You probably don't remember this, since you weren't there physically anyway, but the familiarity of your presence lingered so heavily it made me sick.
It was right before you made a good decision, and I was told by a stranger to go home in the parking lot of a busy supermarket on a cold Saturday morning. "Whatever it is you're looking for, you won't find it here," and then he asked for money. So I took his advice, and I went to the home I assumed I was meant to return to, but you weren't there. It rained that day.
So here's to the elephant in the room, that lingering, well-dressed man on the opposite side of the crowded used record store - the one who understood why I was there in the first place.
And here's to the night I told you to come in, out of exhaustion, after nearly a decade; but when I stopped fighting, you lost interest.
To the one who introduced me to dreaming in the first place: cheers.
I know I told you things, I know I was honest, even when I shouldn't have been; I said you were like magic and you took that to heart. I kissed you, because I felt like kissing you, because you said my burned chocolate chip cookies were crunchier than chewing on stars, because you could dance and I couldn't; because it really didn't seem to matter.
We wore mustaches and frequented thrift stores and dressed formally for walks in the park because, together, we felt inclined to do such things.
So, to you, partner on the trolley. And you, stranger in the sea. My dear, long-lost friend and your cracked rib cage, your sidewalk chalk and poetry; to your wild romanticism, your beer-of-the-month club; to every moment with you from Sunday brunch at Tavern on the Green to 7-11 hot dogs at midnight. This one is for you.
I still wear your shirt.
I still rely on you for inspiration.
I still admire your bravery in letting go.
I was told I was headed for a tragedy, but the reference escaped me. You were the tragedy. Once more, I took something good and made it bad.
You probably won't remember this, since you aren't here physically to hear it, but knowing I'm the cause of your absence makes me sick.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Pain Tolerance
One night in November, five years ago, a group of fifteen women hung their snow-drenched coats at the door and gathered on the floor of a tiny apartment. We ate potato soup and everyone told their stories in English, so that I could understand. Knowing little about me other than my nationality, many of the women commented on how strong I was, to journey to one of the darkest places in the world alone.
It was a recurring theme that winter: “You have so much strength,” I was told. I managed to hold it together in class and during social gatherings, but I cried every other moment of the day. There was nothing strong about me, aside from my robust portico – the erroneous structure of my otherwise faulty temple.
After that semester in Finland, I made it my sole purpose in life to be unshakable. Strength, I was convinced, is an ability to suffer silently. Character, I told myself, is something created out of pain. Difficulty, I determined, will be my path. And I became resilient.
This past Tuesday, she raised her glass and assured me of one thing, which she said encompasses all aspects of life: “It does not have to be difficult.”
As a child with an incapacity for physical pain and a disposition for public breakdowns, I was continuously instructed to stop being so sensitive. My mother would comb my long, tangled hair in the mornings, and every time I winced, she would scowl and comb harder.
When life wasn’t fair, I cried. When I couldn’t comprehend subtraction, I faked a stomachache. When it was my sister’s birthday rather than my own, I came down with a mysterious flu. There was no paper cut, no cloudy day, no failed tennis match that would not send me into a deep emotional low, to which my parents would sigh and say, “Stop being a baby.”
As a result, I have spent nearly three decades, trying desperately to convince myself that I don't feel pain: that bad things happen, that I deserve them, that I keep going and don't make a fuss. Fortunately, I have found a way to function, in the midst of crisis. Unfortunately, my refusal to admit to discomfort and my inability to seek help have enabled me to master the art of suppressing things that hurt me.
I walked the two blocks to 7-11 for coffee this morning at a normal pace, so I did not appear handicapped. My knee was in excruciating pain and made a disturbing crunching noise with every extension of my left leg, but I kept going. When I got to the corner of 1st and Orange, I sat on the curb and cried. I cried because I felt pain and I was challenging myself to admit it. I cried because, sometimes, I am completely helpless. I cried because I have nothing left to prove. I cried because I remembered the time I fractured four vertebrae in my back and my dad yelled at me ruining his ski trip. I cried because of the patterns I have created out of a lack of belief in myself. I cried because I never thought I deserved better. I cried because the simple solution is honesty, but I don’t know how to be truthful. I cried because I am terrified of living one more day like this.
