Thursday, February 28, 2013

Dead Things And My Mom

I'm starting to have the relationship with my mother that I've always hoped for. She judges less. She lets me be more, and doesn't question my life choices. She buys me dead things and saves rabbit spines for me that the cats or coyotes leave behind out on their property. That's a big one, that says more about her evolving growth as a person toward me, than just about anything else.

I'd always been fascinated with dead things. My first acquisition was a preserved turtle claw when I was fifteen, and growing up, one of my favorite things about visiting my grandparents' place were the mason jars with bats soaked in formaldehyde that my uncle had left behind that were on the book shelf in the bedroom I always slept in. There was, too, that any time I was on a lake shore or body of water, I spent less time admiring the living things than I did looking for fish skeletons in the sand. I'd just always thought they were beautiful.

The interest began ramping up in my mid-late 20s, and I acquired several skulls, tails, and other things fur and bone related. My mother made it clear that she thought this a morbid fascination and she'd have no part in it.

When a deer died on their property the winter of 2009, I begged that they leave it where it was, in a remote corner of the land, well out of sight by an outbuilding, so I could salvage some of the bones after nature had had its way with the young lady deer. This request only disgusted her more and she made my father drag it out to the corn field after I'd left.

Last week, my parents arrived home from a trip to California. Gifts were brought back for me, which included various fruits picked, some artisan soap, a fig and caramelized onion spread, as well as shark teeth, a shark jaw, and a small alligator head.

This acceptance means the world to me. Now, if I could just get her to be supportive of my art, writing and music...

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

On Patience, a followup


The friend I mentioned the other day in the blog titled On Patience made my night last night, just before I went to sleep. I'd written him earlier in the evening and said I was thinking about him (when a friend or loved one is clearly troubled, I tend to think of them all the time, like a sort of meditative white noise running in the background, and oft foreground, of my thoughts). He responded later and thanked me. I avoided mentioning therapy, and we talked a bit about how he's doing, and he stated that we must get together in the next few days, as he really needs me right now.

I'm certainly not pleased that he's in enough pain to need my friendship and counsel for something so serious, but I am fucking elated that I was able to turn this touchy situation around and find him still confiding in me.

Lesson: Change a behavior known to cause less than perfect results, possibly get ideal results the next opportunity to exhibit said behavior by avoiding said behavior!

I'mma turn these stodgy, OCD-reliant neural pathways of mine into sleek, happy pussycats, by gum.

This Poem Kills Platitudes

My friend Juni's father wrote this poem. He has died, and she wasn't even aware that he'd written poetry.

The words here, the simplicity of how they're written, the rawness of it, the aching vulnerability, I've just got tears streaming down my face.


This is what love is. This is how you love. Belief or acceptance of anything else won't get you very far.


And fuck Chris for not wanting to try.


***


I have a need for you to be what I make you.

It's very difficult for me
to let you come to me
on your own,
as only what you are

and


I have a need to be what you want to make me.

It's very difficult for me
to come to you
on my own, 
as only what I am.

I am afraid


Maybe,

if I give you my fear
the way will open
for us to come together,
as only what we are.

I would like to try. ~Liam Grimm

Monday, February 25, 2013

On Patience

I am extraordinarily patient.

With myself.

With everyone else, I assume they're not self-aware enough or reliable enough to get the thing that "needs" doing done and I "need" to incessantly remind them of this.

I recognized this some time ago, but changing that behavior, which is precisely as grotesque as that sentence makes it sound, is proving to be very difficult.

One, I've got some fairly solid OCD behaviors. This means that, by and large, if I think it, I say it. I have gotten increasingly better at using mindfulness to think about the consequences of what I say, but I can't win every time. Worse, I get something in my head that "needs" to be accomplished, and I grow increasingly angry and disappointed in a person for not doing that thing within the timeframe I feel is appropriate.

Yet, with myself, I know that I will eventually get anything that should be done done, eventually. I believe in myself. If I don't feel like doing the dishes one minute, I know that by the end of the day, I will want to, and I will enjoy doing it. I don't push myself. I don't view it as procrastination, I see it more as waiting for the planets to align to make the experience as fulfilling as possible. If I force myself to do something, to finish an art project before the inspiration is there, to clean the apartment when I'd rather be watching Friday Night Lights on Netflix, it makes me feel leaden and it winds up taking five times as long, and when it's done, there's no sense of pride or accomplishment.

And so, I've learned that things'll happen when they're ready to, and I leave it at that. It has done wonders for my stress levels; I used to fret, lie awake at night, blah blah blah stress behaviors about every niggly thing that "needed" to be done that I wasn't getting done within the timeframe I thought was appropriate.

Why can't I have this laid back attitude with the people I love?

I don't fucking know, and it frustrates me enormously. I see it driving people away from me, I see it hardening people to me when I push, and yet I can't just sit back and let things take their course. And don't get me wrong, it always comes from a place of love, it just doesn't feel like love to the people I'm pushing.

