A rare moment of certainty

And so, my most beautiful and gracious best friend, I am with as much sincerity writing this to both you and myself as I was that night two and a half years ago when I was awake from jellyfish poisoning in a stuffy hotel room in Don Guan, China.

Today, I got a haircut. My new stylist (who is amazing) was telling me about her perfect fairytale romance and how it is the thing she never thought possible in life. I (somewhat begrudgingly) described how my sister met her husband in the cheesiest and sweetest possible way, and I told her how these true stories always cause me to rethink things.


When she asked about my love life, I quickly change the subject for lack of anything nice to say, really. I thought of all the conversations you and I have shared, and I thought of that night I wrote to you, and what I tried to say as gently as possible. 


I wanted to tell you that you deserve better - you deserve the world, actually - and I also knew that no one could fully know your situation but you. I did mention, however, that if he didn't notice that your lip gloss smelled like raspberries, he would probably miss out on even bigger, more important details. And if he didn't point out how absolutely beautiful you are right after you wake up, when your hair is in your face and the light is in your eyes and you fight to force a smile and say "good morning;" if the first thing he mentions is not that he is the luckiest man in the world, then there's a good chance he never will realize this. I tried to say that catering to his insecurities is both unnecessary and degrading. I wanted you to know that it is his honor to spend a moment with you, and it is his duty to let you know he is aware of this. I meant to tell you that if you ever slave away in your kitchen, making him your famous potato soup (you know what I'm talking about), that it would be a privilege and NEVER an expectation. Because if he doesn't see the effort you put into beautiful jewelry you make for your friends, then he is never going to see how much love you pour into the lives of others. And if he cannot respect and support your chosen career, then he isn't man enough to love a woman who might not need him. And, if at the end of a hard day, he doesn't first ask about yours before whining about his, then he clearly considers you second-rate.


A few weeks ago, I was alarmed. You said, "I deserve better; I am over this," and you moved on in the way only you do; I envied your balls.


Not so long ago, I was on a date with a fantastic guy. He seemed to be just what I needed, and everything added up except for the fact that I felt nothing for him. I tried, throughout the evening, to return his affection, because he was so promising. But the later it became, the more annoyed I was by the way he talked and how he asked invasive questions. The more I wished he would take me home, the bitchier I became until I realized I was the absolute worst version of myself. Still, he persisted and told me how great he thought I was, and I couldn't help but thinking, "this guy MUST BE an idiot." 


So that situation was on my mind recently when I was trying to sort some things out and conclude why this more recent great guy was so moody; and then the truth hit me like million tiny pebbles, pelting me all at once - not only in my heart, but all over my body (because I think that would hurt, if they all hit at once). And I parked my car and said aloud, "I...must be...an idiot." 


Let's not fool ourselves here, my dear friend. There is better. You said it to me on Sunday, and on Wednesday I came to a conclusion: I am right there with you. 


It's been so long since that night. I remember how ill I felt; how I changed my hair color and marveled that people can change. (We have since established that people do not, in fact, change.) There was no resemblance of love in his jealousy and possessiveness, but a part of me wanted to believe that if he was territorial, it was because he wanted me. Still, that night, I said to both you and myself that if he is not fighting for you, if he does not tell you how spectacular you are, if he is not chasing, pining after and pursuing you; then other men will. 


For so many years, we've fed one another the same advice, and consoled one another when another jerk turned out to be...a jerk. 


I thought I'd let you know, though, that your courage has given me courage; and I couldn't be more at peace with this decision.




So, thank you.

xo

Balance Beams were never my thing

I was saying, "I'm not even a uselses piece of rubbish washed upon the shore. At least then I might do more than make the beach dirty. If I were wedged somewhere along the coastline, an art student might pick me up and throw me into her found still-life collage; a bum might discover some value in my material; a sea gull could, I don't know, add me to its nest. 

"But I'm not even that. I'm still wandering, floating, littering the sea with absolutely no more purpose than that of a shipwrecked raft. I am polluting the water with my presence." 


He didn't respond; at least, I didn't hear him, but I'm pretty sure he was glad I finally realized this. 


So I asked, "Please, just show me how to wash up on shore. At least then we're getting somewhere." And after that, I was finally able to sleep. 


I had been reading old school Donald Miller when the words "I am the problem," stabbed me in the heart. He writes, "I think every conscious person, every person who is awake to the functioning principles within his reality, has a moment where he stops blaming the problems in the world on group think, humanity and authority, and starts to face himself. I hate this more than anything . . . the problem is not out there; the problem is the needy beast of a thing that lives in my chest." 


I know this too well. Had I been focused on rectifying my own behavior rather than contributing to the problem, I might not be wallowing in absolute shame and humility...again. 


I am terrified to try to defy gravity. I keep failing at it. I deny the purpose of my existence and continually prove that I know absolutely nothing of love. 


He told me that his response when people ask what happened between us is always, "Claire just isn't the girl I fell in love with," and at once I selfishly wondered what happened that finally marked me as unlovable. 


I felt like American cheese. Not like a Leicestershire Stilton, whose texture and robust flavor become refined with age; but an unnatural, processed slice of Velveeta that is at home among kindergartners and others who lack taste buds. I guess that means he lost a taste for me. Or he outgrew me. Or he realized that I am a better theory than actuality. As self-centered as one such realization was, I had to ask myself how many others were disappointed in my life...and these humans don't even know the disgusting depths of my heart. 