The people who passed tried not to look at the weirdo on the curb, crying, and it made me uncomfortable. So I stopped, and then I stood up and continued walking.
It was a recurring theme that winter: “You have so much strength,” I was told. I managed to hold it together in class and during social gatherings, but I cried every other moment of the day. There was nothing strong about me, aside from my robust portico – the erroneous structure of my otherwise faulty temple.
After that semester in Finland, I made it my sole purpose in life to be unshakable. Strength, I was convinced, is an ability to suffer silently. Character, I told myself, is something created out of pain. Difficulty, I determined, will be my path. And I became resilient.
This past Tuesday, she raised her glass and assured me of one thing, which she said encompasses all aspects of life: “It does not have to be difficult.”
As a child with an incapacity for physical pain and a disposition for public breakdowns, I was continuously instructed to stop being so sensitive. My mother would comb my long, tangled hair in the mornings, and every time I winced, she would scowl and comb harder.
When life wasn’t fair, I cried. When I couldn’t comprehend subtraction, I faked a stomachache. When it was my sister’s birthday rather than my own, I came down with a mysterious flu. There was no paper cut, no cloudy day, no failed tennis match that would not send me into a deep emotional low, to which my parents would sigh and say, “Stop being a baby.”
As a result, I have spent nearly three decades, trying desperately to convince myself that I don't feel pain: that bad things happen, that I deserve them, that I keep going and don't make a fuss. Fortunately, I have found a way to function, in the midst of crisis. Unfortunately, my refusal to admit to discomfort and my inability to seek help have enabled me to master the art of suppressing things that hurt me.
I walked the two blocks to 7-11 for coffee this morning at a normal pace, so I did not appear handicapped. My knee was in excruciating pain and made a disturbing crunching noise with every extension of my left leg, but I kept going. When I got to the corner of 1st and Orange, I sat on the curb and cried. I cried because I felt pain and I was challenging myself to admit it. I cried because, sometimes, I am completely helpless. I cried because I have nothing left to prove. I cried because I remembered the time I fractured four vertebrae in my back and my dad yelled at me ruining his ski trip. I cried because of the patterns I have created out of a lack of belief in myself. I cried because I never thought I deserved better. I cried because the simple solution is honesty, but I don’t know how to be truthful. I cried because I am terrified of living one more day like this.
The people who passed tried not to look at the weirdo on the curb, crying, and it made me uncomfortable. So I stopped, and then I stood up and continued walking.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Dream Beings
Occasionally, I dream things before they happen. Prophesy? Or just good old fashion intuition? At other times, I am haunted continuously by the same images, pestered until I take them into consideration and realize their root.
When I awoke, the sky was its usual grey. For the fourth time in two weeks, I spent the night dreaming about the same scenario. The last time I failed to adhere to the blatant message of a recurring nightmare, i suffered through five long months of debilitating doubt. I wrote my first book in those months, but I also spent many days staring tearily at a computer screen, many evenings crying myself to sleep on the hardwood floor with an empty bottle and a blank canvas.
The first three times, I was certain the message was about the object of my dream. I felt compelled to contact him but had no words to say.
Waking up this morning in an unfamiliar bed (after a night of vampire movies), I was shocked at how dense I can be. The "he" in the dream means nothing; he is simply a catalyst, a metaphor for someone else: me.
Four times, I have been warned by the same man - whose lack of integrity I despise - that I have not changed, I cannot change, I never will change. Each night, I have fallen so familiarly into his arms as he told me lies. His tales, let's be honest, were enormous (taller, in fact, than Typhon); but whatever measure of skepticism I commonly employ around such characters was replaced by absolute naivety. I am him. I am the liar. I have found myself impressed lately by the willingness of others to take me at my word, as if my word were truthful.
If "dreaming ties all mankind together," then I am remotely connected to everyone I encounter; surely they will find their dreams warn them about my dishonesty if I continue at this rate.
