As I lay under the covers on the futon in my robe at 5 in the afternoon, sobbing into the pool of snot that was my pillow, Courtney came to comfort me. She asked if I had ever kept a gratitude journal, to which I shook my head. She explained how, though it was trite when she was younger, it helped her to feel happy. She suggested, as usual, that I get my sorry, soggy ass out of bed and do something.
The phrase "self-fulfilling prophecy" keeps skirting through my mind. The critical and utterly un-helpful part of my mind tells me that I always fuck things up. That I sabotage the best parts of my life.
Of course, that's a debate. Not that knowing whether or not it's true would be helpful either.
Being inside my brain is exhausting. Yesterday I went from calm and content to motivated and joyful... to irritated and finally disillusioned and achy. Every day seems to run the gamut from one end to the other, back again, up down and around. It's exhausting feeling everything so intensely. Every little thought and emotion... completely taking over, billowing into a nuclear cloud of feeling and reeking total havoc in my mind, body, heart.
The only time it stops is when I'm listening to others. I can be there for someone else so completely. I can shut out my own world.
"Don't you get tired of hearing other people's problems when you have your own?" No. Quite the opposite. It refreshes me. Give me the space I need to breathe, makes me able to look at myself with less emotion and more perspective. Put myself in the shoes of others, give sound advice that forces me to take some myself. I'm grateful for the problems and feelings of others. I can be in their heart for a moment and be out of my own.
I frequently find myself unable to tell the difference between having too much to say and having nothing at all to say. I just keep drawing, spilling out incredibly sad pictures. Pictures that actually feel much sadder than I do, but it is an invaluable catharsis.
When the waves of pain come... it's so much. It's so deep. It's been there for so long. I remember first feeling it with this intensity around age 10, when I began locking myself in my room and never coming out. My heart literally aching in my chest, I would lay in bed at night and writhe with pain.
The word writhe fits perfectly. When I hear it I see my father in my mind. I see him stepping out of the truck onto a gravel road, grabbing a large rock and bashing in the head of a crossing rattlesnake. When he did that, they writhed.
The neglect was so much worse than the abuse. 12 years old, 13. I remember the tears, just wanting more than anything to be touched. But there was no place for that.
I remember laying in the hospital, age 20. Feeling as though I might die, if not from the infection in my body then from the splitting pain in my chest. Without my glasses I couldn't see beyond the oxygen mask. But my best friend, the spiky-haired blur above me, stroked my forehead and sang to me. Tears streamed down to my ears. Love was killing me.
I felt it when I left JP in the driving snow, howling softly in my truck, having just lost the love of my life for the second but not the last time.
It's a feeling that feels like my oldest friend.
If I were to write a gratitude journal, I could write volumes about how things have improved since then. There's no end to how things have improved. Truly.
But, in the words of Alanis...
Oh, these little rejections, how they add up quickly
One small sideways look and I feel so un-good, and
Somewhere along the way I think I gave you the power to make
Me feel the way I thought only my father could.
Oh, these little rejections, how they seem so real to me
One forgotten birthday, I'm all but cooked, and
And how these little abandonments seem to sting so easily
I'm thirteen again, am I thirteen for good?
I'm not 13 anymore. Thank god I never, ever have to be again. I'm not subject to abuse or neglect. I'm not trapped, I'm not without options or people who love me... no matter how it feels sometimes. But god it's so easy to revert. It's so easy to forget. It's so easy to feel like a little, wounded child again.
So. Gratuity. Graciousness. Grace.
I am grateful that I have lived longer than I ever dreamed I would. And because of this, I have healed from more than I ever thought I could survive. How old I feel and how old I am is becoming more and more congruent. I am finally interested in women who are my peers and not years beyond me.
I am grateful for my intelligence and my sense of humor. I am grateful for my passionate heart, even though it gets just as passionately broken as it feels passionately joyous. I am grateful for my talents, which keep me sane.
I am grateful for my job, even though it sometimes drives me crazy. It lets me keep up on my financial obligations and keep a roof over my head. I have a safe place to sleep at night and I always have food. I am grateful that I was born in this country, where absolutely anything can be accomplished.
I always have someone to call when it's an emergency. Or I just need an emergency hug. I am extremely grateful to have met some of the most wonderful people in the world, and to have them as friends. I'm grateful for every friend I have, even if that friendship was forged through a failed relationship. Sometimes those are the very best friends: someone you can't hide from.
I am grateful for the endless opportunities that life presents me with each and every day.
I am grateful for the opportunity to right my wrongs. I am grateful for the strength to keep going, keep learning, keep loving.
I'm so excited to see what this year will hold. Can you imagine all that might happen in the span of these 365 days?
I rest assured that as many moments as I spend in an aching puddle of tears, I will spend just as many swelling with joy and tearing up at the sight of something beautiful.
This year I will spend time reading things things for fun and learning to meditate. This year I will complet a 60-mile marathon, and go on a silent vipassana retreat. I will listen to music I've never heard and spend more time looking at the ocean. I will laugh more and watch more movies. I will take more mini-vacations. I will take more bubble baths and use the outside grill more. I will enjoy the little things. I will create something beautiful as often as possible, and I will take every opportunity to extend respect and friendliness to those in need. I will spend more time looking at the moon and stars. I will nurture my friendships. I will nurture myself.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Friday, December 17, 2010
the madman
I thus far regret that at any time I attempt to pour my mind out of paper, my desire for perfection and intellectualism takes over. Making it prettier, intellectual, "correct."
Tonight I am not feeling correct. I am only feeling everything else.
December 17, 2010
I awaken with a dog-head on mine. He rolls, flops, uncomfortable. Scratches, whines. I am unsure if my alarm went off or if I shut it off.
It's cold out, enough to see your breath, but not too cold. He is mesmerized by the frozen grass and cannot pay attention to his walk. He must be pulled away from smelling and licking.
I drive. I drive very, very fast to where I am going.
The meeting is about men in prison. Murdering men who want to be soft and succulent women in prison. It progresses as usual. Things to absorb:
Bondage pornography is not a sign of stability. I say it is not a preclusion of stability. Doctor says they have anal sex pretending their anus is a vagina. He tried to cut off his own penis at 15. We apparently think he may be lying about that. No one is going to check, though. She is a master make-up artist but can not put her hair in non-completely-fucked-up pigtails. Can he be a muslim and transgendered. Can he be a woman with a fist-length beard. Can he ever dream of being accepted by either. Should he just kill himself. Can she ever be in a single cell with her history of auto-erotic asphyxiation.
I am bored.
I am looking at my phone.
"Myspace has friended you on Myspace." Worse.
I drive again, this time even faster. I eat a gigantic burrito and fall asleep. I sweat so much under the down comforter I have to shower again.
I go into the cold and go to a movie. A tiny theater, old old old. Surrounded by old women, all intellectuals, and old men who mostly seem crazy.
The movie is beautiful terrifying gorgeous decadent horrible brilliant lovely sickening soft dark sad fucked perfect. Perfect perfect.
