Blogging Blues

I've been blogging inside my mind all week, but nothing has made it yet to the screen. In my head, I'm writing all sorts of delightful essays on how great life is going, how I feel like I've turned a corner in my life, how I'm enjoying dating casually again and feeling relaxed about whether or not I need a boyfriend in my life. Cohesive essays form in my brain. Images ripe with impact dance. A catalog of frogs, kayaks on ocean waves, Obama acceptance speech moment (Yes, We Can!) and so I THOUGHT today would be a great day to blog. I THOUGHT I would be able to stop writing whiny essays on grief and pain and focus instead on fun things, like making out with an adorable 33 year-old border patrol while in a northern city near the Canadian border.

Alas, grief comes crashing back. Or perhaps I should saying rolling. Rolling on the back of a diamond speckled white gold wedding ring.

Lately, my wedding gifts have been offing themselves. Crystal wine glasses have knocked themselves off counters, bowls have shattered in the dishwasher, my flannel pj's from my ex have been taunting my hound so that he has finally ripped a hole in them, and even my favorite pair of sweatpants, my ex's pair that was too small, has been volunteering for the position of wine-stain receptacle. It's a conspiracy. But one that I hope leads to healing soon. 

I feel like once everything from my marriage is destroyed, new growth begins.

In this spirit, I decided that I must sell my engagement ring. Today. I have tried before with little luck. Two months ago I brought engagement ring and wedding band (purchased for $3800 in 2002) to Pawn America. Under the weight of depressed fluorescent light bulbs, in the stale air of smoke and despair, at the counter of dreams forfeited for immediate needs, John told me the pair of items was worth $360 dollars. I pocket the rings and left, sure I could find a better price.

One month ago I posted my rings on craigslist. I took pictures. I wrote a description. I clicked on the link. The responses I got were immediate (which was promising), unintelligible (which was confusing), and overly enthusiastic (which was immediately suspicious). I pictured myself showing up in a parking lot somewhere and being dragged by my ponytail into a trunk. I did not respond to any of the inquirers. 

Today I went to Be-Iced, a store I had heard about on television that promised "three times more!" for my jewelry than a pawn shop. I contented myself with the idea that I might actually get six hundred bucks, I'd settle for five, and secretly, I was hoping for seven. I walked into the carpeted store, past an older woman with an oxygen tank beside her who was looking at diamonds stud earrings perched in gold settings and placed my two rings in a tray lined with black velvet.

"Now, I just have to warn you, it won't be worth nearly what you bought it for" said an older saleswoman with highlighted hair over her glasses.

"That's ok. I've already been to the pawn shop--I've already been shocked."

Turns out, Be-Iced offered less. A grand total for $339. When I said the pawn shop offered more, the saleswoman told me it was probably because they didn't have equipment good enough to "really scrutinize" the jewelry and "find all the flaws." She went on to say "It's sad, isn't it?"

I pocketed the rings again and walked out.

Here's what is sad about the situation. Here's what caused me to feel like cold water was running over me, like a warm flush was creeping to my cheeks, like my arms were being pushed into the ground. Here's what caused my eyes to blur when I looked at the numbers on the page she held in front of me next to that black-velvet-lined box: the ring was my marriage, it was my innocence, it was my twenty year-old heart bleeding away, it was my belief in God, belief in Santa, belief in fairy tale endings and white knights and men I could trust. That ring was a promise I made, a promise I failed to keep; it was failure. My biggest failure.

And a woman was standing there telling me it was worth $339 because of its flaws.

That was a phrase that always was a stab in the chest. Failed Marriage. Those words hold all the weight of the shame that I felt as I left my relationship and chose a better life. 

I left Be-Iced. I ran some errands. I dwelled on my new dilemma. What is the value of $339? Three months of a gym membership? Three months of cell-phone service? Eight four lattes from Starbucks? Such a paltry amount for the weight of my love. "It's sad, isn't it?" Sad isn't the word.