One area in which my dreams have failed me is this: I am making, for perhaps the first time in my short life, an honest effort to be who I say I am, to live how I claim I do, to make no excuses and to only speak words that are genuine. I am haunted by the theory that effort alone is not enough; that I am the 34 year old man who lacks the ability to commit.
When I awoke, the sky was its usual grey. For the fourth time in two weeks, I spent the night dreaming about the same scenario. The last time I failed to adhere to the blatant message of a recurring nightmare, i suffered through five long months of debilitating doubt. I wrote my first book in those months, but I also spent many days staring tearily at a computer screen, many evenings crying myself to sleep on the hardwood floor with an empty bottle and a blank canvas.
The first three times, I was certain the message was about the object of my dream. I felt compelled to contact him but had no words to say.
Waking up this morning in an unfamiliar bed (after a night of vampire movies), I was shocked at how dense I can be. The "he" in the dream means nothing; he is simply a catalyst, a metaphor for someone else: me.
Four times, I have been warned by the same man - whose lack of integrity I despise - that I have not changed, I cannot change, I never will change. Each night, I have fallen so familiarly into his arms as he told me lies. His tales, let's be honest, were enormous (taller, in fact, than Typhon); but whatever measure of skepticism I commonly employ around such characters was replaced by absolute naivety. I am him. I am the liar. I have found myself impressed lately by the willingness of others to take me at my word, as if my word were truthful.
If "dreaming ties all mankind together," then I am remotely connected to everyone I encounter; surely they will find their dreams warn them about my dishonesty if I continue at this rate.
One area in which my dreams have failed me is this: I am making, for perhaps the first time in my short life, an honest effort to be who I say I am, to live how I claim I do, to make no excuses and to only speak words that are genuine. I am haunted by the theory that effort alone is not enough; that I am the 34 year old man who lacks the ability to commit.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
"Does your Samsonite match my Samsonite?"
My mouth was full of ceviche, but the server was slow to refill my glass of whiskey; so rather than washing down my bite with a drink, I absorbed her every word.
She is beautiful, hilarious, independently wealthy and my absolute hero. She knows I have enlisted her as my mentor, so she has taken it upon herself to reserve a tennis court for us every Wednesday night followed by drinks from either a.) the wine cellar of her beautiful Barbie house on the beach (I call it that, because the majority of the light fixtures in her three story abode are gloriously gaudy crystal chandeliers and her furniture is covered in primarily hot pink ostrich) or b.) one of the various bars on Second Street.
Tonight after a few hours of tennis, we stopped at one particular restaurant which turns into a night club at promptly ten p.m. She was asking me many of the questions she usually asks, but since it has been three weeks, we had a lot to catch up on. She has read the email I received last week from a confused woman warning me to "stay away from her boyfriend of four years," and has heard at least six months worth of my atrocious dating stories; so both her inquiries and instruction are nothing short of delightful. While brushing the hair from her exquisite, ageless face, she rhetorically asked why it is that women such as us put a significant amount of effort into selling ourselves when, honestly, we ought to be shopping a bit harder.
Two strong drinks in, she launched into the tale of her most recent four-year relationship and explained why the ten percent he was lacking was much too large of a percentage to settle for. I told her she had balls of steel, but she stated that she hopes I do too. "The things we forget to ask about in the beginning," she warned, "are often the things we add to our list in the end."
I had told her about my sister's list, so she had brought up her own; and I could be mistaken but there was most likely moisture in her eyes as she reiterated the importance of knowing who I am and following through on those beliefs. Towards the end of our discussion, I casually brought up my most recent interest about which she was more apprehensive than excited. "What is his Achilles heel?" she asked. I did not know.
As the dining room cleared out and the bar flooded with college students grinding to Lil Wayne at ear-piercing levels, she carried on about the importance of recognizing opportunities that are better off avoided. Every three minutes, the volume through the speakers increased, but the less of our conversation I found coherent, the more I was engaged in the way her lips insightfully formed words and the subtle hope she continually gave me that who I am is enough and I have a life much like hers to look forward to in the future.