Immediately to the gym. Goal of a mile under 12:00 is approaching, down to 13:35 now. My heart rate reaches 200. I pour sweat, my legs feel weak and heavy. I lift, I pull, I flex, I sit up. I look in the mirror at the places that I hate. I try not to. I touch my chin and cheeks. I do not recognize myself. I breathe deep.
I sit for a minute and try to understand what I am doing. I do not remember if I am successful. I keep doing it.
I see my breath. I walk the dog.
I again wash the sweat off, now for the third time today.
I rest against the bed. I orgasm. Tears come now, streaming, leaking.
I sob and the catharsis, the letting go, the pain, the grief, the loathing, the fear, the joy, the beauty, the perfection, the confusion, the relief comes. My heart swells up.
I comfort myself as I would another. I touch the things near me that are soft and forgiving. I cry a small patch onto the bed. I hold myself as I would another.
I roll onto my back, I meditate. I place the soles of my feet together and feel warm.
I think about joy. I consider my love and it's ferocity, precocity, and I have insights and revelations. I rewind my week and apply my love to every moment.
Every walk I dread in the biting cold. Every moment seemed lost, looking into the eyes of someone defined "criminal." Every judgment of others, every needless frustration. Every leaf clinging to every gray and frozen tree. I apply my love. It envelopes my whole being.
I cannot meditate with a crazy puppy in the room.
I do not feel angry. I keep my eyes closed and smile.
I plug in the Christmas tree. It twinkles.
My heart is still swollen, hammering but now silently, my brain bounces through winding corridors past fun-house mirrors and running fast. So fast. Happy.
I consider all things created. I am buried deep in my stacks and stacks of art, film, music, the pieces of people contained within those cold paper and plastic things. Those inhuman things are very human. Very precious. They contain souls.
I feel for a book: a masterpiece containing the stories, thoughts and paintings of Salvador Dali. I consider the "rule" he made with Bunuel regarding their art: "that they would not accept any idea or image that was susceptible of rational, psychological or cultural explication." I consider how I search these pieces for just this meaning, finally settling to apply my own version of these constructs. I cannot turn off this search for meaning while even viewing... how would one turn it off while creating. Impossible, psychologists will say.
I consider my art, the love contained and grasped within my hands, the images in my head, the fucked-up-edness, the black ooze and this blinding light. This creation and being both dormant and awake within me, my hammering heart. I consider this.
I do not want to be correct or polite.
I do not care what people think of me or whether they will ever love me.
I does not matter.
I do not care how I am seen when I am bare-naked in front of them.
Tonight I am in love with everything.
I want to be in love with everything.
Tonight I am not feeling correct. I am only feeling everything else.
December 17, 2010
I awaken with a dog-head on mine. He rolls, flops, uncomfortable. Scratches, whines. I am unsure if my alarm went off or if I shut it off.
It's cold out, enough to see your breath, but not too cold. He is mesmerized by the frozen grass and cannot pay attention to his walk. He must be pulled away from smelling and licking.
I drive. I drive very, very fast to where I am going.
The meeting is about men in prison. Murdering men who want to be soft and succulent women in prison. It progresses as usual. Things to absorb:
Bondage pornography is not a sign of stability. I say it is not a preclusion of stability. Doctor says they have anal sex pretending their anus is a vagina. He tried to cut off his own penis at 15. We apparently think he may be lying about that. No one is going to check, though. She is a master make-up artist but can not put her hair in non-completely-fucked-up pigtails. Can he be a muslim and transgendered. Can he be a woman with a fist-length beard. Can he ever dream of being accepted by either. Should he just kill himself. Can she ever be in a single cell with her history of auto-erotic asphyxiation.
I am bored.
I am looking at my phone.
"Myspace has friended you on Myspace." Worse.
I drive again, this time even faster. I eat a gigantic burrito and fall asleep. I sweat so much under the down comforter I have to shower again.
I go into the cold and go to a movie. A tiny theater, old old old. Surrounded by old women, all intellectuals, and old men who mostly seem crazy.
The movie is beautiful terrifying gorgeous decadent horrible brilliant lovely sickening soft dark sad fucked perfect. Perfect perfect.
Immediately to the gym. Goal of a mile under 12:00 is approaching, down to 13:35 now. My heart rate reaches 200. I pour sweat, my legs feel weak and heavy. I lift, I pull, I flex, I sit up. I look in the mirror at the places that I hate. I try not to. I touch my chin and cheeks. I do not recognize myself. I breathe deep.
I sit for a minute and try to understand what I am doing. I do not remember if I am successful. I keep doing it.
I see my breath. I walk the dog.
I again wash the sweat off, now for the third time today.
I rest against the bed. I orgasm. Tears come now, streaming, leaking.
I sob and the catharsis, the letting go, the pain, the grief, the loathing, the fear, the joy, the beauty, the perfection, the confusion, the relief comes. My heart swells up.
I comfort myself as I would another. I touch the things near me that are soft and forgiving. I cry a small patch onto the bed. I hold myself as I would another.
I roll onto my back, I meditate. I place the soles of my feet together and feel warm.
I think about joy. I consider my love and it's ferocity, precocity, and I have insights and revelations. I rewind my week and apply my love to every moment.
Every walk I dread in the biting cold. Every moment seemed lost, looking into the eyes of someone defined "criminal." Every judgment of others, every needless frustration. Every leaf clinging to every gray and frozen tree. I apply my love. It envelopes my whole being.
I cannot meditate with a crazy puppy in the room.
I do not feel angry. I keep my eyes closed and smile.
I plug in the Christmas tree. It twinkles.
My heart is still swollen, hammering but now silently, my brain bounces through winding corridors past fun-house mirrors and running fast. So fast. Happy.
I consider all things created. I am buried deep in my stacks and stacks of art, film, music, the pieces of people contained within those cold paper and plastic things. Those inhuman things are very human. Very precious. They contain souls.
I feel for a book: a masterpiece containing the stories, thoughts and paintings of Salvador Dali. I consider the "rule" he made with Bunuel regarding their art: "that they would not accept any idea or image that was susceptible of rational, psychological or cultural explication." I consider how I search these pieces for just this meaning, finally settling to apply my own version of these constructs. I cannot turn off this search for meaning while even viewing... how would one turn it off while creating. Impossible, psychologists will say.
I consider my art, the love contained and grasped within my hands, the images in my head, the fucked-up-edness, the black ooze and this blinding light. This creation and being both dormant and awake within me, my hammering heart. I consider this.
I do not want to be correct or polite.
I do not care what people think of me or whether they will ever love me.
I does not matter.
I do not care how I am seen when I am bare-naked in front of them.
Tonight I am in love with everything.
I want to be in love with everything.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
remember, remember...
...the 11th of December...
