I haven't forgiven my ex husband.
I like to think I have. I think I've said in my head that I forgive him for his weakness. It's more accurate to say that in my head I forgive him for being a lying and betraying shmuck who got out of my life before he utterly ruined it with his irresponsible behavior and whacked out value structure.
That isn't forgiveness, I don't think. That sounds an awful lot like blame. And I think I have to forgive him. I think I finally see it.
I read the bottom of this article (http://health.msn.com/dietfitness/articlepage.aspx?cp-documentid=100169440), and I realized in all honesty that if I had to say those words of forgiveness to my ex-husband, even in my mind and not to his face, I'd choke on them. I carry my fury like a badge: "I didn't want to get divorced, so let me prove my sincerity by remaining righteously indignant. It's not okay that he up and walked out. It's absolutely unacceptable." After all, doesn't forgiveness mean admitting if tacitly that what he did is all right?
I think that until I'm able to say, and mean, "It's OKAY that this happened, that you did this, and I forgive you," it's not really ever going to be okay. But it's been impossible even to say it, to verbalize it, all these years. Even to say it insincerely. My attempts at forgiveness are, or have been, thinly cloaked accusations to illuminate his failings of character.
But what's the worst that could happen if I said to him in my head, "It's okay, and I forgive you?" Immediately, I think, "He hasn't asked for forgiveness, so he is not remorseful, so he doesn't deserve it." I fold my mental arms and furrow my mental brows, backing up for a tussle. The the more evolved side of my mind would argue that this kind of forgiveness isn't about granting restitution and reparation with him. This forgiveness is about me, about letting go of the anger and its power and control.
It has amazing power over me.
So... can it be "okay" so that I can be okay? Can I still think divorce is wrong, and can I even think that what he did is wrong, but can I grant that forgiveness and let it be okay so that I can move on?
I look at him and say in my mind's eye, and I whisper, "I forgive you for everything painful that's happened to me through you. I grant you complete absolution."
And suddenly... if I think of my anger, I remember the forgiveness.
Try that out for a healthy change of pace.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Baby with a Rattle
A baby with almost no voice,
Whose will's misunderstood to most,
With feelings equally a flush
Of energy and struggling
Does not begin to understand
The gibberish that makes his world.
All the time. Confusion swirls
His little head; it's all a blur.
It makes him scared.
But those around may know him well,
And if they're gentle and are kind
They'll give him love and make him calm.
But they cannot tell him what he needs.
He wants to sleep, he wants to play.
He wants to eat but not eat that.
He wants some peace but not alone.
He wants attention -- not from you.
But.
He has a rattle, small and loud.
It's his wand to rule his sphere.
And when he throws it, he can cry.
And always someone gives it back.
Naturally, he throws again.
He doesn't know what else to do.
Happiness lasts but a glint,
And with a thunk, another howl.
At least with this game he may cry.
Frustration finds an out to vent.
And others notice his control
Can cross from his world into theirs.
He matters, and that much he knows.
And in my mind, my rattle's blue.
I throw it, and sometimes I cry.
While others may not know the game,
Their gentleness can salve my spark.
I want someone to get my needs,
Because like him, I just don't know
What they are; it makes me scared,
Though I am "old enough to know."
I play games like two year olds.
Whose will's misunderstood to most,
With feelings equally a flush
Of energy and struggling
Does not begin to understand
The gibberish that makes his world.
All the time. Confusion swirls
His little head; it's all a blur.
It makes him scared.
But those around may know him well,
And if they're gentle and are kind
They'll give him love and make him calm.
But they cannot tell him what he needs.
He wants to sleep, he wants to play.
He wants to eat but not eat that.
He wants some peace but not alone.
He wants attention -- not from you.
But.
He has a rattle, small and loud.
It's his wand to rule his sphere.
And when he throws it, he can cry.
And always someone gives it back.
Naturally, he throws again.
He doesn't know what else to do.
Happiness lasts but a glint,
And with a thunk, another howl.
At least with this game he may cry.
Frustration finds an out to vent.
And others notice his control
Can cross from his world into theirs.
He matters, and that much he knows.
And in my mind, my rattle's blue.
I throw it, and sometimes I cry.
While others may not know the game,
Their gentleness can salve my spark.
I want someone to get my needs,
Because like him, I just don't know
What they are; it makes me scared,
Though I am "old enough to know."
I play games like two year olds.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Babes' Mouths
I've been thinking about my last post. The one where I alleged that I've blown it.