A recent example that crushed my heart a little the other day; a friend is going through a very rough time. His mother committed suicide not too long ago, and he is, as he should be, having a lot of trouble with it. I suggested he see a therapist at the place I go to. He said that was a very good idea, that he'd do it, just not this week as he was busy. The next time we talked, I asked him if he'd called the place yet. He hadn't, and gave an excuse. I implored him to do it, please. He said he would. The other day, he initiated a conversation and when I asked him how he was doing, he said, "I'd tell you, but every time I do, you harp on me to call NIP."

"Fuck," I thought. "There you go again, Sarah."

And my mind scrambles, trying to figure out a way to assure him I wouldn't do that this time, and I settle on saying, "Well, what are you waiting for?"

It's a chat conversation on Facebook, so when he responds, "Goodnight. xoxo" I know I've just pushed him away from speaking openly to me about how he's actually feeling. He's a touchy man to begin with, so we've had several instances where I've discovered things are taboo (he gets super weird about me telling him anything about someone I'm dating, for instance). But in this situation, I want to be the paragon of empathy, and I'm failing. Now, I am fairly sure, he won't talk to me about how he's doing, thereby isolating him from someone who cares deeply about his welfare.

How do I learn to let people do things on their own time while also offering the advice they seek from me, without being pushy or too invested in their success and progress in life?

The question may very well be a koan.

Monday, February 18, 2013

The upcoming relocation situation

I'm leaving my beloved apartment May 1st when my lease is up. Publicly, and this is a solid portion of it, I've said it's because I won't have a car and biking from where I usually end up all summer (in and around Uptown) can be both tedious and dangerous late at night/when I've been drinking. There's a long stretch of road that's all near to Interstate exits and on ramps, and I never feel quite comfortable biking that 3/4 of a mile or so to my home in Near North.

It's also not near anything that I do frequently enjoy. The bars, restaurants and venues. I mean, it's "near" everything, nothing is more than fifteen minutes away, but little of it is within walking distance. If anything, it is exceptionally centrally located to all things, but not exactly close to anything. A conundrum of locale.

But, the bulk of why I want to leave is that this home has seen too much heartache. I have been looking around the last week and I am haunted by several scenes: crying myself to sleep in my bed after Andy, sitting around despondent after Thor (Thor, who I haven't spoken of, may not be necessary to speak of; it was a three month relationship. He lives in New Orleans. It didn't work, and didn't really work from the get-go. Honestly, though I fell hard and fast for him, I don't remember much that I really liked about him. I liked his style of dress. His calm demeanor. His swagger when he walked. That he was a carpenter, and a sculptor. I liked that he touched my elbow at intersections, a chivalrous gesture, to bade me not run like a ninny into traffic. But, I was not particularly attracted to him, and it just wasn't going to work out. So it didn't. We're friends now, everything is good.), and now, all of this with Chris.

I just want a fresh start. And simple comforts, like my favorite bar less than ten blocks away.

Sunday, February 17, 2013

Hurts Donut

Some days are worse than others, and this has been the worst in two weeks. I hurt everywhere, my heart, my guts, even a dull ache that extends into my knees for some reason, that seems to be attached to emotion rather than a physical ailment.

Every few minutes I have to talk myself out of communicating with him in some way. Every few minutes I have to give myself a pep talk that I need to be patient. Some shift for the better is on the horizon, it can't get worse now, I just need to be calm, and patient, and think good thoughts and distract myself and...

not think about how much I love this person who doesn't want to be with me.


Saturday, February 16, 2013

Andy Reflections

Earlier this week, I looked at old emails from Andy, after he'd broken up with me about two months into our relationship. The circumstances were different, he was conflicted between me and his ex of five years who wanted him back. He loved me, admitted it freely, and was florid about how he knew he was ruining a beautiful thing with he and I. But, he also stated, in very plain terms, that he was done with us. That he didn't want a relationship. Not with me, not with anyone, that he wanted time to figure himself out and become more stable.

This sent me into a tailspin, but, after I'd reached an operatic head (far, far more melodramatic and anxiety fueled than anything with Chris has been in this post-breakup scenario), and he asked me to stop talking to him, I did that, and I calmed down, found a parcel of peace on my own, and tried to make amends with the fact that it seemed he and I were not going to work out.

About three weeks later, we were back together. I look back on those emails, and on the blog posts I wrote here while this was happening, and there are more parallels than differences. I was just as convinced then as I am now that things won't work out in favor of a reunion with Chris. Perhaps even moreso, as there wasn't 1,729 miles between Andy and I. There was only a quick drive down 35W from NE Minneapolis to get to my home, where we talked, reconciled, made love, and he took me to Tuesdays with Toneski at the 501.

In the reconciliation, things were never easy with Andy. He was always uncertain about me, about us, about whether he wanted to be in a relationship at all. So the next nine and a half months with him were  consistently in turmoil. It was a lot of him trying to break up with me, me letting him go a little, him coming over to play Scrabble, us making love, reforging our bonds, and repeating the process over and over. It was a constant game of "Go Away, Come Here." It was never stable, it was rarely in a state of contentment. I was always trying to shoehorn functionality into something that wasn't ever going to find its stride.