As I drove from store to store returning things, I remembered how just over a year ago I rented a convertible while driving all over Florida. I love convertibles. I've always wanted one. My family has always discouraged me from buying one citing the weather, future children, and impracticality as reasons to steer clear. They are right, of course; a convertible is impractical. But then again, this is my life. I get to do what I want.

And so I settled on the idea of selling the ring to a pawn shop after all and starting a convertible fund. I pictured a mayonnaise jar with convertible pictures taped all over it. Three hundred and sixty dollars wasn't much, but it was a step. A promise. A commitment to myself. A symbol of my fidelity to my own dreams.

Renewed in spirit I drove to a pawn shop near my house, ignored the cars and traffic and sinking feeling I felt as I walked closer to the building, pulled on the door knob and... stopped short. Locked. Closed. 

I was screwed.

Now the weight of my ring continues to haunt me: an item from my marriage I just can't shake. Should I give it to a homeless person? Throw it in a well? Drop it in a mailbox? Go back next week to try again? 

I just don't know. I guess I just have to trust the universe. When, as with my pajamas, my crystal wineglasses, and my sweatpants, it is time for my ring to leave, I'm sure it will find itself a good way to disappear. 

Lucky me

Today the sun was shining brightly, and though it was less than zero degrees outside, I felt optimistic, productive, happy. I drove to a coffee shop, lost myself in a brief writing project, took care of looming deadlines, and talked to a friend who happened to be there at the same time.

I was planning to go to fitness yoga at 5:30. Or possibly soul grooves at 6:00. But at 4:30 I left the coffee shop and walked a block to the grocery store. At 4:50 I left the grocery store. The sun was dropping; the temp was dropping faster. I walked two blocks to my car and in that time decided neither yoga nor grooving was happening tonight. I would go home to my yorkie poo and eat dinner instead.

This was a simple decision, but there's something grander inside it. I choose what I want to do in my life. I answer to no one. I earn my keep and go where I want. I can choose to go to happy hour with friends, choose to pursue an internship, choose to study, choose to read, to sleep, to exercise, to eat, drink, or indulge myself in a manicure or massage. I can choose to replace debt from a mortgage with debt from an education. No one else is responsible for figuring this out. No one else needs to be factored into my decision (save the yorkie poo, of course).

I get to do whatever I want with my one, precious, wild life.

I am overwhelmed by the freedom in my life.

As I chatted with the friendly acquaintance I ran into he asked me what I was doing, working on, reading, writing, etc. I told him about a trip I am taking in the summer- a trip to Europe involving exploration, writing, and a class on creativity in Crete. Listening to myself I realized just how many possibilities I have at my fingertips and how many accomplishments I have already achieved. Last year at this time I remember thinking maybe I will take a sabbatical, maybe I will pursue an internship, maybe this, and maybe that. This year I have met each of my goals. It's like the destruction of last year has led to this magic reassembly of the life of my dreams. I literally can't believe how everything feels so purposeful now.

*****

Last week, another friend of mine told me about a woman she knows in Guatemala. This woman moved to the states with her family when she was four and lived here until she was fourteen. Then she moved home, met a man, devastatingly handsome I am sure, and he, when she was eighteen, convinced her not to go to college even though she was very smart, but to have a baby. With him. So she did. And he left her. Cheated. 

So she left him. Moved in with her family. Taught classes at an English school. Met a British man. Fell in love.

Re-enter baby's daddy. Jealous. Persuasive. I love you now. That's over. She resisted. Wanted to move to England with love-of-her-life #2. Find a job in England. Pursue her education. Her family kicked her out. Make this work with the father of your child. Move into his apartment and accept what he gives you.

There are no opportunities for single women with children in Guatemala. There's no daycare. She is trapped. He got her.

*****

I think of this because this woman does not have the choices I have. And, while sometimes it feels like it might be nice to rely on someone else, to have someone take care of me, I realize that my right to provide for myself and choose my own path in life is a right that many women are denied in this world.

I don't need to feel guilty for being allowed by my society to pursue this right. But I need to recognize not everyone has it. I need to acknowledge that everyone who pursued a right previously denied to their demographic, MLKJ, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Emma Goldman, and more, possessed a strength I can't imagine. And a strength that paved the way for my life today.