During our weekly meetings, we light-heartedly trade stories of courtship which always end in discussions about what actually matters in life while highlighting the moments that brought us to these conclusions. The fact that she is nearly the age of my mother is only now occurring as I write this; though her life is much more sophisticated and complete than mine, our stories parallel frequently in a way that continually reminds me the universe has brought us together for many distinct reasons.
Toward the end of the night, the conversation returned to a serious tone and she warned that dating, though fun, is exhausting, time consuming and often unnecessary. She reminded me of how much time I've invested in others over myself and told me it is in my best interest to be cautious, inquisitive and slow to reveal.
She said it is better to talk a bit less; to which I agreed.
She told me I should ask unexpected questions, and answer less of his.
She said that time and distance are on my side, which I had not really considered before.
Then she told me that discretion is key to knowing if something that seems ideal is actually perfect for me.
"The question," she remarked, "is not whether or not you have baggage, because we all do. The real question," she continued, "is whether or not the two of you have matching luggage."
She is beautiful, hilarious, independently wealthy and my absolute hero. She knows I have enlisted her as my mentor, so she has taken it upon herself to reserve a tennis court for us every Wednesday night followed by drinks from either a.) the wine cellar of her beautiful Barbie house on the beach (I call it that, because the majority of the light fixtures in her three story abode are gloriously gaudy crystal chandeliers and her furniture is covered in primarily hot pink ostrich) or b.) one of the various bars on Second Street.
Tonight after a few hours of tennis, we stopped at one particular restaurant which turns into a night club at promptly ten p.m. She was asking me many of the questions she usually asks, but since it has been three weeks, we had a lot to catch up on. She has read the email I received last week from a confused woman warning me to "stay away from her boyfriend of four years," and has heard at least six months worth of my atrocious dating stories; so both her inquiries and instruction are nothing short of delightful. While brushing the hair from her exquisite, ageless face, she rhetorically asked why it is that women such as us put a significant amount of effort into selling ourselves when, honestly, we ought to be shopping a bit harder.
Two strong drinks in, she launched into the tale of her most recent four-year relationship and explained why the ten percent he was lacking was much too large of a percentage to settle for. I told her she had balls of steel, but she stated that she hopes I do too. "The things we forget to ask about in the beginning," she warned, "are often the things we add to our list in the end."
I had told her about my sister's list, so she had brought up her own; and I could be mistaken but there was most likely moisture in her eyes as she reiterated the importance of knowing who I am and following through on those beliefs. Towards the end of our discussion, I casually brought up my most recent interest about which she was more apprehensive than excited. "What is his Achilles heel?" she asked. I did not know.
As the dining room cleared out and the bar flooded with college students grinding to Lil Wayne at ear-piercing levels, she carried on about the importance of recognizing opportunities that are better off avoided. Every three minutes, the volume through the speakers increased, but the less of our conversation I found coherent, the more I was engaged in the way her lips insightfully formed words and the subtle hope she continually gave me that who I am is enough and I have a life much like hers to look forward to in the future.
During our weekly meetings, we light-heartedly trade stories of courtship which always end in discussions about what actually matters in life while highlighting the moments that brought us to these conclusions. The fact that she is nearly the age of my mother is only now occurring as I write this; though her life is much more sophisticated and complete than mine, our stories parallel frequently in a way that continually reminds me the universe has brought us together for many distinct reasons.
Toward the end of the night, the conversation returned to a serious tone and she warned that dating, though fun, is exhausting, time consuming and often unnecessary. She reminded me of how much time I've invested in others over myself and told me it is in my best interest to be cautious, inquisitive and slow to reveal.
She said it is better to talk a bit less; to which I agreed.
She told me I should ask unexpected questions, and answer less of his.
She said that time and distance are on my side, which I had not really considered before.
Then she told me that discretion is key to knowing if something that seems ideal is actually perfect for me.
"The question," she remarked, "is not whether or not you have baggage, because we all do. The real question," she continued, "is whether or not the two of you have matching luggage."