And today, I read of all things, a TAKS-essay composition from a grading guide... and you know that old saying, "When the student is ready, the teacher will come?" It's true, but it's not because of the specialness of the teacher. It's true because that readiness is the same as ripeness for truth. Only when an audience is ready can anyone else entertain it, after all.
So this paper explored the value of "new ideas," and this mystery girl from somewhere in the state of Texas expressed her disenchantment, anguish, and eventual acceptance of her parents' divorce and her father's remarriage. I heard that "click" in my head that happens sometimes. Maybe... well, maybe I've gotten some more of my head on straight, because I know better than to allege that I've got it all on straight, you know?
But this girl -- well, her parents, in a form or fashion -- "blew" her chances for a happy and intact childhood family. That's something she isn't ever going to have, you know? I don't have the fairytale anymore, and she doesn't have a childhood dream. But her paper continued that after four years, she's able to be rather friendly with her new stepmother, and she has besotted feelings toward her new baby brother. She concluded by saying that without being open to new ideas, she'd never have found peace about her family being different than she expected.
Is this what I have to do?
Accept it?
It's patently obvious that I don't have peace inside my head, however much I try to believe that. There's peace so long as I don't stir up my emotions by trying to move on, to challenge my comfortable status quo by finding friendship and companionship with men in my personal life. It's obvious, if I admit the truth to myself, that on some level, my quixotic personality continues fighting what's happened to me. I can accept my marriage was largely a facade of my own creation that existed nowhere except in my head. I can accept that my ex-husband as well was a creation of my imagination, a shadow of a real person on whom I projected all sorts of Godly virtues he was ill-equipped to manifest. I can accept that I'm a strong independent woman with imagination and good character, although I'm divorced. But there's a part of me somewhere inside that resents this happenstance. That wishes it would simply not be a fact of my life or part of my history. That wants to deny it altogether. But I can't. And it's not fair.
But that charming writer whose family collapsed around her shrugged her teenaged shoulders and looked forward. No, her family wasn't want she wanted it to be. She hated the woman to whom she referred as "my father's girlfriend" -- because she thought it sounded disgustingly tacky to do so. When her father and his girlfriend announced not only their impending marriage but that they were expecting a baby and moving out of the country positively rocked her young world. She blew like a Roman candle... but then she stopped and thought about what maturity meant. What negative emotions could do to relationships. To what she could control, when there was so much she couldn't. And she decided, quite deliberately, that she could be civil, if not friendly. She could make an effort, at the very least.
Is that enough for me to do? Can I make an effort just to meet a man? Just one meeting? Can I be civil? Can I deal with the step after a single date when, or if, it arises? Do I know myself well enough as a mature and independent woman... my needs, my expectations, my values, my priorities... well enough to remain myself in the face of a potential relationship, I who was always the accessory to the man and his needs?
It's scary, but is that what it all means, what I'm supposed to do now?
And today, I read of all things, a TAKS-essay composition from a grading guide... and you know that old saying, "When the student is ready, the teacher will come?" It's true, but it's not because of the specialness of the teacher. It's true because that readiness is the same as ripeness for truth. Only when an audience is ready can anyone else entertain it, after all.
So this paper explored the value of "new ideas," and this mystery girl from somewhere in the state of Texas expressed her disenchantment, anguish, and eventual acceptance of her parents' divorce and her father's remarriage. I heard that "click" in my head that happens sometimes. Maybe... well, maybe I've gotten some more of my head on straight, because I know better than to allege that I've got it all on straight, you know?
But this girl -- well, her parents, in a form or fashion -- "blew" her chances for a happy and intact childhood family. That's something she isn't ever going to have, you know? I don't have the fairytale anymore, and she doesn't have a childhood dream. But her paper continued that after four years, she's able to be rather friendly with her new stepmother, and she has besotted feelings toward her new baby brother. She concluded by saying that without being open to new ideas, she'd never have found peace about her family being different than she expected.
Is this what I have to do?
Accept it?
It's patently obvious that I don't have peace inside my head, however much I try to believe that. There's peace so long as I don't stir up my emotions by trying to move on, to challenge my comfortable status quo by finding friendship and companionship with men in my personal life. It's obvious, if I admit the truth to myself, that on some level, my quixotic personality continues fighting what's happened to me. I can accept my marriage was largely a facade of my own creation that existed nowhere except in my head. I can accept that my ex-husband as well was a creation of my imagination, a shadow of a real person on whom I projected all sorts of Godly virtues he was ill-equipped to manifest. I can accept that I'm a strong independent woman with imagination and good character, although I'm divorced. But there's a part of me somewhere inside that resents this happenstance. That wishes it would simply not be a fact of my life or part of my history. That wants to deny it altogether. But I can't. And it's not fair.