I am not nearly as strong as my heroes. Venturing out of marriage and stability and the expectations of my family and society has been one of the most rewarding and difficult adventures of my life. I don't think I am cut out to change social conditions in our world. It is enough for me to have changed conditions in my own life. I almost became a physical therapist to please my mother. I almost stayed in a relationship lacking intimacy and respect because I was trying to be good. And now- now, I feel like I'm setting out on the seas- not sure what I will find on the horizon. 

It is disquieting, and sometimes fills me with anxiety, but ultimately I realize how lucky I am to be in this life. 

Now the sun has set. I am at home. The dishes are done and put away. The temperature has dropped to 13 degrees below zero. It is 8:23 p.m. and the hours stretch out before me, awaiting my decision, my direction, my desire, my plan.

And what, I wonder, will I decide to do next?

*****

My life is what I decide it to be.

Oh Lucky, lucky, oh, lucky me...

InterTEXTual communication

I have to write this blog.

I am an anthropologist who has stumbled onto a great find. A group of men are having a conversation at the table next to me and they are sitting around sharing and analyzing text messages they have received from girls. A man in a striped shirt is reading his texts out loud verbatim.

"I wasn't myself when I said that.  I realize you are a great guy and I want you in my life."

His response? "I want you to leave me alone. Please stop texting me."

Then he reads, "Ok, but first I want to tell you one thing. I was just diagnosed as bipolar and I am starting some new meds today..." 

The conversation is trailing off and I'm starting to feel like a snoop. But there is enough above to get to my point. 

SOME THINGS SHOULD JUST NOT BE COMMUNICATED IN TEXT MESSAGES.

I am becoming more and more certain of this point as I stumble around in this new single life of mine. To think--I just learned how to text the summer of '07. Now I have sent thousands of messages including a few where I stuck my foot in my mouth, textually speaking, and have gotten pissed by off messages sent to me on my phone.

Texts work great for letting friends know where you are sitting at a ball game, for a quick reference to something funny or an inside joke, for an urgent, time-related message when it's inappropriate to use the phone. 

They should not be used in dating situations. 

I understand the temptation and have fallen prey to it myself. It's so easy to send a text. So impersonal. So harmless.  "What are you doing?" or rather "What r u doing?" It starts a conversation without any chance of rejection, without having to worry about intruding on someone's life. You get a number--you send a text. It's like casting your line off the dock. You're not totally invested, but you're hopeful.

The problem is the waters become instantly murky if the texting is dating related. You pull in question and after question and while you want to throw them back, some of them are big ones that you have to keep. What did he mean? What is she really thinking? Is he kidding or joking? Why did I say that? Why did he say that? What the hell is going on here anyway?

I had an encounter with a guy a couple months ago and we ran into this texting dilemma. He would text; I would call. He would text; I tried to call. Eventually I started to text... and soon the communication fizzled out completely.

So- what did I learn? A relationship, even a pseudo-relationship, can't get off the ground if you can't make the occasional phone call. (Of course, this may be an oversimplification, but a good rule of thumb, in any case.)

I have learned the hard way about the no texting rule. I am embarrassed to admit that I have sent drunk texts, angry texts, and even texts "ending" friendships completely. Luckily the receiver of these texts was either a forgiving, true friend who accepted my apologies and laughed at my ridiculous behavior, or someone who probably wouldn't have stayed in my life for very long anyway. 

Hence- a resolution: 2009--get on the line: text appropriately; live respectfully.

Pain--Loving Something When It Hurts

I love soccer.

I love playing the game in 90 degree heat, in 40 degree cold, in rain, in the dark, and even when the wind is blowing against my team (thus making it harder to kick the ball at the net). I love playing and I love colliding with other players. I love being knocked to the ground and I love even more to knock others to the ground (or at least I did until I realized many of the women I play against are mothers or possibly pregnant). 

But the sport hurts me.