In the winter of 1942 a handsome young soldier returned home to Missouri from training in California. He was preparing for deployment to Germany- but he had one last thing to do before he left. Ten months prior he had met a girl. He had his first and only date with the beautiful, fiery women's libber- who everyone said was "too good" for him. Having already been drafted, he was immediately shipped to California. But such an obstacle could not stop their communique. They each mailed a letter, every day without fail, for the next ten months. And when his next two days in Missouri came on December 11th, they married.
That same day, in a tiny town in central Missouri, a baby boy was born. He was the first born in a dysfunctional, angry family. He grew up to marry and have his own children, including a daughter who would often present him with a shiny new belt buckle on his birthday. A buckle that would adorn the belt he used to beat her, or was sometimes used as a weapon itself.
Eventually, long after their estrangement, the daughter would dread this day. Wondering far in advance about the yearly decision to wish or not-wish the old man a happy birthday. Eventually each year became determined by the old man's silence in September- when the daughter had not been wished a happy birthday.
The young soldier and his wife celebrated their love faithfully as decades and decades passed. On December 11, 2003, she sat by him in the mid-morning as he passed from this life. She noted feeling as though he had waiting for this day... their special day.
Less than two years later the now elderly woman married Ralph, an "Army buddy" of her late husband. Both in ailing health, they loved and comforted one another as they each so desperately needed in their octogenarian years.
And today, as my mother called to tell me that Ralph has passed away this mid-morning, she marveled at the significance of December 11th. She reminded me, as I had forgotten the date, of my having called her in 2004 to mourn the death of one of my favorite pets: a very loving rabbit named Notch. Though I didn't remember the date, I did remember coming home from work to find her limp and lifeless. Holding her close and crying, whispering apologies to her for not having taken her to a vet sooner, and the next day trudging through the snowlit, frozen woods with her small blanket-wrapped body in one arm and a shovel in the other. I remember the dirty difficulty of digging a grave in frozen, wooded ground.
On December 11, 2010, I celebrate the 30th birthday of new but close friend, and reflect on the immense joy and beauty that her birth... and the birth of my father... and the marriage of my grandparents... brought into the world. I reflect on how it's a day that holds creation for my family; beginnings, births, deaths. Happiness and grief.
Today is a day brimming with life.
In the winter of 1942 a handsome young soldier returned home to Missouri from training in California. He was preparing for deployment to Germany- but he had one last thing to do before he left. Ten months prior he had met a girl. He had his first and only date with the beautiful, fiery women's libber- who everyone said was "too good" for him. Having already been drafted, he was immediately shipped to California. But such an obstacle could not stop their communique. They each mailed a letter, every day without fail, for the next ten months. And when his next two days in Missouri came on December 11th, they married.
That same day, in a tiny town in central Missouri, a baby boy was born. He was the first born in a dysfunctional, angry family. He grew up to marry and have his own children, including a daughter who would often present him with a shiny new belt buckle on his birthday. A buckle that would adorn the belt he used to beat her, or was sometimes used as a weapon itself.
Eventually, long after their estrangement, the daughter would dread this day. Wondering far in advance about the yearly decision to wish or not-wish the old man a happy birthday. Eventually each year became determined by the old man's silence in September- when the daughter had not been wished a happy birthday.
The young soldier and his wife celebrated their love faithfully as decades and decades passed. On December 11, 2003, she sat by him in the mid-morning as he passed from this life. She noted feeling as though he had waiting for this day... their special day.
Less than two years later the now elderly woman married Ralph, an "Army buddy" of her late husband. Both in ailing health, they loved and comforted one another as they each so desperately needed in their octogenarian years.
And today, as my mother called to tell me that Ralph has passed away this mid-morning, she marveled at the significance of December 11th. She reminded me, as I had forgotten the date, of my having called her in 2004 to mourn the death of one of my favorite pets: a very loving rabbit named Notch. Though I didn't remember the date, I did remember coming home from work to find her limp and lifeless. Holding her close and crying, whispering apologies to her for not having taken her to a vet sooner, and the next day trudging through the snowlit, frozen woods with her small blanket-wrapped body in one arm and a shovel in the other. I remember the dirty difficulty of digging a grave in frozen, wooded ground.
On December 11, 2010, I celebrate the 30th birthday of new but close friend, and reflect on the immense joy and beauty that her birth... and the birth of my father... and the marriage of my grandparents... brought into the world. I reflect on how it's a day that holds creation for my family; beginnings, births, deaths. Happiness and grief.
Today is a day brimming with life.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
a toss up
On February 3, 1959, Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and The Big Bopper were killed in a plane crash.
Initially, Holly was set to fly, as usual, with his back-up band: Waylon Jennings and Tommy Allsup. The accompanying acts (Valens and the Bopper) were scheduled to take a bus on to the next stop in Minnesota. However, because Richardson (the Bopper) had been ill and was not up for a lengthy bus ride, Jennings relinquished his place on the three-seater plane. Valens and Allsup determined who would get the final doomed seat by flipping a coin.
In the mid-90’s Peter Boyle starred in a classic episode of the X-Files entitled “Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose,” in which he played a man obsessed with this tragic story. He commented, far more eloquently than I, on the truly infinite number of factors that had to align in order to produce such a moment: a moment in which Ritchie Valens life and death were reduced to merely two sides of a flipping coin.
We’ve all experienced it. We go back inside for our forgotten car keys and narrowly miss a fatal accident ten minutes later. It makes us wonder, if only for a minute (lest we lose our minds altogether), what sort of forces are at play in our lives. Is it all just luck and chance? Do we really have anything to do with it? Do the stars just simply align, pulling us into place like marionettes?
Having been forced (and choosing) to do a lot of self-reflection in recent months, I have reached a few conclusions. But most things have simply become more and more indefinite.
I often find myself overcome by emotions that seem to ambush me and leave just as quickly. I frequently find myself standing, utterly alone in the living room and feeling disheartened. Alone. Achingly sad. Lost.
As I always do when I feel this way, I begin looking for something more/different/better/away from here.
When Courtney and I separated, one of my first thoughts was “if I’m still single in the summer, I’m going into the Peace Corps.” Read: if I’m still feeling as unattached as I am now, I’m running.
Of course other options come into play. I miss school. I’d like to return for my doctorate. My therapist suggested Doctors without Borders. They employ therapists and require a 6-12 month commitment instead of a 24-month one… but also require prior out-of-country helping experience, which I don’t have. All things that I want to do.
I had a rash thought: I’ll flip a coin. Heads I go back to school, tails I leave the country. I considered this for a bit, wondering if I could actually commit to following through with whatever path the universe handed me. Or if I would just keep flipping until I got the answer I wanted.
If only Richie Valens had had that opportunity.
The truth is, either heads or tails would make me a bit sad.
On one side, I would be leaving.
And, with my life and the lives of my friends being what they are at this time and place, I realize that if I were to disappear and return in two years… everyone I know would likely be gone. Nearly all my friends are on the verge of some great transition- graduating from school, applying to school, getting married, etc. I think about the time and effort I’ve put into making Boston my home and I feel wistful. I feel homesick before I’ve ever even left.