I ran home and tore through every drawer and shelf and cabinet, looking for something - anything - that might remind me of who I am. I wanted a letter from my Dad, a card from my Mom, a note from a sister...anything that might say, "you are loved." And I sobbed when I came across my Africa pictures, because the Khassonke woman preparing millet in Burkina Faso never even had a chance in life to be as despicably human as I am. And I wanted to wanted to vomit when I found a final credit card bill that had taken me years to pay off - I had saved the last statement as a reminder of a materialistic and irresponsible creature I never wanted to resemble again. 


I rummaged through far too many letters of apology from friends. "I'm sorry I hurt you so bad," "please find it in your heart to forgive me," "just one more chance," and marveled at the truth - that I was most likely wrong in each of those situations but far too proud to admit it. 


When I finally found the letters my parents wrote me after I was suspended from school in eighth grade, I knew I had found the indication of love I had wanted before, but it left me feeling anything but fulfilled. I remembered what someone said a few days ago about a particular man's affection for a woman: "I'm trying to understand what he sees in her," and I couldn't stop asking myself the same thing. 


What use, what potential, what possible reason could my creator have found in bringing me into existence? I wanted to know, so I asked, but I'm still not certain. DM continued on his rant about whether humanity is inherently good or evil and concluded by saying, "...the soul was not designed for this. WE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE GOOD." 


When my mom called today, I told her everything. I cried in my car for half an hour and she said, "yes, there is much to prove. But, Claire, I'm not worried about you. You are okay. I love you." 


And then I stopped crying. And then I went back to work. And now it's the weekend. And I guess, now that I'm not completely blind, I do have a chance to be okay. And I do have a valley to traverse. And beyond that valley another. And so on. 

Monday Fun Day

When I woke up, everything was different. I opened my windows and it was overcast, but for the first time in months I wanted it to be raining. I wanted to be in the woods. I longed for extreme temperatures and I wanted to be alone in it.

Maybe the ocean isn't everything.

Maybe California isn't what I thought.

I'm ready to move again, but I don't know where. My Dad said yesterday that he's looking for jobs for me because he wants me to move home. I giggled then. Now it sounds like the best idea I have ever heard.

I need my family in my life now more than ever. I'm twenty five years old and the most directionless I have ever been. There's no one here to tell me right from wrong when I'm unable to determine it for myself and I'm an absolute disaster.

He was right. A disaster. 

So I'm considering moving back to China, permanently. I am the healthiest when I am the most alone and have plenty of time to come to terms with myself. With the exception of my family and a few friends, most everyone in my life is a massive distraction from the order I'm meant to seek. 

When I am sad and alone and forced into, I'm able to find solace. 

My life has been a giant vacation for a whole year, and I'm ready to force myself into solitude: to be unhappy, to be afraid, to cry. 

I was so glad for the ocean yesterday when we were baking on the beach, but the ocean isn't everything. If it isn't a reminder that the world is bigger than myself and that I'm meant for more than I achieve, then there is no reason for it.

Starting this morning, I am coming down hard on myself and being the disciplinarian that I lack. 

I'm lost without my Dad. He is the single person in my life that doesn't have to say it for me to know it. All it takes is one furrowed brow and I break down, knowing everything I needed to know was evident if I would only take a moment to put life into perspective. 

The further I am away from him, the less I can feel his influence. This is just a few thousand miles. But the distance I've created between my Father and me is infintely greater.

The further I am away from Him, the less I can feel His influence. 

How many times have I reluctantly heard Him say, "Claire, I did not have to drag you half way around the world to get your attention, but you better be attentive now," only to forget everything I learn within days?

The fact is, there's never another head at the table. Never a better time to be stable; time to stop spinning, time to sit down. I need a beginning; I need to come around.

This afternoon, it finally started raining. As I sat in my car, watching the rain and fumbling around with a few words to try to find some clarity, I had an odd memory. It was a Tuesday night and I was in my studio painting when i got a phone call from the boy I was dating. He asked, "What are you doing?" And I said, "i am painting; what are you doing?" When he replied, "oh, you know, playin some beer pong with the guys," I felt ill. I knew that we were not the same, that his lifestyle was unlike my own; partying with friends every night, to me, seemed empty and meaningless.

It frustrated me endlessly that he was never alone and that every night, when we talked on the phone, he was too intoxicated for a real conversation. Slowly but surely, I have regressed to such a state. I'm that guy. 

It has taken a long time, but I'm ready to move on. Last summer, probably around July, we sat in my car outside the house where she now lives, and I cried. We talked about the world's impending doom, and I told her why I don't sing anymore. The windows got foggy, just sitting there, but I will never forget how kind her voice was when she told me I would be ready to start living again sometime soon. 

I tried preparing myself a few nights later when I was running on the beach and crying and asking myself who I was. A better question - the one I've avoided - is whose am I? Because if I give any consideration to the One I belong to, I should know better than to live in such a way.

I'm an absolute disaster; he knew me the minute we met. 

But there's no time like a Monday to make a life-change.