I have sustained countless injuries that I wore with pride like a badge. Pulled quads, pulled calves, sprained ankles, a broken nose, and of course, lost toenails. Every season I would hope my blackened toenail would hang on through the summer and I would cover its ugliness up in red nail polish. All of these injuries irritated me but also made me proud. Each one was a badge. "How about you just lay down on the ground while I beat you with a stick?" asked a friend, exasperated by injuries.

"Would there be a way to win?" I asked.

.....

Pain in soccer is glorious and something that fills me with pride.

Pain in relationships sends me running. I am instantly ashamed.

.....

I was reading my book about the pain of abandonment and learned that the brain acts like a trauma victim when we are left by someone we love, or when we perceive we are left. Literally the body goes into panic mode: we are more alert, more observant, more prone to startling, and our brain records the pain and the event permanently into our neurons.

Hence, whenever an event reminding us of the trauma of abandonment occurs, our body again goes into panic mode.

How, I wonder, will I ever find my way into another relationship considering I am a trauma victim? 

The pain of my last relationship makes me pull back from anything real and flinch at the first sign of trouble. It sends me back to old pre-marriage patterns of harmlessly kissing boys who are visiting from out of town once in a while and shying away when anyone seems too interested. It makes me flinch when the guy I really care about uses a dismissive tone of voice with me. It makes me want to build up the walls, hunker down, and put on the armor. 

Funny thing. Armor-- amore... so similar in terms of letters. Do we need armor to approach amore? 

I know my brain wants to protect me. I know it sets up barriers in order to prevent more trauma. What I hope to learn is that I am already whole. If someone leaves me, the world does not end. I am trying to learn that it's ok to take risks and to open myself up for a relationship. I am trying to learn to brush off pain in search of love.

Loving soccer is easy despite the pain. Pain in athletics our culture celebrates. Pain in relationships our culture denigrates. If someone is hurt by love that person is weak. But I don't have to buy into that. I don't have to buy into the glorification or denigration of pain. 

I can just accept that sometimes it happens; we get hurt, we are injured, we have to take a break. But if we want to, we believe that the injury will heal. If we want to, we can still keep playing.

When You Need Him To--God Sends You a 24 Year-Old

I have been thinking about my looks lately. 

I know there is a reason for everything, so I know there is a reason I look the way I do. I was the kind of child that inspired comments from strangers when I was very little. Then I got glasses and was awkward. Then I was 5'9" with blonde hair, blue eyes, and long legs. 

On paper, I always thought, that sounds good. But I have never really felt attractive. I have never felt like the pretty girl in the room.

Consequently, all of the guys I dated growing up and most of the guys I gravitate towards now all have complimented my looks. Is that by chance? Obviously I must gather my confidence about my appearance from outside sources.

After an exceptionally tough time in high school dealing with my low self-esteem and poor self-image, I began to cope by simply ignoring the problem. I pretended I didn't care what people thought about how I looked and married a man who praised my looks every day. 

"What if I get fat someday? Would you still love me?" I asked him.

"Baby," he would say. "You're never going to be fat."

...

Luckily, growing up, I was always severely and unintentionally underweight. I have no doubt that I had the type of personality that could have easily developed an eating disorder, but instead I was left dealing with girls in the lunch line who asked me how I could even walk with legs as skinny as mine. Instead I was left with boobs so flat I worried I looked like a guy. There was no fat to spare. Now I think it was a blessing--as a result I never counted calories. 

At present, however, after getting my life into balance and rejoining the scene of happy hours and social outings, I have suddenly gained fifteen pounds, a thing that hasn't occurred since freshman year of high school. 

I don't want to sound ridiculous, but it has made me question my self-worth. It's stupid, I know, but suddenly I am worrying about whether or not I can attract a man, whether or not I am valuable. Whether or not I deserve a happy life. 

It disgusts me, this anxiety about body-image, and it's something I've wrestled with since about third grade.

I am trying to validate my own existence. I am trying to not depend on men for compliments. I am trying to remember that my worth is not determined by how I look compared to the glossy women in People magazine. I am trying to remember I am brilliant, vivacious, curvy, sensual, sexy, and fun. 

But it's hard.

So, once in a while, I am grateful for the validation I get from men. On New Year's-- a night of patent leather heels, girlfriends, fishnets, and a short dress--I got that validation.