And then I think about how utterly disconnected from humanity I still feel. How alone I feel, even after have done all this work. And I feel discouraged. And like starting over.
My therapist was not supportive of my Peace Corps idea. She agreed that the work would be great for me, but “I think you underestimate how lonely you would be.”
“I think you underestimate how lonely I’ve always been,” I said.
On paper I’m the ideal candidate, really. I want nothing more than to devote my life to learning about the world and helping others. I have no ties- family, relationship, pet, or other. And the Peace Corps agreed. I applied and they said, “can you leave in three months?” Admittedly, this startled me a bit. I ended up needing more time to sort out debts, and my relationship with Courtney was just beginning.
I’m well aware of how terrible it sounds to make “if I’m single” even a factor in this equation. It sounds like some sort of personal ultimatum, or… I don’t know what it sounds like, but it smacks of desperation.
The truth is, if I were to make a list of all of the things I want for my life, first and foremost would be finding “the one for me.” Yes, it’s cliché. It feels distastefully sugary to say sometimes, but I know that if I met someone who I thought there was even a slim chance of something real with, I wouldn’t give that up. No matter what.
It’s maddening because love is the one thing I can’t *make* happen. I can’t control whether I find her, or whether she even exists. I can control traveling the world and working the jobs I want, living the places I want to live and acquiring all the things I want to acquire. But I can’t control what’s #1 on my list.
But I suppose that’s also why I would never walk away from a chance to have love: because you can’t know when or if the next one will come. With the rest of my desires, I can and will make my own opportunities. With love, I’m at the whim of the universe.
On the other side of the coin, I can continue to better myself in the U.S. of A, furthering my education and making a better life for myself and family down the road. It's not like there aren't millions of opportunities for community service here. But then fear creeps in. Fear that, honestly, what I’m hanging around waiting for might not be out there. Yes I’m a hopeless romantic, but I must be realistic and acknowledge that there is a chance I may never meet her. It's possible.
And it would be twice the tragedy if in ten years, at age 38 I had neither found my partner nor done the things I dream of doing. I hadn’t traveled or humbled myself to others less fortunate than I. I hadn’t opened up my heart and pushed my boundaries and intellect to the brink, facing everything that feels uncomfortable and scary by assimilating into completely foreign worlds. Ideally, I do this with someone. I have a love, a partner there with me who is just as excited to explore these things as I am.
I have a home that I bring with me.
Sometimes it seems that both my heart and head agree that I can’t wait. Sitting and waiting for I-don’t-know-what has gotten me nothing but older. And these days, I’m not even sure I would know what I’m waiting for if I saw it. My brain tells me to live my life, go after what I want, and let everything else come when and if it comes. But it’s so hard to relinquish that control- even when it is a facade.
Whether I’m here or I’m far, far way, I’ve focused my life on trying to give as much as I can to others, and trying to bring as much good as I can into the world. That won’t change. One thing I have realized about myself in recent years is that it’s no longer critical for me to be famous or “important.” I just want to help.
When I boil down my job and all my training, my life’s work is startlingly simple: I sit with others while they hurt.
This is noble enough I suppose, and I am good enough at it. It certainly serves a purpose and is much-needed. There is so, so much pain in this world. But I think I’ll always be someone who expects more from myself. More accomplishment, more contribution, more purpose, more satisfaction. Do I flip a coin and take off running, driven full-speed in that way that I’ve been known to do? Or do I wait for the future to happen, trusting that the universe has the flipping coin?
Tonight I just sit with my uncomfortable expectations of “more,” looking at a long and unfulfilled bucket list, praying for more clarity.
Initially, Holly was set to fly, as usual, with his back-up band: Waylon Jennings and Tommy Allsup. The accompanying acts (Valens and the Bopper) were scheduled to take a bus on to the next stop in Minnesota. However, because Richardson (the Bopper) had been ill and was not up for a lengthy bus ride, Jennings relinquished his place on the three-seater plane. Valens and Allsup determined who would get the final doomed seat by flipping a coin.
In the mid-90’s Peter Boyle starred in a classic episode of the X-Files entitled “Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose,” in which he played a man obsessed with this tragic story. He commented, far more eloquently than I, on the truly infinite number of factors that had to align in order to produce such a moment: a moment in which Ritchie Valens life and death were reduced to merely two sides of a flipping coin.
We’ve all experienced it. We go back inside for our forgotten car keys and narrowly miss a fatal accident ten minutes later. It makes us wonder, if only for a minute (lest we lose our minds altogether), what sort of forces are at play in our lives. Is it all just luck and chance? Do we really have anything to do with it? Do the stars just simply align, pulling us into place like marionettes?
Having been forced (and choosing) to do a lot of self-reflection in recent months, I have reached a few conclusions. But most things have simply become more and more indefinite.
I often find myself overcome by emotions that seem to ambush me and leave just as quickly. I frequently find myself standing, utterly alone in the living room and feeling disheartened. Alone. Achingly sad. Lost.
As I always do when I feel this way, I begin looking for something more/different/better/away from here.
When Courtney and I separated, one of my first thoughts was “if I’m still single in the summer, I’m going into the Peace Corps.” Read: if I’m still feeling as unattached as I am now, I’m running.
Of course other options come into play. I miss school. I’d like to return for my doctorate. My therapist suggested Doctors without Borders. They employ therapists and require a 6-12 month commitment instead of a 24-month one… but also require prior out-of-country helping experience, which I don’t have. All things that I want to do.
I had a rash thought: I’ll flip a coin. Heads I go back to school, tails I leave the country. I considered this for a bit, wondering if I could actually commit to following through with whatever path the universe handed me. Or if I would just keep flipping until I got the answer I wanted.
If only Richie Valens had had that opportunity.
The truth is, either heads or tails would make me a bit sad.
On one side, I would be leaving.
And, with my life and the lives of my friends being what they are at this time and place, I realize that if I were to disappear and return in two years… everyone I know would likely be gone. Nearly all my friends are on the verge of some great transition- graduating from school, applying to school, getting married, etc. I think about the time and effort I’ve put into making Boston my home and I feel wistful. I feel homesick before I’ve ever even left.
And then I think about how utterly disconnected from humanity I still feel. How alone I feel, even after have done all this work. And I feel discouraged. And like starting over.
My therapist was not supportive of my Peace Corps idea. She agreed that the work would be great for me, but “I think you underestimate how lonely you would be.”
“I think you underestimate how lonely I’ve always been,” I said.
On paper I’m the ideal candidate, really. I want nothing more than to devote my life to learning about the world and helping others. I have no ties- family, relationship, pet, or other. And the Peace Corps agreed. I applied and they said, “can you leave in three months?” Admittedly, this startled me a bit. I ended up needing more time to sort out debts, and my relationship with Courtney was just beginning.
I’m well aware of how terrible it sounds to make “if I’m single” even a factor in this equation. It sounds like some sort of personal ultimatum, or… I don’t know what it sounds like, but it smacks of desperation.