But that charming writer whose family collapsed around her shrugged her teenaged shoulders and looked forward. No, her family wasn't want she wanted it to be. She hated the woman to whom she referred as "my father's girlfriend" -- because she thought it sounded disgustingly tacky to do so. When her father and his girlfriend announced not only their impending marriage but that they were expecting a baby and moving out of the country positively rocked her young world. She blew like a Roman candle... but then she stopped and thought about what maturity meant. What negative emotions could do to relationships. To what she could control, when there was so much she couldn't. And she decided, quite deliberately, that she could be civil, if not friendly. She could make an effort, at the very least.
Is that enough for me to do? Can I make an effort just to meet a man? Just one meeting? Can I be civil? Can I deal with the step after a single date when, or if, it arises? Do I know myself well enough as a mature and independent woman... my needs, my expectations, my values, my priorities... well enough to remain myself in the face of a potential relationship, I who was always the accessory to the man and his needs?
It's scary, but is that what it all means, what I'm supposed to do now?
Monday, September 3, 2007
Blowing It
Would you expect that on some level, I realize that I think I've blown it?
Blown what, you ask?
Blown it. Blown the chance at the fairy tale. Blown the chance to find genuine happiness from a relationship with a man. I really believe that on some level, I've completely blown it. That I don't have a chance anymore... at least, not in this time and place.
How on earth could you've blown it, you ask with a note of confusion. Just because you had what everyone now realizes was a really ridiculous marriage? Because you had a ridiculous divorce? So what? That doesn't mean you've blown it, you argue. You're the person who says that the only failure is in giving up. Doesn't that apply to relationships, too? So if you can keep trying, then how could you have blown it?
Because the it that I've blown isn't just the idea of relationships. I've blown my chance at the entire fairy tale. You know the story. Everyone does. Boy and girl meet, boy and girl have stars in their eyes, boy and girl believe that every happiness is possible for them, and boy and girl dance off into the sunset of mature love. But now that I've been married, or more properly failed at being married, I lost that chance to do it right for the rest of my life... and that chance mattered to me. I'm never going to grow old with the love of my youth who will adore me forever. I'll never be a genuine starry-eyed bride again, and if I find a great guy who navigates my barriers, who deserves to be my husband in all ways that matter, he won't ever be the husband, not with a living precessor running around who had that place first. So long as my ex is around in the world, there will always be another man walking around who was my husband, the husband. This sounds mighty Catholic of me, doesn't it? But it really is my value, it really is an issue in my mind.
I've blown it.
Okay, I can hear one of my friend's friends yelling that I didn't blow it, that my exhusband blew it, and that I need to get past the idea that it's my fault. Well, yeah. But some of it was my fault. If I'd picked more carefully, maybe I'd never have married him in the first place. But then, I wouldn't be divorced now. I'd have a chance, still.
Three and a half years ago, when my exhusband just left, a friend of mine (also divorced in her thirties but since remarried) told me that she grieved a while after her divorce that she'd lost the chance to do it right the first time. At the moment she told me, I didn't grasp the implications of what she said. I couldn't see past my own immediate crisis. But I've thought of her recently. I've thought of her story. That's how I feel, like I've lost the chance to do it right the first time. I'm leavings now. Although I recognize myself as a rare and special person, somehow at the same time, I wasn't good enough. Maybe I'm still not.
You know?
Blown what, you ask?
Blown it. Blown the chance at the fairy tale. Blown the chance to find genuine happiness from a relationship with a man. I really believe that on some level, I've completely blown it. That I don't have a chance anymore... at least, not in this time and place.
How on earth could you've blown it, you ask with a note of confusion. Just because you had what everyone now realizes was a really ridiculous marriage? Because you had a ridiculous divorce? So what? That doesn't mean you've blown it, you argue. You're the person who says that the only failure is in giving up. Doesn't that apply to relationships, too? So if you can keep trying, then how could you have blown it?
Because the it that I've blown isn't just the idea of relationships. I've blown my chance at the entire fairy tale. You know the story. Everyone does. Boy and girl meet, boy and girl have stars in their eyes, boy and girl believe that every happiness is possible for them, and boy and girl dance off into the sunset of mature love. But now that I've been married, or more properly failed at being married, I lost that chance to do it right for the rest of my life... and that chance mattered to me. I'm never going to grow old with the love of my youth who will adore me forever. I'll never be a genuine starry-eyed bride again, and if I find a great guy who navigates my barriers, who deserves to be my husband in all ways that matter, he won't ever be the husband, not with a living precessor running around who had that place first. So long as my ex is around in the world, there will always be another man walking around who was my husband, the husband. This sounds mighty Catholic of me, doesn't it? But it really is my value, it really is an issue in my mind.