Ironically, our most stable period was the two months right before we broke up. We were as happy as we'd been in the first couple months of our relationship, but our sex life was flagging. I know myself well enough to know that when I lose interest sexually, there is something very wrong in the relationship that I just haven't figured out yet. It took me about three weeks to realize what I had probably known, somewhere, all along. Andy never loved me as much as I loved him, and he never would. This would never end up being marriage, kids. He was about to apply to colleges to start a graduate program in poetry(!), and I knew I didn't want to be with him for that journey, and he didn't want me there. This was an obstacle we couldn't work our way around.

So, on the one year anniversary of our first date, September 6th, 2010, we had a planned breakup. We went to a Twins game, held hands, snuggled, went to dinner at a nice restaurant, shared a bottle of wine, had sparkling conversation and love and intimacy, and then I drove him home, we went to his room, talked for a bit, kissed, cried, and I left.

Looking back on the whole of our relationship, I see something I don't think I'd fight for, now. Looking at Chris and I, it's different, because he and I were much happier, and much more functional in our three months than Andy and I ever were. Andy was a good boyfriend, and I was a good girlfriend to him, but as great as my love was for him, I don't look back on it with any wistfulness. Chris and I connected in a way I hadn't ever known, and continued to, even in the worst of it, when I knew he was going to end things.

Yet, is that something that can be repaired? I feel very ill at ease with shoehorning anything with him. I don't want to fight against any current on a consistent basis. I want a relationship that works because the person I'm with is as in it with me as I am with them. And, the fact is, he gave up on us. The fact is, no matter what issues he had with me, with us, that led him to believe it wasn't something he wanted to work for, the fact is, he's the sort of person that gives up instead of solving the problem. I am not that kind of person. I thought our love was worth it. I still do. He was my partner in crime, truly, and it felt amazing, and I won't settle for anything less than that.

1,729 miles will prevent any hope of that. He won't decide this is a good idea, even if he wakes up one day and is filled, again, with love for me. The distance will always be enough of a problem for him that he will believe it can't work. And if that's what he believes, then it can't work. I was not at my best trying to hustle money to see him, or to pay partially to get him here. That was $1,000 a month just to travel to Portland or get him here. I was at my best while with him, in his arms, looking at him, realizing what was important and how much I loved him, but the distance makes it so those moments become foggy fast. Even with only three weeks between visits.

I am ambivalent. I want the love to fade, so I can move on. I also want him to call me and tell me, "What the hell. Let's see if this can't fly. Mind if I move in with you?"

Friday, February 15, 2013

On marriage and kids

The talk about marriage and kids came early. Before any I love you was uttered. And, though he was drunk and doesn't remember it, he was the first to say I love you, too. Or, at least, that he was "in love" with me.

I was sober, lying in bed, he texted that he was sad, and was going to get progressively more drunk. I called him, and we talked for what ended up being three hours, but felt like mere minutes. We told stories, I talked about things like how I find dimes in conspicuous places, when it seems like I'm on a particular path toward something, and I attribute them to my deceased grandfather, Dale. He asked if I'd found a dime the day I met him.

I had. In the middle of the bathroom rug at his sister's place, where I'd been staying. I remember picking it up, as I always do, and relishing its thin metallic feel, smiling softly to myself, wondering what the day had in store.

At some point in that conversation, the phrase, "I wouldn't be in love with you unless..."was spoken. It took my breath for a minute, and I almost said I love you to him, as I'd wanted to over and over in every conversation we'd been having the prior two and a half weeks. But, I knew he was drunk, and I knew it wasn't time. I knew, in the morning, he probably wouldn't remember he'd said that.

In that same conversation, a propos of nothing, he stated, "We need to get started on having kids early. I don't want to be an old dad." I laughed, and it scared me a little. Even though I'm comfortable with moving "fast," I am also accustomed to people feeling fast for me and it scaring them, so they project that fear onto me and tell me over and over that I'm moving too fast, yet ignore the fact that they're putting out exactly the same language and feeling that I am. It's unfair, and as of yet, I can't figure out a way to handle it. He asked me, at one point, if I didn't think that he and I were "eerily similar." It came via text, and honestly, I balked at the notion. I thought about the things I'd noticed already, that he could grow angry quickly, that he was horribly stubborn... and then realized I could say the same of myself. After, I started to tally up the ways in which we were similar, and it was true. He was me, with a penis. I started to tell people that when they asked me what he was like.

Chris, seemed so cutely sure of himself and his feelings (and it was only in that one conversation that he was drunk), even though he admitted it also scared him. He'd say things like, "If you can guess how many cavities I have, I'll marry you." The answer was 0. I guessed wrong. I wasn't saying anything like that. I'd talk about marriage, about kids, in the abstract, that I wanted to have them, that I wouldn't discount having them with him, but he was interviewing me. He was probing me for information, for things that compiled his list of what he wants in a wife, in the mother of his kids.

We were sitting at a restaurant, about to go for a walk along the Mississippi when he was here before Thanksgiving. He smiled at me, in the sunset light streaming through the windows and asked if I'd want family dinner every night. I told him of course, that that was the way I'd grown up and that's what I'd want for my family once I had one. He nodded. "Good. That's really important to me."