Thursday, May 6, 2010
First Impressions
My beloved pet, Razzle Dazzle (a domestic rat) passed away last week – one of my saddest days in months. While mourning the loss of my obnoxiously attention-desperate rodent, a dear friend brought me a new pet: a chinchilla. Chinchillas, while being undoubtedly the softest animal in the world, lack a certain social interaction ability upon which rats thrive. Rats need attention; chinchillas, however, do not.
As a strong believer in the idea that the object of one’s affection can, in deed, shift shapes, I tried so hard to exchange the love I felt for another for this new, more interesting creature. Unfortunately, the same love was not available. I spent many days, trying desperately to pet the new animal, which only made him growl at me and hide away.
Then last night, something changed.
I arrived home at approximately 11 p.m., and upon walking into my apartment, I heard loud noises coming from “The Captain’s” cage. Not knowing what to do, I inspected the situation to find he was asking me, as best as he knew how, to hold him. I reached into his enormous cage (which, by the way, is full of nothing but places to hide) and he did not refuse my affection. So I picked up the small, soft animal, cradled him to my shoulder, and we danced in my living room to “Kings of Convenience,” for over an hour. He let me hold him while we danced and never once tried to escape.
Something changed last evening, but I don’t know what.
My therapist informed me (on more than one occasion) that whatever I was there for was unnecessary. She told me I already knew what I needed to do, and shouldn’t enlist her help.
As much as my girlfriends and I are convinced we have recently found the secret to a happy life, J1’s sentiment of “icing on the cake,” doesn’t sound half bad. There isn’t time or room for many more wonderful things in this life; but perhaps just this once, I’m ready to approach something with the appropriate offer of effort: something balanced; something whole; yet, something new
My dad and I always had such an understood amount of love for one another. We’re very different beings, he and I. He is smart, logical, mathematical and everything, to him, is black and white. For him to have four highly artistic, unendingly illogical daughters must be an interesting turn in life. Yet, somehow, regardless of the amount of misunderstanding, there was always the thread of commonality that bound us: he loves me, and I love him; and even at the peak of our greatest disagreements, there was, actually, understanding.
It occurred to me recently that both one of the best and unquestionably worst moments of 2010 happened like this: I was sitting on the floor, crying. “I’m trying to determine why it is,” a boy said as I sobbed my eyes out into my kneecaps, “that the sight of you in a robe, with wet hair and smeared mascara, crying on the floor for no apparent reason…makes me love you this much.”
I didn’t know what that boy meant, exactly. “Here’s what it is,” he said. “Once upon a time, I was sitting on my floor, with wet hair, wearing a towel and crying. And the universe said to me, ‘Boy, why are you crying?’ and I said I did not know. I asked the universe if he was going to help me and he said, ‘what? No way, I’m busy.’ But here’s what he did do: he took my brain and cut it in half and gave the rest of it to you and said, ‘here is someone who understands exactly how you feel.’ And that is why I love you.”
Understanding, particularly at one’s worst, is invaluable.
Still, is understanding - alone - enough? Perhaps it is a start; but certainly it is not a finish.
“You know,” she said at the end of our final fifty minute session, while shutting her appointment book and further iterating that we would not meet again, “you’re going to have a hard time finding a man . . . who is as perfect as your father.”
As a strong believer in the idea that the object of one’s affection can, in deed, shift shapes, I tried so hard to exchange the love I felt for another for this new, more interesting creature. Unfortunately, the same love was not available. I spent many days, trying desperately to pet the new animal, which only made him growl at me and hide away.
Then last night, something changed.
I arrived home at approximately 11 p.m., and upon walking into my apartment, I heard loud noises coming from “The Captain’s” cage. Not knowing what to do, I inspected the situation to find he was asking me, as best as he knew how, to hold him. I reached into his enormous cage (which, by the way, is full of nothing but places to hide) and he did not refuse my affection. So I picked up the small, soft animal, cradled him to my shoulder, and we danced in my living room to “Kings of Convenience,” for over an hour. He let me hold him while we danced and never once tried to escape.