The truth is, if I were to make a list of all of the things I want for my life, first and foremost would be finding “the one for me.” Yes, it’s cliché. It feels distastefully sugary to say sometimes, but I know that if I met someone who I thought there was even a slim chance of something real with, I wouldn’t give that up. No matter what.
It’s maddening because love is the one thing I can’t *make* happen. I can’t control whether I find her, or whether she even exists. I can control traveling the world and working the jobs I want, living the places I want to live and acquiring all the things I want to acquire. But I can’t control what’s #1 on my list.
But I suppose that’s also why I would never walk away from a chance to have love: because you can’t know when or if the next one will come. With the rest of my desires, I can and will make my own opportunities. With love, I’m at the whim of the universe.
On the other side of the coin, I can continue to better myself in the U.S. of A, furthering my education and making a better life for myself and family down the road. It's not like there aren't millions of opportunities for community service here. But then fear creeps in. Fear that, honestly, what I’m hanging around waiting for might not be out there. Yes I’m a hopeless romantic, but I must be realistic and acknowledge that there is a chance I may never meet her. It's possible.
And it would be twice the tragedy if in ten years, at age 38 I had neither found my partner nor done the things I dream of doing. I hadn’t traveled or humbled myself to others less fortunate than I. I hadn’t opened up my heart and pushed my boundaries and intellect to the brink, facing everything that feels uncomfortable and scary by assimilating into completely foreign worlds. Ideally, I do this with someone. I have a love, a partner there with me who is just as excited to explore these things as I am.
I have a home that I bring with me.
Sometimes it seems that both my heart and head agree that I can’t wait. Sitting and waiting for I-don’t-know-what has gotten me nothing but older. And these days, I’m not even sure I would know what I’m waiting for if I saw it. My brain tells me to live my life, go after what I want, and let everything else come when and if it comes. But it’s so hard to relinquish that control- even when it is a facade.
Whether I’m here or I’m far, far way, I’ve focused my life on trying to give as much as I can to others, and trying to bring as much good as I can into the world. That won’t change. One thing I have realized about myself in recent years is that it’s no longer critical for me to be famous or “important.” I just want to help.
When I boil down my job and all my training, my life’s work is startlingly simple: I sit with others while they hurt.
This is noble enough I suppose, and I am good enough at it. It certainly serves a purpose and is much-needed. There is so, so much pain in this world. But I think I’ll always be someone who expects more from myself. More accomplishment, more contribution, more purpose, more satisfaction. Do I flip a coin and take off running, driven full-speed in that way that I’ve been known to do? Or do I wait for the future to happen, trusting that the universe has the flipping coin?
Tonight I just sit with my uncomfortable expectations of “more,” looking at a long and unfulfilled bucket list, praying for more clarity.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
held captive
This week at work we received some very disturbing news. Which has been, as a therapist friend of mine would say, "renting space in my head." As I just lay back to meditate, my thoughts continued to return to this. Which indicates that it deserves examination.
In February I was introduced to a new client of mine as he sat in the HSU (Health Services Unit) on suicide watch. As per usual, I did not read the details of his crimes or watch the news stories until after meeting with him... so I did not know that he was a serial rapist. Or that he had held a woman captive in her own home, torturing and raping her for hours while her child slept in the next room. Nor that he had forced her to drive him to the store for cigarettes, as he cut off his GPS bracelet. I met him with unconditional kindness.
All I knew was that he wanted to die. That he was "probably going to get life," and "wasn't going to do it." But he decided to live. For his mother, who still believe that he was a good boy and could not have done these horrendous things. He covered his face in court and made no apologies.
The next month, when his mother unexpectedly died and he returned to suicide watch, it took him surprisingly little time to say that he felt fine. That God had forgiven him, his "girlfriend" was standing by him, and that he would spend his life behind bars and still be able to get as many ladies as he wanted. He returned to segregation, where he had been housed from Day 1 because of the high-profile nature of his case (no place in population would be safe for an inmate like him), and we proceeded with our regular therapy sessions.
Initially respectful, he began to devolve into his predatory sociopathy. He chose to speak to me about how he would have "gotten with" me on the street, that he had no need to rape since he could get "all the pussy" he wanted any time, and made snide comments or kissing faces at me. I largely ignored his advances, or told him simply that he was being inappropriate. I chose to reflect this behavior back to him, and discuss why he felt so fixated on sex.
He behaved well in segregation. So well, in fact, that after six or seven months he was given a transfer to the Gardner facility. At Gardner, known generally as "a sex offender camp," he would be able to go to population while awaiting trial. Work, get treatment, go to programs, etc. He had caused no problems at Concord. He had earned it.
On Monday we were told that he raped an English teacher at Gardner. That he set a trap for her in a staff bathroom, and that she screamed for 30 minutes before being heard. We were told that it took three large men to remove him, one small man, from her.
Hearing this, I felt as though I might be ill. I thought about how "creepy" he had become with me during our last sessions, and realized just how lucky I was that he was in segregation at Concord. Because of this, he was always escorted to our meeting in waist chains and leg irons, cuffed behind his back and shackled into a metal chair, bolted to the floor. If he had not been, the rape victim most certainly would have been me. My memories of treating this predator, this "monster," with unconditional kindness seemed foolish and naive. I immediately wondered if I should have been more chastising with him. If I should have complained about his behavior and had disciplinary tickets written, perhaps preventing his move. But I know that all of this is futile thought and I am in no way responsible.
Still, continual exposure to this sort of brutality affects your soul. Your trust and your belief in God, in good. It is difficult/uncomfortable/frightening to sit with these horrors, twisting and turning them, examining them from every angle, looking without looking away.
In February I was introduced to a new client of mine as he sat in the HSU (Health Services Unit) on suicide watch. As per usual, I did not read the details of his crimes or watch the news stories until after meeting with him... so I did not know that he was a serial rapist. Or that he had held a woman captive in her own home, torturing and raping her for hours while her child slept in the next room. Nor that he had forced her to drive him to the store for cigarettes, as he cut off his GPS bracelet. I met him with unconditional kindness.
All I knew was that he wanted to die. That he was "probably going to get life," and "wasn't going to do it." But he decided to live. For his mother, who still believe that he was a good boy and could not have done these horrendous things. He covered his face in court and made no apologies.
The next month, when his mother unexpectedly died and he returned to suicide watch, it took him surprisingly little time to say that he felt fine. That God had forgiven him, his "girlfriend" was standing by him, and that he would spend his life behind bars and still be able to get as many ladies as he wanted. He returned to segregation, where he had been housed from Day 1 because of the high-profile nature of his case (no place in population would be safe for an inmate like him), and we proceeded with our regular therapy sessions.
Initially respectful, he began to devolve into his predatory sociopathy. He chose to speak to me about how he would have "gotten with" me on the street, that he had no need to rape since he could get "all the pussy" he wanted any time, and made snide comments or kissing faces at me. I largely ignored his advances, or told him simply that he was being inappropriate. I chose to reflect this behavior back to him, and discuss why he felt so fixated on sex.