And there were the other times, like the moment when we were talking about pregnancy and how I wouldn't abort if I got pregnant because I'm 34 and it seems silly to me that I wouldn't keep it, even though my life isn't ready for a kid. I know I'd be able to figure things out pretty fast. But, I said, if I did find out that there was a major birth defect, or some terrible illness, I wouldn't hesitate to abort. He grinned, and high fived me. It was one of the many things that could have been a touchy subject, but was not. We were just on the same page.

He told me, too, when he was here, on a night where we went out dancing and I found that he was the first person I was involved with that I could actually dance with and I was elated, and he was elated, and he was adorably listing, in my ear, over the loud new wave and 80s hits, all the reasons he loves me, and he said something about marriage, and I laughed at him and asked him how long he needed to "know" about me, and without missing a beat, he said, "Six months."

I don't know where that kind of talk got lost. I don't where it was, or what happened that made him just give up on us. Because, as far as I can tell, as far as I remember, we never stopped being compatible. Even when we were fighting, we worked things out efficiently, and were able to look at one another with sincere love, affection, and respect. Something dark and significant happened in his head that took his heart from me, bit by bit, and he just let it happen. And I am just at a loss to understand it.

I've been in relationships where I thought about marriage and kids. I've talked about those relationships here. But none of those people thought the same of me. None of those people talked about our potential kids by name (I'd like to name a boy Ivan Jack), made jokes with me about having "witch twins" after passing street names Cremona and Bersota in Seattle, and none of them, certainly, drew a fucking picture of a girl he had a dream about that he decided was our daughter.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Ego strength, and more on being exhausting...

I think of the people I know that I think are exhausting, and what, if anything, that means in relation to how I might be being perceived. There are parallels, but there are differences. Namely that anyone who has ever called me "exhausting" never really goes away.

Of the people I've considered truly exhausting, who are two women I was close to, I walked away from those friendships and absolutely did not look back. When we meet in social situations, we treat one another as if we'd never been close, with a compulsory civility.

Both of these women glommed onto me and wanted to spend tons of time with me. One didn't like driving home after drinking, so she'd sleep in my bed. Both were intense, emotional, but emotionally stunted women. One of them was in a long term relationship with a good friend of mine, and the joke with them was that it wasn't a date until she was crying about something.

Both of them wrote me handwritten, multi-paged letters, which they sent through the mail, after a perceived infraction. Typically, this was me calling them out on a negative behavior that made their social interactions difficult for them. One was so thin-skinned, aka the one with the aforementioned relationship and its constant crying, conversations had to be kid-glovved at all times. It was tedious, and exhausting, and few of us around her dealt with it well, when it was understood that the conversation had to be steered toward what was going to not upset her. The other was a profoundly weird girl that no one ever understood, but that could also be part of her charm. Sometimes, it just happened that something one of us did offended her. Very, very deeply. I'd dealt with her, on two occasions, having a devaluation episode with someone I considered closer to me than she was to me, so she put me in a position where she expected me to side with her, and not them. In both instances, her thought process was so starkly black and white, there was no way to reason with her. These people, both male friends of mine, were "evil."

Both, despite their flaws, were a lot of fun to be around, when they wanted to be having fun. They were incredibly smart, witty, funny women.

In any case, at some point, the hand-written letters arrived. The close friendships with these women happened a couple of years apart, 2006 and 2008. The former continued to write me letters, which I stopped reading, and then she finally sent me an absolutely horrible, scathing email in 2007 which I received just minutes after finding out one of the most wonderful, kind-hearted women I've known had died of a heroin overdose. Those two things made for some bad sleep the next two weeks... When I see her now, we don't act like we were ever close, but because she is a very funny person and we have that rapport with one another, we have let bygones be just that.

The latter's letter, in 2008, was meant to be a farewell, and to her credit, it was. I have seen her socially a couple of times, but other than not meaningfully ignoring one another, we haven't conversed at all.

So. Pairing these experiences with something my therapist said last week, I'm going to make a leap here. My therapist mentioned the phrase "ego strength" when we were discussing how I am polarizing, and at around the three month mark, if someone has gotten close to me, it either passes by with no issues, or I "lose" the person for a while. Rarely forever, but that has happened too. Both of these women "broke it off" with me after about three months (though I had known them for several years prior to our spending a lot of time together, and we'd only been casual friends 'til that point). Usually, after about four to six months, the person who has "left" comes back in some way. Through tentative contact, or, sometimes we just completely resume the previous relationship, romantic or friendship. Typically, the relationship is solid the second time around and suffers none of the issues of the first go-round. I would hazard a guess that in the interim, both parties reflect and accept things about one another that they, at first, had trouble coping with.

It makes sense, putting the phrase "ego strength" into the equation that this is what happens. The people whom with there is no three-month bump are people who are quite aware of who they are as people, and, though they are certainly works in progress as I am, they are not daunted by someone with a strong personality challenging them, and often they wholly embrace it (as I do when I am met with the same). The ones who do balk and have a great deal of difficulty with me are generally in some state of flux, who are trying to help themselves and maybe don't know how or can't yet see that they do need to help themselves and feel as if they are not on steady ground in general. In short, my presence in their lives is unstable feeling and it threatens them.