Something changed last evening, but I don’t know what.
My therapist informed me (on more than one occasion) that whatever I was there for was unnecessary. She told me I already knew what I needed to do, and shouldn’t enlist her help.
As much as my girlfriends and I are convinced we have recently found the secret to a happy life, J1’s sentiment of “icing on the cake,” doesn’t sound half bad. There isn’t time or room for many more wonderful things in this life; but perhaps just this once, I’m ready to approach something with the appropriate offer of effort: something balanced; something whole; yet, something new
My dad and I always had such an understood amount of love for one another. We’re very different beings, he and I. He is smart, logical, mathematical and everything, to him, is black and white. For him to have four highly artistic, unendingly illogical daughters must be an interesting turn in life. Yet, somehow, regardless of the amount of misunderstanding, there was always the thread of commonality that bound us: he loves me, and I love him; and even at the peak of our greatest disagreements, there was, actually, understanding.
It occurred to me recently that both one of the best and unquestionably worst moments of 2010 happened like this: I was sitting on the floor, crying. “I’m trying to determine why it is,” a boy said as I sobbed my eyes out into my kneecaps, “that the sight of you in a robe, with wet hair and smeared mascara, crying on the floor for no apparent reason…makes me love you this much.”
I didn’t know what that boy meant, exactly. “Here’s what it is,” he said. “Once upon a time, I was sitting on my floor, with wet hair, wearing a towel and crying. And the universe said to me, ‘Boy, why are you crying?’ and I said I did not know. I asked the universe if he was going to help me and he said, ‘what? No way, I’m busy.’ But here’s what he did do: he took my brain and cut it in half and gave the rest of it to you and said, ‘here is someone who understands exactly how you feel.’ And that is why I love you.”
Understanding, particularly at one’s worst, is invaluable.
Still, is understanding - alone - enough? Perhaps it is a start; but certainly it is not a finish.
“You know,” she said at the end of our final fifty minute session, while shutting her appointment book and further iterating that we would not meet again, “you’re going to have a hard time finding a man . . . who is as perfect as your father.”
Thursday, February 25, 2010
So, I will.
Most of my life, I have been very successful at avoiding those things I am not good at doing, such as playing basketball or studying foreign languages. In the wonderful world of dating, however, when it comes to expending my energies into useless, failing and sub-par relationships, I cannot seem to get enough. The truth - my truth, my avoidance of the wrong thing - is suffocated by such a heavy blanket of dishonesty. And for what purpose?
Driving home from my rained-out tennis game last night, I received an unexpected correspondence from one of the few men who has ever measured up. We spent an hour, catching up on the previous months of silence and I listened intently as he talked about the month-long Alaskan fishing excursion he is planning, the band he is managing, the art he is having commissioned for his home. We traded words about living and I explained how my anxiety problems have greatly improved since I recently discovered I don't need to rely on anyone.
He told me that after eight years, I am still the only person he can write about and I begrudgingly admitted the same. I read him the lyrics of a song I wrote last week -- each line a metaphor for what we once were -- and we both laughed.
He was right when he said that every man I've involved myself with since him has made him look bad for having dated me previously, as if I'm not worth better or my standards are so appallingly low that one might assume he has a place among those people. I do not know why I don't love him; he is everything I want.
Perhaps it's because there is a sad, commitment-terrified part of me that needs to be the stronger, better, more interesting one of a pair in order to attain some semblance of control and independence. I have made a habit of sinking to the level of the company I often keep to attain one such position, and in this dumbing-down process, I forget who I really am. The needy, desperate, gender-role-obsessed woman in me eventually shows through as I drag each and every unnecessary relationship into its grave; and when I resurface alone, 6-12 months later, I am continually perplexed that this man who wasn't good enough in the beginning isn't good enough in the end. I find myself so angry that a quality I regard above all others - consistency - was one he maintained.
