vague, or worse, complete rejection, maybe we ought to decide if their role in our lives is friendship, or just an event on a list.  Both would be okay, but confusing the two is what we both had a problem with.  In his case, the person he left the message for really was just a social engagement, but that he enjoyed the little bit of smugness that went with reminding the person of just how shallow they really were.   I told him that in my case, it seems I was trying to ask for what I wanted, and I had recently either been getting crickets or flat-out refused.  We both thought that maybe picking that kind of “friend”, one who wouldn’t or couldn’t connect in any real way, could move over into the “pink pages”  (so glad he knew the Chronicle reference) of our lives.

After that conversation, I had one of those light bulb moments as I figured out the lonely part of how I started my day.  I want, no, I CRAVE the genuine connection.  Without it, I am feeling lost.  I don’t want a full social calendar if the people in it are superficial.  Dancing is fun. But it is always more fun if you have someone (even just one person) who also thinks the band is not really that good but will dance anyway.  Parties are fun.  But it is always so much better when you find someone (even just one person) who will sit on a couch in the corner and tell you about that summer they spent on a crowded train on the way to Paris.  A concert is fun.  But it is always so much nicer when you have someone (even just one person) who understands why you can’t sit on the blue blanket, or why you need a band t-shirt in mint green.  It would always be because some how you had a connection.  One that kept both of us in the moment.

There is a line (from a country song, of course) about the difference between being lonely, and being lonely for way too long.  I am somewhere in between, but seeking the connection. It is missing, and I know it. 

So I am asking.