I don't know how to change this, but it feels good to recognize it. I certainly don't want to continue this pattern, and wish to be a calming force to people who have not yet found their ego strength, but that will be something I have to continue parsing out.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Platitudes and other false "truisms"

In a breakup, or during a rocky patch in a relationship, the platitudes come out full-force.

No, thank you.

Two that have particularly gotten my goat recently are, "Love someone for who they are, not who you want them to be," and another, which was a quote that Chris posted online which spoke of letting someone who leaves you go because your destiny is never tied to them (I looked for the quote online and found it's not only attributed to the wrong person and has been reposted about a billion times incorrectly, it's also completely rewritten from the original version, which was in a blog entry by Tony McCollum, but is actually a quote by a preacher named TD Jakes; the original text is far more palatable; I'm guessing McCollum paraphrased Jakes at some point and that's where the "quote" comes from).

Anyway.

Love someone for who they are, not who you want them to be.

Why does everyone latch onto this load of horse dung? You love someone because you love them. What ever reason or reasons those are. If they're an alcoholic, they're always going to be an alcoholic, but you can want them to be on the wagon, and you can help them get there. You love them in SPITE of this huge obstacle, and you want the best for them, you want them to be better. And you should. And, if every hobby they have isn't something you're into, you decide if that's worth it to you, to hold onto that love. If they're not on the same life path you are, again, decide if the love is worth it. But that has nothing to do with the love itself; you love the person for other things that have nothing to do with those things. I have a friend who travels constantly by himself, goes out to bars and parties by himself, the woman he's with doesn't want kids or marriage. But he loves her. And he's been with her for years, and will probably stay with her 'til they die. When he is home with her, they cook together, they have "craft night," and make Halloween costumes (months in advance). They have their bonds. They decided that, even though their goals don't match, even though their lifestyles are different, that the love is worth it.

And then there's this destiny and leaving malarkey.

I feel like face palm-ing myself every time I think about it.

If everyone who was ever left by someone just gave up, and truly thought, "Hey, my destiny is not tied to that person! Time to move on!" There would never be a single great love story. There would be millions of people who left because of insecurities, fear, defense mechanisms, because they don't know how to make a relationship successful and they give up, whose leaving was validated by the person left behind saying, "Well, okay then."

I've left many people, and been left by many people. Sometimes, we came back together romantically, more often than not, really. And even if we didn't, almost all of those people are people I am very close to now; we learned a great deal by being in love with one another and are now a kind of friend that can't be disrupted.

A platitude that is a bit more reasonable would be, "If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it's meant to be."

That's also gross, but it's not really hurting anyone. When someone is trying to leave you, most of the time, it's a really good idea to give that person space. My rule of thumb is usually about six months, post-breakup, once the two or three weeks post-breakup kind of come to some sort of operatic head (cuz seriously, only the most cold people just let someone go without any kind of plea). By six months, it's typically not devastating to have coffee with them or just run into them at the bar.

But just giving up? That's depressing. Destiny has it's own ideas and you have absolutely no idea what they are.

These platitudes and false truths are ways for us to delude ourselves, and validate our behaviors or the behaviors of others. They're not real. If anything, I think they make us doubt good things we have, and put us in positions where we think we "deserve" better. Our whole fucking culture is centered, love-wise, around telling us we "deserve" better. Which means a lot of us never really give what we've got a shot. Which is why we have a bunch of assholes in their mid-thirties running around whining about how they can't ever find love. Myself included.

Monday, February 11, 2013

Juice.

A little break from the love-oriented writings.

I've wanted to write something about the juicing I've been doing the past three weeks or so, but it would be too long for a fb status, awkward as a tumblr post... No one will really see it here, but, since I'm testifying with the likelihood of it coming off as proselytizing, this may be exactly the place for it.

It was my ex who put the nugget into my head about juicing. He spoke of how it helped him lose a significant amount of weight, and how, now, he can't easily put on weight, so long as he continues to juice fairly regularly.

So, I asked for a juicer for Christmas. I always ask for kitchen gadgets for Christmas, and some have been more successful than others. The crank-operated pasta maker I asked for ten years ago still has never been used. The Dutch oven I asked for last year has sat silently in the cupboard. I can't remember the last time I used my standing mixer, as I never really make anything that needs anything more complex than the hand mixer. When I got the juicer, I hoped for the best. Motivation would be everything.

When Chris and I started to fall apart rapidly, I turned to the juicer. I was already mitigating anxiety over the situation with a lot of mindfulness techniques, and they were working, but I thought, hey, a bit of fresh veggie and fruit juice can't harm the process.

Shockingly, I noticed effects almost immediately. My anxiety did plummet. So did my tendency to dwell and get depressed. My body temperature got higher--I have a helluva time, often, holding onto a steady core temperature. For a mammal, I am pretty cold blooded, and during the winter, usually have to have a cup of scalding hot tea attached to me constantly and typically shower twice daily to keep my body warm. That has not been the case since I started juicing, and I am, in fact, too warm as I write this.