"I'm not lying," said the 24 year-old. "Your eyes are so beautiful."

"Is your name really Billy?" I asked. I mean, seriously; I am thirty and have been on the market for a year and a half. I know a line when I hear one.

We smooched and he flattered me a little more. Then he tried to come home with me. I told him no--I just needed the reminder, not the complicated drama.

I wish I felt good about myself. I wish it came naturally. Instead I am stuck repeating affirmations, reminding myself of my values, and smiling at boys like Billy once in a while. 

My resolution for 2009? To work on the esteem issue, with or without a man.

Getting Too Raw

Last year I took a day off of work to go to the opening day of the film Sex in the City with two best friends. In the movie, one woman leaves her man for cheating on her, another is left by her man at the altar, and a third covers her body in sushi only to wait three hours for her Valentine to show up. I loved the movie the first time I watched it. Tonight I watched it again and everything felt just a little too raw.

This time watching the movie inspired ugly crying. I watched every moment and cried like it was happening to me. Every twinge of the heartstrings was my own symphony of pain. My eyes turned into slits and my lips puffed up. I glanced in the mirror and thought, well, some people pay lots of money for their lips to look like this.

During the movie two friends are spending New Year's Eve alone and one woman ends up hailing a cab and making it to her friend-in-need's apartment just in time for New Year's. 

"You're not alone," she says to her friend. And watching that I burst into tears.

Then I sent a text to my youngest brother. 

I had mentioned to my eight-year-younger sibling that I didn't want to be alone for New Year's. He referenced the movie (a fact that made me realize I had done something right in raising him) and talked about how great it was as a film. He understood how I felt. He validated my feelings. He expressed his support for me. Hence I sent him a text saying I was re-watching the movie and that I had had a blast on New Year's and I hope he did too. 

Then I burst into tears again.

Why is my best relationship with a man my relationship with my youngest brother? A brother I did feel completely responsible for when I was nine, ten, eleven, and twelve years old? He and I support each other unconditionally. When I was crazed by the fear of leaving my addict and felt like I had been kicked out of my house, my youngest brother was the one who drove with me to my house so I could get all my passwords and important numbers. He shared my shock and my pain. When my dad snapped at me later that night and I drove off into the middle of a tornado, he was the one who followed me into the storm. Growing up my nightmares always involved him in jeopardy and me trying to save him. 

Much as I love my close relationship with my brother, it is currently making me cry. I don't want to think that he is the only man I can have a good relationship with--I want to think there are other men who might come into my life and offer that kind of support.

Last year the number one man in my life fell out of my life because he ultimately betrayed my trust. A friend, also in my top five relationships with men, after my dad and brothers, betrayed me and humiliated me in front of his wife.  Both men appeared to completely support me. Both men ultimately betrayed me. "Wow," said a therapist. "What' s your relationship like with your dad?"

...

I thought it was great. Now I am having nightmares starring my dad. Maybe my perfect father-daughter relationship wasn't what it seemed? Maybe it was?

...

The latest disappointment happened mostly in my subconscious. I dreamt I was telling someone about a man who has become a good friend of mine in the last six months. In my dream, I said, "he's probably the man I'm closest to right now."

The other person, a voice, said, "Oooh, watch out. Remember what happened the last two times."

I didn't process the dream until later this evening, when, while watching my movie, I impulsively called him to say hi and was brushed off like horse fly on a pontoon boat ride in July. 

Perhaps this situation contributed to the tears?

In any case, I am left to deal with the horror--the possibility that I will never connect with a man I can trust, a man I feel safe enough to let down my guard around. Perhaps I am in some way defective--a woman who chooses wrong every time when it comes to deciding who to trust. 

Or maybe it's just timing. Maybe I'm feeling too sensitive. Like the sushi in the movie covering one woman's body--maybe everything right now is just too raw.

The horror! The horror!

I am writing this blog from my couch with my new slippers from a best friend on my feet, snuggly polar fleece blanket from my sister-in-law on my lap, and a tired yorkie poo resting between my shins. The only time he rests from constant chewing, tugging, shredding, and eating is when he is nestled somehow on my lap. Could it be he doesn't want to be abandoned?