I've blown it.
Okay, I can hear one of my friend's friends yelling that I didn't blow it, that my exhusband blew it, and that I need to get past the idea that it's my fault. Well, yeah. But some of it was my fault. If I'd picked more carefully, maybe I'd never have married him in the first place. But then, I wouldn't be divorced now. I'd have a chance, still.
Three and a half years ago, when my exhusband just left, a friend of mine (also divorced in her thirties but since remarried) told me that she grieved a while after her divorce that she'd lost the chance to do it right the first time. At the moment she told me, I didn't grasp the implications of what she said. I couldn't see past my own immediate crisis. But I've thought of her recently. I've thought of her story. That's how I feel, like I've lost the chance to do it right the first time. I'm leavings now. Although I recognize myself as a rare and special person, somehow at the same time, I wasn't good enough. Maybe I'm still not.
You know?
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Winds of Change
It's been a pretty good couple of weeks. I have implemented many planned changes, and I think they are turning out quite well. I began my new position at the high school, which is working out MUCH better than my last foray into high school, and I'm juggling two teams with (so far) little drama. This achievement is an enormous shot for my confidence, and other than sleeping with dubious effectiveness, I'm handling all the changes with aplomb that makes me marvel. I am losing Scrabble game after Scrabble game online, though, and my rank's in the toilet. This losing streak bothers me more than I care to admit -- but it's quite possibly a good thing that the streak's worst thing going for me right now. How bad can life be? But it does indeed bother me.
On the personal life front, I don't think I've gone any farther in resolving what I'm beginning to see is a whole lot of anger about my divorce, relationships in general, and expectations for my future. I realized the anger as such about a week ago, when I was hanging out at my friend's pool with a third friend who was asking me about my counselor and possible available men at my school. My friend's friend is a social worker and adult-education advocate, and she somehow tapped the magma chamber of unresolved feelings inside of me so that they erupted. Anger bubbled to the surface, and I was shocked to find myself raising my voice to express my perspective and make myself understood. Vehemently. Rather than becoming offended at my reaction, this woman further surprised me by praising me, and she reminded me that there is no set schedule for how long these feelings take to achieve resolution. Maybe the full-blown anger stage of grief has ripened... now, three and a half years later.
The gist of my attitude problem was that love relationships are the stupidest thing on which to hinge any part of my future, as those are the one kind of relationships without any settled guarantees. Parents are always parents, even if relationships with their children become strained or estranged. Brothers and sisters are bonded forever, as even if they never see each other, they are always a part of each other, bonded by sharing the same parents. Friends can come and go, because the whole point of friends is having a collection of them, a feathered nest, and when one's time wanes, it's all right, as the ones who mean to last do last. But to find a man, to feel infatuated and excited, and to develop feelings -- feelings! -- for him and then make decisions and investments which affect my entire life, and which are suppose to sustain and maintain for the rest of my life... when I know how people change, how feelings -- feelings! -- are fleeting and change, when I know how people think they know themselves and their needs when they don't, when they mean well and don't have the character or integrity to back up their promises... no way. No freaking way.
My friend's friend accepted this. She just did. And somehow, the accepting of it made me angry. But I think the entire situation made me angry. I wanted her to argue with me, to fuss that I'm wrong, because I was prepared to fight with her that I'm not wrong, no matter what else everybody says. I make a hell of a lot more sense to myself than these starry eyed women who hinge their future happiness to the star of some man who, we all hope, is worthy of the faith she places on him. Double for her if she has children with him. And what if he is miserable, but his code of silence makes him stay?
The chances for finding a real relationship that provides joy and comfort, that fits my kinks as I fit his, where I want to be close and can trust that the person has my best interests at heart... that he knows my best interests and himself well enough for authenticity and honesty to prevail over the mercurial nature of feelings, the bad moods and attitude problems, the ways life can smack people down without warning... I just can't believe they exist. The chances. As such, no guy will prevail against my perspective right now. Chances are so extraordinarily higher that any relationship I attempt will fail to sustain itself, there is no real reason to search for a "right" one. And what the wrong choices I make in relationships will take away from me is considerable enough to entirely nullify the worthiness of even speculating on ever finding a right one.
So I see the anger, and through the red haze of my perspective, I see why my friends who do argue with me choose to argue. I myself would probably tell someone else who said these things, in my position, that she is ridiculous. That great guys would love to get to know her. That great guys have a lot to offer. That great guys could make it all better than it already is.