I sleep better. I'm going through a breakup, where, for the first time in a decade, since my anxiety became chronic, I don't have to medicate with sleeping pills (or the less effective alcohol which comes with its own battery of issues and drama-triggers). I sleep, mostly, through the night, and though I have awakened with a bit of a panic, I am able to calm myself and fall back to sleep. Most of this is the mindfulness, but I definitely feel like the added nutrients in my system help, too.

My brain feels clearer overall, and I've only taken one nap, whereas I would normally take one four times a week or so, for twenty minutes typically. I have skipped the juicing two days, and noticed I was tired by the end of the day and didn't feel like I was firing well in general.

I've lost ten pounds, by doing almost nothing. I am, about every other day, doing some crunches and pushups and weight lifting, but those are all things that add to body mass, and yet my weight keeps dropping, incrementally. I am back to 125 lbs, which is the weight I feel most comfortable in my own skin. Once it warms and I can start biking again, I can desquishify better, too. I tallied my calorie count per day at about 1000-1300, which I'd guess is about 500-700 calories less than I was ingesting/craving pre-juicing. And there aren't cravings for bad foods; even after a night of drinking (and THAT is something I have to be careful with now, with so fewer calories in my system, drinking gets me drunk, hard and fast), I eat well the next day, and the hangover is both not as bad and disappears quickly after I down my juice.

What do I put in my juice? Sometimes, it is up to 10 different things, some combination of tomato, kale, red cabbage, celery, cilantro, parsley, orange, grapefruit, apple, carrot, green pepper, beet, lemon and cucumber. The learning curve happened pretty fast, and by the third time I juiced myself, I was able to gauge what would make it taste best (half a lemon in each batch is key to cover up the earthier taste of beet and celery, and going carrot and tomato heavy always makes for a better tasting juice). If there's anything I DO crave now, it's my daily juice.

Which I'm about due for.

I'm Exhausting To Be With

That's what he told me.

"It's exhausting to be with you."

I could laugh it off, if I didn't know it was true, and if I hadn't already heard it a couple of times before. Never during the breakup conversation, the times before were during fights, in person, and I remember one instance where I got it turned around to wry smiles and romantic conversation. But this time, it had gravitas.

Chris is pathologically stubborn, and there are some things he says that you know aren't going to change for anything. Telling me I'm exhausting to be with felt like a death blow. I knew I wasn't coming back from that statement this time. And he doesn't like that I'm "better at arguing" than he is. He feels manipulated, like he thinks one thing at the beginning of a conversation, and at the end, I've convinced him otherwise, or at least, have put doubts in his head. That frustrates me, because I believe him to be my equal on every front, and while I may have my lawyering skills in play, he's no slouch at arguing, not by a long shot. Plus, he diffuses me more quickly than anyone, with pointed comments that I immediately acknowledge are true. In short, no one has argued with me as well as he does.

But, I understand why I'm exhausting. I exhaust myself. My life exhausts me. The combination of anxiety, observational skills, empathy, and self-awareness, plus a band to promote etc, a literary event to produce regularly, a job where I'm never really off the clock, and a circle of friends who've got their own mountains of stress make for a brain that's processing serious emotional quantities at all times. A lot of that doesn't just stay in my head, and it tends to pour out to my paramour. I vent, I process things verbally, and sometimes, I take out my stresses on them unfairly, in the form of nitpicking, and arguing, and judgmental observations.  Plus, my tack when feeling insecure is just to become nitpicky and argumentative; all I'm looking for is affection and reassurance, but it takes someone secure and happy with themselves to know and do that, and that is not Chris. He withdrew affection, or I became insecure, chicken before the egg, egg before the chicken, and that was where things started to go down hill. He is not someone who muscles through very well. He doesn't fight for things, he flees, though he is of very strong character, and he's pulled himself out of some serious muck in the past year, his instincts are still pretty safely on the side of flight. He's someone who decides he's done, and figures out how to cut and run. It's a defense mechanism, of course, and it's one I've got no resources against other than time. I'm pushy and I'm intense and I'm difficult to deal with. He is too, just as difficult with his stubbornness, his tendency to be negative and use black and white thinking, to seek solace in depression instead of pulling himself up and out of it. I was willing to work through these things. He was not willing to work with me. In fact, according to him, he has his "reasons" for breaking up with me, but they're "mean," so he's not going to tell me what they are.

This indicates to me that these are things he never even brought up to me, never gave me a chance to defend or change, that he views them as so intrinsic to my character, they were things he put under the umbrella of "love someone for who they are, not who you want them to be," and started to put his love for me out to pasture. And, I believe, that they must be things I am proud of, things I would perceive as "mean" if I were criticized on them. He said, that maybe once he becomes more comfortable with me as friends, he could maybe tell me what these things are. He doesn't seem to realize that, he's dropped a significant box of kittens on my head, here; I can't work through this breakup not knowing what these "mean" things are. As much as I work on pushing it out of my head and try not to obsess over it, it's still going to come back, over and over, the obsessing and fretting over what these "reasons" could be.