I have been reading a book called The Journey from Abandonment to Healing. Well, ok, I'm only three pages into it, but it is as if this were a book meant for me at just this particular time in my life. On page three of the preface it reads:

Without guidance, many people don't completely recover from the loss of a love. Their fears and doubts remain unresolved. True recovery means confronting uncomfortable feelings, understanding what they are, and most importantly, learning how to deal with them.

There are some feelings no one wants to talk about because they involve fear, despair, and self-doubt so intense that you're naturally humiliated and ashamed by them. This shame is not just about the embarrassment you may feel over having been rejected; it is about feelings that bewilder you with their potency, induce panic, and have you believing you are weak, dependent, unlovable, even repulsive.

These two paragraphs are like a gift from God validating my feelings about my recovery from grief and codependency.  All year I have been on a quest to get to the bottom of the mystery of my marriage. How did I end up with an emotionally unavailable sex addict? What patterns from my childhood have fucked me up so bad that my relationship failed?

It feels blunt to say the truth. 

It feels naked.

But I have to be  glad that the end of my marriage was a strong enough catalyst to make me examine my life. I have to be glad I have been given this chance to grow. The person I am becoming is so much more vibrant and exciting than the person I was, the person who covered up her pain with a smile and who ignored her problems by staying too busy to think.

I just wish the process wasn't so uncomfortable. 

The power words from the second paragraph of the book that strike me the hardest are shame, rejected, panic, and repulsive. That's how it feels. Rejection sends me to a place where I am repulsive; when I realize I feel this way I tumble down a shame spiral. If I were smarter, stronger, braver, more attractive I wouldn't feel this way. I would be able to see the truth. And finally--the fear of being rejected again sends that wave of panic, terror almost, through my body and into my chest, lungs, and shoulders. I tense and hold my breath, my voice reaches a higher register, all because I am afraid of being rejected again.

It's interesting to think about how this pain of abandonment dwells in most of us and, myself included until last year, mostly we struggle along through life pretending we are not in pain, pretending to be satisfied with life. 

It is the fear, the panic, the terror, of abandonment that raises our triggers, drives us to escape our pain.

I escaped my pain of abandonment while in my marriage by staying busy, socializing too much, working too hard, focusing on sex with my ex, and drinking with friends too often. My body tried to wake me up by being sick from stress related illnesses, by falling into a depression. 

My triggers are working now. More, probably than during my marriage. They are working to protect me from future relationships, future pain. They flare up--and it is that word again: terror.

I talked about this with a couple friends last night at a New Year's Eve dinner out on the town. We were dazzling-- all gold, silver, and curly--and we were all single. We talked about how we've been pushed away by people who have been hurt, how we push away too in our own ways, how we put up barriers before we get too close, how we sabotage relationships before they begin in order to end them before we can really get hurt. We all agreed it had to stop somewhere. 

Later, after champagne and noisemakers, we made our way to a night club. I spotted a group of men dancing at the back--they were cute, well-dressed, well-groomed, and dancing with each other. I was ready to join the party. My friend Jodi came to my elbow and dragged me away, saying, "I think you're putting up barriers again. You're dancing with the gay guys." Oh yeah, I'm supposed to find a man who might be interested in me.

Fear of abandonment hurts my life. I know I am not alone... the yorkie poo feels it too. When I first brought him home and left him alone for the first time, fear of abandonment welled up in him in panicked barks and yips and yawps and whimpers. 

It feels the same way in my heart.

(the yorkie poo has now crawled over my computer in order to be even closer to my head, to my heart.)

While the pain of rejection makes me feel like a wreck, like someone whose 650 page manuscript has just flown out the back seat of the car onto the freeway, I am convinced it will make me a stronger person. More than that, the awkward, clumsy process of uncovering the truth doesn't have to make me feel like a ridiculous loser (as it often does). It means I am brave enough to face who I am, who I was, and who I want to be. 

It means I am strong enough to choose a better version of my life.