He behaved well in segregation. So well, in fact, that after six or seven months he was given a transfer to the Gardner facility. At Gardner, known generally as "a sex offender camp," he would be able to go to population while awaiting trial. Work, get treatment, go to programs, etc. He had caused no problems at Concord. He had earned it.
On Monday we were told that he raped an English teacher at Gardner. That he set a trap for her in a staff bathroom, and that she screamed for 30 minutes before being heard. We were told that it took three large men to remove him, one small man, from her.
Hearing this, I felt as though I might be ill. I thought about how "creepy" he had become with me during our last sessions, and realized just how lucky I was that he was in segregation at Concord. Because of this, he was always escorted to our meeting in waist chains and leg irons, cuffed behind his back and shackled into a metal chair, bolted to the floor. If he had not been, the rape victim most certainly would have been me. My memories of treating this predator, this "monster," with unconditional kindness seemed foolish and naive. I immediately wondered if I should have been more chastising with him. If I should have complained about his behavior and had disciplinary tickets written, perhaps preventing his move. But I know that all of this is futile thought and I am in no way responsible.
Still, continual exposure to this sort of brutality affects your soul. Your trust and your belief in God, in good. It is difficult/uncomfortable/frightening to sit with these horrors, twisting and turning them, examining them from every angle, looking without looking away.
maitri
Lately I've been focusing my spare time and energy on self-examination. Meditation, reading, writing, art. On Monday I mistakenly opted to go into work for the morning administration meeting, forgetting that I was actually scheduled for the evening shift. I complained to a friend that would have to work over 12 hours, not knowing that this was exactly what I needed.
On a busy night, from 5-9 there are constant new lock-ups, transfers in, crisis calls. But Monday there was not one. No one called "751 on" all evening- and I was left quietly at my desk upstairs, alone in the unit above the hospital. I sat at my desk in silence with an 8x14 legal pad and wrote. For four solid hours, I wrote.
I began feeling positive, goal-oriented, having an epiphany in every paragraph. By page four this crumbled away into self-doubt and confusion... all of my sentences contradicting the ones prior. And by page eight I was accepting my confusion, my "not knowing," and was being kinder and gentler with myself. Much of what I wrote was my self-care plan.
I have a tendency to buy wonderful books and never read them. As I sat in my office writing, I looked up and saw "How to See Yourself as you Really Are" by the Dalai Lama. A book I had always intended to read but had not. I put it in my pocket to take home, and laid with it in a bubble bath once I arrived. The book has proven, unfortunately, quite dense and difficult to grasp (which I blame on the translator, as his books are not typically like this)... but it led me to my bookshelf at home, and all the unread books I had bought during previous heartbreaks and difficult times. Which led me to Pema Chodron's When Things Fall Apart.
It has been profoundly what I need to hear.
I wanted to write down some of my thoughts, and some of the more affective passages, lest I get swept away by living again and busy myself with utterly unimportant pursuits.
An old Buddhist teaching says "Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us."
I've found this to be quite true. Through heartbreak and pain we find that within us which simply will not yield. We find whether or not our belief in humanity, or our belief in love, or our valuing of empathy can be broken. When I think back over all that has proven to be indestructible in me... there are only a few stones left in this vast quarry, with all the rest crushed to sand.
But those few stones encapsulate me. The parts of me that have never broken are few. Frighteningly few. But the biggest is my "hopeless" romanticism. As I consider it now, for the first time I consider hopeless to be a compliment. It cannot be reasoned with or beaten into submission. It pays no mind to failures or evidence. It is a staunch belief- a stubborn, radical belief- that true love exists and is waiting for anyone who devotes their self to the search.
This belief I know is indestructible. Others, such as my belief in some sort of creationary force, my exaltation of empathy, my belief that all people have good within them and all people can change and recover... these beliefs are so strong within me now. But they have cracked in the past. I have doubted them, I've even lapsed- if only momentarily. These stones have been grated and worn. Life has chipped away at them, but they haven't broken. I suppose if I view my life from where I stand now- which really is the only way to view it- these are the other indestructible parts of me.
I am so grateful for all the pain I have experienced. I am so grateful for the trials, the ghosts, the scars, even the still-bleeding wounds. I am so grateful to have been pushed to my limit so very many times. I am so grateful for the parts of me that are indestructible. I am so grateful to know what these parts are.
In Sanskrit, maitri means "unconditional friendliness." Chodron talks at length about how to meet ourselves with maitri; how to relax into the stillness of non-thought and gently redirect and comfort out wild, bouncing internal monologue. My task lately has been to sit with my own thoughts, and meet them "with honesty, a light touch, humor, and kindness." The same approach that I wish to show others. I have a feeling that if I get better at showing it to myself, I will be better at showing it to others as well.
Chodron says, "What makes maitri such a different approach is that we are not striving to solve a problem, We are not striving to make pain go away or to become a better person. In fact, we are giving up cntrol altogether and letting concepts and ideals fall apart."
How hard is that! Seriously. All we strive to do, day in and day out, is to not let things fall apart! What would happen if it did?
In the book she speaks about running towards fear, facing it. She recalls to story of a young boy who every day walked past a snarling, gnashing guard dog with red eyes and dripping teeth. One day, as the onlooking villagers gasped, the guard dog broke from his leash and began running after the boy. The boy turned, running full-speed towards the dog... who was so startled he tucked his tail between his legs and sped off.
We hope that the terror will run from us... but even if we collide in a smoldering ball of gnashing teeth and flying blood... we have found that which is indestructible in us.
In a chapter entitled "Not causing harm" (which makes me want my primum non nocere tattoo sooo bad... there I go desiring again!), she says "It is a transformative experience to simply pause instead of immediately filling up the space. By waiting, we begin to connect with fundamental restlessness as well as fundamental spaciousness."
Much like running towards the snarling dog, intentionally invoking silence and space can be terrifying for some of us. My roommate, for example, only recently learned how to sit without the television, or music, or talking. She always complained that her thoughts became too loud, and were too scary to sit alone with. It has taken her much work to sit alone with silence.
But this passage for me, at this moment anyway, speaks more to my perpetual need to fill my sadness or loneliness with someone/something. Along with feelings of sadness comes temptation. Desire to escape from loneliness, to disprove my feelings of abandonment and unworthiness, to ignore my fears of being alone. The temptation is to buy something fun and shiny that turns off my noisy brain, to run away, far, far away... or to lose myself in a clearly-wrong-for-me relationship simply because it's distracting and provides two arms for refuge.
This time I sit. In my hot bath, meditating. In the woods with my books and sheets of drawing paper. I feel a tinge of excitement when I think about looking at my fears... and running towards them. I wish to sit with the silence of being alone... waiting for the water around me to quiet it's crashing waves and wind-blown ripples so that I might peer down to the bottom. To look at the things near me, the people that I love and am grateful for. To let those things grow and change with me as they will and have no plans or expectations for them.
To meet myself
my chaos
with maitri.
And rest assured that the waves will soon be still.