So this is all exhausting. If he'd just had a clear, rational conversation with me, instead of tallying up reasons to leave me, we might have had a chance. Despite the distance, despite the fact that we are both difficult people who will never have an easy relationship, despite ourselves. I think what we had in the first couple of months was an indication, to me, at least, of how good a relationship could be. He was my partner in crime. We discussed things rationally when there were things to discuss. We lifted one another up, we loved one another truly. And then, or so it seems to me, he just checked out. And I got insecure, and an ugliness set in.

I have the kind of life where, even if I'm sitting completely still, I am surrounded by a whorling mass of intense situations. Last week, while sitting in my living room, I watched a car hit my car head-on through my picture window. By the time I got outside, they'd done a u-turn and were driving off. That's in addition to the crane that hit my car while I was at an art gallery, whose insurance I'm contending with now. One of my good friends' mother committed suicide recently, and he's coming to me to help him with that. Another's mother and father-in-law are both gravely ill, only three months after one of their sons had drank himself to death. A member of my band is experiencing serious health issues.

Chris implored me, last week, to talk to my friends. That I couldn't keep coming to him because I was hurting from this breakup, because he's the one that broke up with me. He asked me to stop contacting him, for the time being. A perfectly fair, and correct assessment, but all those things above are what I'm contending with in my day-to-day life, and those things are why I often have a very difficult time being vulnerable with my friends. Many of my friends have it much worse than me, and I'm realizing, a lot of my "close" friends, particularly in Minneapolis, are more drinking buddies than anything. Quite a few of my truly "close" friends have moved in the past couple of years. To Portland. To Chicago. To New Orleans. To San Francisco. My emotional ties to this city are dissipating, and it's depressing me. I've wanted to leave for a long time, at least for the winters, but literally feeling less and less desire to be here because of the people around me wasn't something I'd expected to happen.

So, I don't have a lot of people I feel comfortable reaching out to right now. Additionally, one of the people I normally discuss my relationship woes with is Chris's sister. I realize they are close and that this is a huge conflict for her to be in the middle of, but it's a point of fact that neither of them seem to acknowledge.

My life is experiencing significant shifts. With therapy, I will make yet another shift toward being better at living. With others, with myself. Employment shifts are on the horizon; I'm reducing hours at the job I loathe as of March 1st, and I'm going to make the leap toward jewelry design, in the hopes it can at least provide half my income per month. I'm considering moving from the apartment I love more than any other living space I've been in, in order to be more in the thick of things in Uptown. This would mean less space for me and four cats, no more porches and fenced in backyard, no more giant perfect kitchen and dining room and ten foot ceilings, but it would also mean fewer cab rides and more biking and walking now that my car is completely totaled. So that would happen as of May 1st, when my lease is up.

I don't know. Like I said, I exhaust me. I feel like I never get a break. Not from the drama of everyone's lives around me, not from things that happen to me without my consent, not from heartache. Some of that is what I'm putting out in the world, and I can work on that. A lot of it, though, I know to be just the way my life is, and will be. So perhaps acceptance is something I need to work on, too, instead of fighting the cars of the world who want to careen into my car...

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Electrified & Soothed


Chris is the brother of a good friend, Lindsay. She may end up reading this; I'm not sure this blog would come up on her radar anymore. She'd told me, a year and a half ago, when I was on a layover in Chicago on a bus trip to New Orleans, complaining about how there's no one in Minneapolis for me, that her brother and I would be perfect together. I pooh-poohed the idea, but she suggested I friend him on fb and just try to get to know him, be his friend. And I did that. I'd known he was a gifted artist for years, through my friendship with her, and her many postings of his art sales and the like, but that was about all I knew. And I didn't glean much more from his fb page. I flipped through his photos and thought he looked like someone I could be friends with, but wasn't the least bit attracted to him.

This past fall, I went to Portland, where both brother and sister live, to see her (and several other friends in the Pacific NW). He'd written on fb about how he was finally going to meet me, before I left Minneapolis. I responded, "As if." I don't remember why I said that, but it became our first in-joke.

In-jokes are something, it would turn out, that we were very adept at creating, which makes this all the harder, what with so many easy references and riffs to be made to our private stock of jokes.

The night before I left, all my Portland friends gathered at a bar, and I finally met Chris in person. Lindsay had told me that he'd lost a bunch of weight, had started working out, going to therapy, and in general had decided to pull himself together in the past year, as he'd spent a good long while pretty depressed.

So, Lindsay and I met up with him, at his place, and I was excited to meet my casual friend in the flesh. He opened the door, and sincerely, I felt like the kindest, most soothing, loving, lung-full of air was put in me. I looked him up and down, and was instantly in like with every thing I saw, plus the timbre of his voice, deep and thoughtful, but with a certain mischievousness.  I thought the words, "Electrified and soothed." I asked him to hug me, to commemorate this, our first meeting, and the hug was exactly as warm as I'd hoped it would be.