Nothing has ever compelled me to move like a command beginning with, "so," and ending with an action verb. "So, change," my father once said after a long, exhausting conversation concerning my seeming inability to get things right. And I did. "So, paint," my professors said when I expressed frustrations for other mediums. I did that, too; and I still do. "So, let me go," a boy said when I finally determined I was forcing something. I did, and I didn't look back.
Two weeks into therapy and my therapist dismissed me, saying I do not really need weekly sessions. I think I expected some magical formula as a solution to my problems, like a therapist could fix all the things I was unwilling to change. We talked about my lack of honesty - both with myself and other people - how this is a pattern throughout my entire life, sprinkled with perpetual cheating and consistent resentment toward others for decisions I allowed them to make on my behalf.
She told me I needed to practice behaviors of honesty in my life, like speaking my mind and listening to my instincts. I subtly pestered her for ten minutes, begging for tips on how to achieve such practices and making claims I couldn't do it on my own; but I knew there were no secret actions other than just doing it and with raised eyebrows, she peered into the sloppiest parts of my exposed, soggy soul and silently said, "so...do it."
In the end, it really is that simple. And, so, I will.
Driving home from my rained-out tennis game last night, I received an unexpected correspondence from one of the few men who has ever measured up. We spent an hour, catching up on the previous months of silence and I listened intently as he talked about the month-long Alaskan fishing excursion he is planning, the band he is managing, the art he is having commissioned for his home. We traded words about living and I explained how my anxiety problems have greatly improved since I recently discovered I don't need to rely on anyone.
He told me that after eight years, I am still the only person he can write about and I begrudgingly admitted the same. I read him the lyrics of a song I wrote last week -- each line a metaphor for what we once were -- and we both laughed.
He was right when he said that every man I've involved myself with since him has made him look bad for having dated me previously, as if I'm not worth better or my standards are so appallingly low that one might assume he has a place among those people. I do not know why I don't love him; he is everything I want.
Perhaps it's because there is a sad, commitment-terrified part of me that needs to be the stronger, better, more interesting one of a pair in order to attain some semblance of control and independence. I have made a habit of sinking to the level of the company I often keep to attain one such position, and in this dumbing-down process, I forget who I really am. The needy, desperate, gender-role-obsessed woman in me eventually shows through as I drag each and every unnecessary relationship into its grave; and when I resurface alone, 6-12 months later, I am continually perplexed that this man who wasn't good enough in the beginning isn't good enough in the end. I find myself so angry that a quality I regard above all others - consistency - was one he maintained.
Nothing has ever compelled me to move like a command beginning with, "so," and ending with an action verb. "So, change," my father once said after a long, exhausting conversation concerning my seeming inability to get things right. And I did. "So, paint," my professors said when I expressed frustrations for other mediums. I did that, too; and I still do. "So, let me go," a boy said when I finally determined I was forcing something. I did, and I didn't look back.
Two weeks into therapy and my therapist dismissed me, saying I do not really need weekly sessions. I think I expected some magical formula as a solution to my problems, like a therapist could fix all the things I was unwilling to change. We talked about my lack of honesty - both with myself and other people - how this is a pattern throughout my entire life, sprinkled with perpetual cheating and consistent resentment toward others for decisions I allowed them to make on my behalf.
She told me I needed to practice behaviors of honesty in my life, like speaking my mind and listening to my instincts. I subtly pestered her for ten minutes, begging for tips on how to achieve such practices and making claims I couldn't do it on my own; but I knew there were no secret actions other than just doing it and with raised eyebrows, she peered into the sloppiest parts of my exposed, soggy soul and silently said, "so...do it."
In the end, it really is that simple. And, so, I will.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Need: France
A cloudy day outside Chateau de Maubert in Paris sounds far more appealing than this dull day at work. Espresso, a cigarette, a small French cafe. My memory makes claims of previous happiness and peace, but perhaps my memory fails me. I am uncovering my worst parts. This is my own exposure therapy. It does not seem to be working.
My fear of excessive sleep has worsened lately, as I am sleeping large amounts to avoid responsibility. I experimented with a lack of sleep last night, to test the difference; but despite completing two paintings, cleaning my entire apartment and polishing off a bottle of Cab, I still feel wrong.