On a busy night, from 5-9 there are constant new lock-ups, transfers in, crisis calls. But Monday there was not one. No one called "751 on" all evening- and I was left quietly at my desk upstairs, alone in the unit above the hospital. I sat at my desk in silence with an 8x14 legal pad and wrote. For four solid hours, I wrote.
I began feeling positive, goal-oriented, having an epiphany in every paragraph. By page four this crumbled away into self-doubt and confusion... all of my sentences contradicting the ones prior. And by page eight I was accepting my confusion, my "not knowing," and was being kinder and gentler with myself. Much of what I wrote was my self-care plan.
I have a tendency to buy wonderful books and never read them. As I sat in my office writing, I looked up and saw "How to See Yourself as you Really Are" by the Dalai Lama. A book I had always intended to read but had not. I put it in my pocket to take home, and laid with it in a bubble bath once I arrived. The book has proven, unfortunately, quite dense and difficult to grasp (which I blame on the translator, as his books are not typically like this)... but it led me to my bookshelf at home, and all the unread books I had bought during previous heartbreaks and difficult times. Which led me to Pema Chodron's When Things Fall Apart.
It has been profoundly what I need to hear.
I wanted to write down some of my thoughts, and some of the more affective passages, lest I get swept away by living again and busy myself with utterly unimportant pursuits.
An old Buddhist teaching says "Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us."
I've found this to be quite true. Through heartbreak and pain we find that within us which simply will not yield. We find whether or not our belief in humanity, or our belief in love, or our valuing of empathy can be broken. When I think back over all that has proven to be indestructible in me... there are only a few stones left in this vast quarry, with all the rest crushed to sand.
But those few stones encapsulate me. The parts of me that have never broken are few. Frighteningly few. But the biggest is my "hopeless" romanticism. As I consider it now, for the first time I consider hopeless to be a compliment. It cannot be reasoned with or beaten into submission. It pays no mind to failures or evidence. It is a staunch belief- a stubborn, radical belief- that true love exists and is waiting for anyone who devotes their self to the search.
This belief I know is indestructible. Others, such as my belief in some sort of creationary force, my exaltation of empathy, my belief that all people have good within them and all people can change and recover... these beliefs are so strong within me now. But they have cracked in the past. I have doubted them, I've even lapsed- if only momentarily. These stones have been grated and worn. Life has chipped away at them, but they haven't broken. I suppose if I view my life from where I stand now- which really is the only way to view it- these are the other indestructible parts of me.
I am so grateful for all the pain I have experienced. I am so grateful for the trials, the ghosts, the scars, even the still-bleeding wounds. I am so grateful to have been pushed to my limit so very many times. I am so grateful for the parts of me that are indestructible. I am so grateful to know what these parts are.
In Sanskrit, maitri means "unconditional friendliness." Chodron talks at length about how to meet ourselves with maitri; how to relax into the stillness of non-thought and gently redirect and comfort out wild, bouncing internal monologue. My task lately has been to sit with my own thoughts, and meet them "with honesty, a light touch, humor, and kindness." The same approach that I wish to show others. I have a feeling that if I get better at showing it to myself, I will be better at showing it to others as well.
Chodron says, "What makes maitri such a different approach is that we are not striving to solve a problem, We are not striving to make pain go away or to become a better person. In fact, we are giving up cntrol altogether and letting concepts and ideals fall apart."
How hard is that! Seriously. All we strive to do, day in and day out, is to not let things fall apart! What would happen if it did?
In the book she speaks about running towards fear, facing it. She recalls to story of a young boy who every day walked past a snarling, gnashing guard dog with red eyes and dripping teeth. One day, as the onlooking villagers gasped, the guard dog broke from his leash and began running after the boy. The boy turned, running full-speed towards the dog... who was so startled he tucked his tail between his legs and sped off.
We hope that the terror will run from us... but even if we collide in a smoldering ball of gnashing teeth and flying blood... we have found that which is indestructible in us.
In a chapter entitled "Not causing harm" (which makes me want my primum non nocere tattoo sooo bad... there I go desiring again!), she says "It is a transformative experience to simply pause instead of immediately filling up the space. By waiting, we begin to connect with fundamental restlessness as well as fundamental spaciousness."
Much like running towards the snarling dog, intentionally invoking silence and space can be terrifying for some of us. My roommate, for example, only recently learned how to sit without the television, or music, or talking. She always complained that her thoughts became too loud, and were too scary to sit alone with. It has taken her much work to sit alone with silence.
But this passage for me, at this moment anyway, speaks more to my perpetual need to fill my sadness or loneliness with someone/something. Along with feelings of sadness comes temptation. Desire to escape from loneliness, to disprove my feelings of abandonment and unworthiness, to ignore my fears of being alone. The temptation is to buy something fun and shiny that turns off my noisy brain, to run away, far, far away... or to lose myself in a clearly-wrong-for-me relationship simply because it's distracting and provides two arms for refuge.
This time I sit. In my hot bath, meditating. In the woods with my books and sheets of drawing paper. I feel a tinge of excitement when I think about looking at my fears... and running towards them. I wish to sit with the silence of being alone... waiting for the water around me to quiet it's crashing waves and wind-blown ripples so that I might peer down to the bottom. To look at the things near me, the people that I love and am grateful for. To let those things grow and change with me as they will and have no plans or expectations for them.
To meet myself
my chaos
with maitri.
And rest assured that the waves will soon be still.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
having while being
I've been desperate to write.
To sit down and put into words my fear/plans/hopes/desires/shortcomings. I need to write down all of the things that I intend to do and need to do, lest I somehow forget them. It seems insane to think that I would, but I clearly have before.
The following are the things I want from myself:
I want to not feel insecure when I look in the mirror. Or angry. Or confused at the person I see. If I look down and see a beer belly or stretch marks or pooch where there "shouldn't be" a pooch... I won't grit my teeth in disgust. I won't feel insecure and wonder if the weight I've gained will hinder me in finding a partner. I will hush my emotions and listen to my rational mind.
I will be grateful for this faithful and healthy vessel. This body that feels pleasure and heals quickly from pain and injury. These loving arms that are strong and painted and faithful. I will love what I have- all that I have- and not work on making it less. Only better.
I want to be aware of my finances, and able to responsibly manage my money. I want to be aware of every cent - with a healthy awareness and not a panicked obsession. I want to steadily improve upon my debt and therefore upon my future. I want to be more free from the shackles of money, and more detached from it emotionally.
I want to maintain my friends and hobbies and personal loves while in a relationship. I want to let myself be reminded why I love Boston, and experience something new and beautiful on a regular basis. I want to go out just to go out. I want to search out new friends and be the kind of friend that I love being. I value my sincerity, intensity, reliability, my giving nature. I want to hold my friends to the standards I hold for myself, and vice versa.