The rest of the night, I kept watching him, listening to him, waiting for a red flag or something that would indicate it was a bad idea to pursue this. Lindsay kept half-joking about finding someone for me to sleep with that night, pointing out dudes she thought I might like. There was slim pickings, and, in general, it had been months since anyone caught my eye. I can't say anyone had ever caught my eye like Chris did. I just kept coyly eyeing him, feeling embarrassed we were having this conversation about getting me laid by a bar patron in front, and with him. I knew I wanted him. I just wasn't sure, yet, that it would happen.

We changed tables, and he wound up sitting next to me. I remember thinking, "Even if this is all that happens, being near him feels so nice..."

We were both drinking Tecate, mine with a shot of Powers whiskey, his with tequila. I looked for excuses to touch him. I touched his arm, for some reason, and again, I just felt electric.

After a while, some friends left, and we opted to move on to a karaoke bar. Again, Chris sat next to me, and I realized that it was going to happen. Our thighs touched one another under the table, and he intoned, "You can put your hand on my leg if you want to."

I was embarrassed, a little, that he would call me out like that, but I did as was suggested. Soon, we were kissing, in front of Lindsay and our friends. I immediately thought it was the best kissing I'd ever had, and I've smooched on probably 150 people over the years (my numbers of other activities are significantly lower; I just like to smooch). We instantly had a physical connection, no adaptations necessary.

And this translated, too, to sex, even though we were both quite drunk and probably not at our best.

We woke in the morning, and, even now, I look back on the couple of hours we spent in bed with a sort of awe. The cadence of our communication could have populated an award-winning rom-com, and was of the kind that usually takes a while to find with another person. We spoke to one another in Russian and French accents, making up characters with one another, rapid-fire, laughing heartily the whole while, kissing the whole while. I told him I was going to take a chunk of his rib meat with me to make a clone. We decided the clone would end up like the dumb Michael Keaton clone in Multiplicity, who keeps pizza in his back pocket. We decided he would only eat junk food, namely Cheetos, and his favorite show would be Ice Road Truckers. We decided he never engaged in foreplay, but always expected me to give him blow jobs, and my tits would always have orange fingerprints after sex from his Cheetos hands (Chris would write, a couple weeks later, a wonderful story about my conjuring of, and relationship with this clone).

We got out of bed and we showered and couldn't stop kissing, with a base need to continue kissing, hungry for one another.

He took me back to his sister's place, where my things and my rental car were, so I could pack up and take the rental back to Seattle, where I would get back on a bus to Minneapolis. I remember packing, half-listening to Chris and Lindsay's conversation that couldn't yet be about how he felt about me, and if I recall, was focused on Lindsay getting a burrito, and again, I thought, "If this is all it's going to be, that's enough..."

He carried my suitcase to the car, and I drove him back to his place. I wasn't going to say anything about a future visit, or keeping in touch. I had accepted that, rationally, this could only be a one time thing.

But then he said it, "So, should we exchange numbers then?" And I smiled. And we did.

I watched him walk back into his house, appreciating every line of his beautiful form, and felt just about as happy as I could remember in years.

In the car, driving to Seattle, I kept focused on the road, and not on who would be the first to text who.

It was him. I don't remember what it was, but it was him. From that moment on, we'd hardly be out of communication 'til about three weeks ago.

I'd like to say my heart isn't broken, but this feels more real, crystalline, than other breakups. There's nothing to be done. It's just over.

Breakups & Therapy

It's been almost two years since I've written anything here, but I need some covert(ish) writing therapy.

And, just plain therapy.

I started it up again, three weeks ago. After my now ex boyfriend told me he thought I needed it, with that condescending, needly-voiced tone that speaks of frustration and, unfortunately, projection. I'd told him he needed to keep seeing his therapist, even though he can't afford it, so that's what he came back at me with.

And we're both right. We both need therapy. We're two fucking assholes in our mid-30s who, despite having quite possibly the best relationship either of us had known, just fucked it up. Within three months.

I'm learning things, already, in therapy. Two notable things came out of my session on Friday; I have trouble with grey areas, and I'm always right.

The latter is a bigger ball of kittens than I can process right now, but the former thing, that's pretty simple to acknowledge. The problem is executing a better way of dealing with the grey areas.

And what do I mean by grey areas? Well, that it's very difficult for me to wrap my head around statements, in a relationship, like, "I need space," or dealing with the concept of someone moving, emotionally, at a different pace than me. Because, I think, of my chronic anxiety, I've maladapted to an expectation of timeframes and status reports, asking, in general, for people to give me concrete quantities of time so that I can process what I'm dealing with. I can't expect people to know how much space/time they need. I can't expect people to process their emotions and come to a conclusion as quickly as I can.

Like a lot of things in therapy that end up being the most helpful, these two things are simple things to see in my day to day life. Unfortunately, getting better at handling them is not going to be the easiest thing when I've got no relationship to work with, and my therapist agrees. But, he is determined to help me, and he is kind and he is not afraid to tell me the reality of things.

This is gonna be a several parter, I think, so I'll end this one here.