I signed up for a pharmacuetical study for bipolar disorder. Last week, during my first session, the doctor informed me that I do no qualify. "You have depression and anxiety," she said. "You are not bipolar." I bounced out of her office, elated that I had an answer and glad to prove wrong every person who has accused me of the disease. Then, for half an hour, I sobbed in my car, wishing I had some kind of medical explanation for the highs and lows. I wanted a diagnosis, and the one she gave me was unsatisfactory.
But something far more severe than excessive drinking and emotional extremes has surfaced, and I do not know where to begin in tackling this monster. It started thirteen days ago and seems to be getting worse:
(05 January 2010)
"I realized that I’ve followed two gods my entire life: The vengeful, angry God and the merciful, ever-loving one. I realized that I don’t know which one He really is and I’m terrified of being wrong. I have heard preachers say, “God will NOT hear your prayers if there is lust in your heart,” and I was told by the International Mission Board that God cannot use me because of mistakes I have made. Then, there’s the modern Christian movement that says God is full of grace and he loves and pursues me and wants to hear from me even if I’m living in sin or fail to communicate with him regularly. I know there’s evidence in the Bible to support both sides, but I’m afraid of being too soft and/or too hard. I don’t know what’s right. I don’t know if God does hear my prayers when I haven’t prayed in six months out of fear of what He must think of me. I would be lying if I said I love God, because I don’t love people. I’m snobby and rude and avoid eye contact in case someone wants to talk to me. I blame a lot on being socially inept, when really I’m just choosing to deny my purpose in this life. Last night, before crying myself to sleep, I begged God to grant me the tiniest measure of understanding...because I have never felt so lost."
Two months ago, my dear friend instructed me to pursue simplicity. He told me to "remember that simple place where you found redemption, where you found rest in your soul, where you trusted you were loved."
My memories of that place are vague. "Simplify," he said. "Simplify everything."
My fear of excessive sleep has worsened lately, as I am sleeping large amounts to avoid responsibility. I experimented with a lack of sleep last night, to test the difference; but despite completing two paintings, cleaning my entire apartment and polishing off a bottle of Cab, I still feel wrong.
I signed up for a pharmacuetical study for bipolar disorder. Last week, during my first session, the doctor informed me that I do no qualify. "You have depression and anxiety," she said. "You are not bipolar." I bounced out of her office, elated that I had an answer and glad to prove wrong every person who has accused me of the disease. Then, for half an hour, I sobbed in my car, wishing I had some kind of medical explanation for the highs and lows. I wanted a diagnosis, and the one she gave me was unsatisfactory.
But something far more severe than excessive drinking and emotional extremes has surfaced, and I do not know where to begin in tackling this monster. It started thirteen days ago and seems to be getting worse:
(05 January 2010)
"I realized that I’ve followed two gods my entire life: The vengeful, angry God and the merciful, ever-loving one. I realized that I don’t know which one He really is and I’m terrified of being wrong. I have heard preachers say, “God will NOT hear your prayers if there is lust in your heart,” and I was told by the International Mission Board that God cannot use me because of mistakes I have made. Then, there’s the modern Christian movement that says God is full of grace and he loves and pursues me and wants to hear from me even if I’m living in sin or fail to communicate with him regularly. I know there’s evidence in the Bible to support both sides, but I’m afraid of being too soft and/or too hard. I don’t know what’s right. I don’t know if God does hear my prayers when I haven’t prayed in six months out of fear of what He must think of me. I would be lying if I said I love God, because I don’t love people. I’m snobby and rude and avoid eye contact in case someone wants to talk to me. I blame a lot on being socially inept, when really I’m just choosing to deny my purpose in this life. Last night, before crying myself to sleep, I begged God to grant me the tiniest measure of understanding...because I have never felt so lost."
Two months ago, my dear friend instructed me to pursue simplicity. He told me to "remember that simple place where you found redemption, where you found rest in your soul, where you trusted you were loved."
My memories of that place are vague. "Simplify," he said. "Simplify everything."
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