Most importantly, when I do find a love, I want to treat her like what she is: the most important thing in my life. No matter how stressed out or depressed or overwhelmed I am, I should be mindful of her role in my life and deeply appreciative. I should never treat the love of my life with less courtesy than I would give a common stranger. It doesn't matter if I've had a bad day or am feeling hurt. Yes, she is a safe place to take these feelings. But that should be honored. The fact that I have ever allowed my partner feel disrespected by me is one of the greatest regrets of my life. And it's the biggest thing I want to change about my life.
As a child I was forced to doubt every thing about myself. I was told on a daily basis that I was worthless, ugly, stupid. Most of all stupid. But I vividly remember, even as young as 12 or 13, feeling very self-assured that someday I would make a great partner. I never questioned that. I knew that I wanted it so much that I would never give it less than 100%. And I never wavered in that assuredness, even throughout all my (failed) relationships to date.
But lately I have questioned it.
I've questioned everything. Particularly my ability to be a worthy partner to another. One that is up to my own standards. I also find myself questioning the very meaning of partnership and what it means to me to be in a committed relationship. I always thought I was doing it right. That I had a "normal" concept of what a relationship should be. But I need to challenge that. I need to somehow discern what level of connectedness is healthy for two people, what is likely, and what is necessary for myself. This will require far more writing.
I've always pictured a partnership as a safe home base. As a particularly strong and intimate friendship. The friend that you can tell anything to and feel truly understood. The one you go to with any hurt or fear. Someone who sometimes reads your thoughts and loves you because of/in spite of it.
But that key friendship piece seems nearly impossible to accomplish after-the-fact. It's hard to partner and then go back to form a friendship. And, as we've already discussed, it's hard for two women to slow down the partnering process.
But I have to be able to do it. I have to be a friend before anything else. I have to relax all of those automatic behaviors. And let someone know me unapologetically as a genuine, flawed human being... instead of as someone trying to create a particular impression or force some type of connection. Someone on a job interview. Someone trying too hard.
I don't have the energy to try so hard any more. It takes all the energy I have to just be.
I just have to hope that this "being" somehow leads me to all the various things I need. There is a certain logic to it.
Lately I'm just me. Pretty anxious on the bad days and sometimes a little spastic. Someone who uses biting sarcasm when annoyed by others. Someone who looks for ways to go above and beyond at work. Clumsy and foul-mouthed (I forget not everyone works in a prison) with a big heart and a sensitive artist-type soul. Someone who has great moments of inspiration and drive but gets overwhelmed by clutter and (sometimes) change. Someone who withdraws when feeling slighted but truly believes that love will save us all. Someone who does her best to feel focused despite sometimes feeling quite lost and ineffectual. Someone who can be very funny and who tries too hard to be funny when nervous. And someone who may sometimes feel scared to look, but still wants to know everything about herself.
Someone who is struggling to find everything she needs, while pretending to know what she needs, while struggling to just be.
To sit down and put into words my fear/plans/hopes/desires/shortcomings. I need to write down all of the things that I intend to do and need to do, lest I somehow forget them. It seems insane to think that I would, but I clearly have before.
The following are the things I want from myself:
I want to not feel insecure when I look in the mirror. Or angry. Or confused at the person I see. If I look down and see a beer belly or stretch marks or pooch where there "shouldn't be" a pooch... I won't grit my teeth in disgust. I won't feel insecure and wonder if the weight I've gained will hinder me in finding a partner. I will hush my emotions and listen to my rational mind.
I will be grateful for this faithful and healthy vessel. This body that feels pleasure and heals quickly from pain and injury. These loving arms that are strong and painted and faithful. I will love what I have- all that I have- and not work on making it less. Only better.
I want to be aware of my finances, and able to responsibly manage my money. I want to be aware of every cent - with a healthy awareness and not a panicked obsession. I want to steadily improve upon my debt and therefore upon my future. I want to be more free from the shackles of money, and more detached from it emotionally.
I want to maintain my friends and hobbies and personal loves while in a relationship. I want to let myself be reminded why I love Boston, and experience something new and beautiful on a regular basis. I want to go out just to go out. I want to search out new friends and be the kind of friend that I love being. I value my sincerity, intensity, reliability, my giving nature. I want to hold my friends to the standards I hold for myself, and vice versa.
Most importantly, when I do find a love, I want to treat her like what she is: the most important thing in my life. No matter how stressed out or depressed or overwhelmed I am, I should be mindful of her role in my life and deeply appreciative. I should never treat the love of my life with less courtesy than I would give a common stranger. It doesn't matter if I've had a bad day or am feeling hurt. Yes, she is a safe place to take these feelings. But that should be honored. The fact that I have ever allowed my partner feel disrespected by me is one of the greatest regrets of my life. And it's the biggest thing I want to change about my life.
As a child I was forced to doubt every thing about myself. I was told on a daily basis that I was worthless, ugly, stupid. Most of all stupid. But I vividly remember, even as young as 12 or 13, feeling very self-assured that someday I would make a great partner. I never questioned that. I knew that I wanted it so much that I would never give it less than 100%. And I never wavered in that assuredness, even throughout all my (failed) relationships to date.
But lately I have questioned it.
I've questioned everything. Particularly my ability to be a worthy partner to another. One that is up to my own standards. I also find myself questioning the very meaning of partnership and what it means to me to be in a committed relationship. I always thought I was doing it right. That I had a "normal" concept of what a relationship should be. But I need to challenge that. I need to somehow discern what level of connectedness is healthy for two people, what is likely, and what is necessary for myself. This will require far more writing.
I've always pictured a partnership as a safe home base. As a particularly strong and intimate friendship. The friend that you can tell anything to and feel truly understood. The one you go to with any hurt or fear. Someone who sometimes reads your thoughts and loves you because of/in spite of it.
But that key friendship piece seems nearly impossible to accomplish after-the-fact. It's hard to partner and then go back to form a friendship. And, as we've already discussed, it's hard for two women to slow down the partnering process.
But I have to be able to do it. I have to be a friend before anything else. I have to relax all of those automatic behaviors. And let someone know me unapologetically as a genuine, flawed human being... instead of as someone trying to create a particular impression or force some type of connection. Someone on a job interview. Someone trying too hard.
I don't have the energy to try so hard any more. It takes all the energy I have to just be.
I just have to hope that this "being" somehow leads me to all the various things I need. There is a certain logic to it.
Lately I'm just me. Pretty anxious on the bad days and sometimes a little spastic. Someone who uses biting sarcasm when annoyed by others. Someone who looks for ways to go above and beyond at work. Clumsy and foul-mouthed (I forget not everyone works in a prison) with a big heart and a sensitive artist-type soul. Someone who has great moments of inspiration and drive but gets overwhelmed by clutter and (sometimes) change. Someone who withdraws when feeling slighted but truly believes that love will save us all. Someone who does her best to feel focused despite sometimes feeling quite lost and ineffectual. Someone who can be very funny and who tries too hard to be funny when nervous. And someone who may sometimes feel scared to look, but still wants to know everything about herself.
Someone who is struggling to find everything she needs, while pretending to know what she needs, while struggling to just be.
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