To myself, I say, "Whatever!"
I don't trust great guys. I don't trust, fundamentally, myself. I don't trust myself to choose better. I don't trust what I've learned since the divorce. I am just not ready.
On the personal life front, I don't think I've gone any farther in resolving what I'm beginning to see is a whole lot of anger about my divorce, relationships in general, and expectations for my future. I realized the anger as such about a week ago, when I was hanging out at my friend's pool with a third friend who was asking me about my counselor and possible available men at my school. My friend's friend is a social worker and adult-education advocate, and she somehow tapped the magma chamber of unresolved feelings inside of me so that they erupted. Anger bubbled to the surface, and I was shocked to find myself raising my voice to express my perspective and make myself understood. Vehemently. Rather than becoming offended at my reaction, this woman further surprised me by praising me, and she reminded me that there is no set schedule for how long these feelings take to achieve resolution. Maybe the full-blown anger stage of grief has ripened... now, three and a half years later.
The gist of my attitude problem was that love relationships are the stupidest thing on which to hinge any part of my future, as those are the one kind of relationships without any settled guarantees. Parents are always parents, even if relationships with their children become strained or estranged. Brothers and sisters are bonded forever, as even if they never see each other, they are always a part of each other, bonded by sharing the same parents. Friends can come and go, because the whole point of friends is having a collection of them, a feathered nest, and when one's time wanes, it's all right, as the ones who mean to last do last. But to find a man, to feel infatuated and excited, and to develop feelings -- feelings! -- for him and then make decisions and investments which affect my entire life, and which are suppose to sustain and maintain for the rest of my life... when I know how people change, how feelings -- feelings! -- are fleeting and change, when I know how people think they know themselves and their needs when they don't, when they mean well and don't have the character or integrity to back up their promises... no way. No freaking way.
My friend's friend accepted this. She just did. And somehow, the accepting of it made me angry. But I think the entire situation made me angry. I wanted her to argue with me, to fuss that I'm wrong, because I was prepared to fight with her that I'm not wrong, no matter what else everybody says. I make a hell of a lot more sense to myself than these starry eyed women who hinge their future happiness to the star of some man who, we all hope, is worthy of the faith she places on him. Double for her if she has children with him. And what if he is miserable, but his code of silence makes him stay?
The chances for finding a real relationship that provides joy and comfort, that fits my kinks as I fit his, where I want to be close and can trust that the person has my best interests at heart... that he knows my best interests and himself well enough for authenticity and honesty to prevail over the mercurial nature of feelings, the bad moods and attitude problems, the ways life can smack people down without warning... I just can't believe they exist. The chances. As such, no guy will prevail against my perspective right now. Chances are so extraordinarily higher that any relationship I attempt will fail to sustain itself, there is no real reason to search for a "right" one. And what the wrong choices I make in relationships will take away from me is considerable enough to entirely nullify the worthiness of even speculating on ever finding a right one.
So I see the anger, and through the red haze of my perspective, I see why my friends who do argue with me choose to argue. I myself would probably tell someone else who said these things, in my position, that she is ridiculous. That great guys would love to get to know her. That great guys have a lot to offer. That great guys could make it all better than it already is.
To myself, I say, "Whatever!"
I don't trust great guys. I don't trust, fundamentally, myself. I don't trust myself to choose better. I don't trust what I've learned since the divorce. I am just not ready.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Sometimes, It's Just a Cigar
I saw my counselor today for visit number two. Her thing is to get me to "experience my feelings," which on some level I find amusing, because I've worked hard to manage my feelings and not have them get in the way of what I mean to do or accomplish. I don't believe I deny them, in other words, I just refuse to give them "rent free" space in my mind to supercede my other priorities and obligations. After all, feelings are fleeting, and catering to something that changes capriciously doesn't make sense to me. Sure, it's fine to have feelings, but the way I see it, it's not so good to let them get the better of me.
The other level on which I find my counselor amusing is that she seems to want to provoke me, or at least to provoke feelings that I put to bed already. For example, she often expresses utter marvel at the idea of my ex-husband's flight of no return and what kind of terrible detrimental effect his choice must have had on me. That's just remarkable that he did that, she'll say, staring into my eyes as if willing me to break down and howl. Instead, I want to laugh at the soulful look on her face. Well, duh, it was remarkable, and it sucked. It was shocking and traitorous that the person who promised to love me forever decided he didn't love me after all and disappeared without backward glance. To have my all-important marriage come crashing down atop of me, crushing my hopes and illusions and leaving me to live amid its broken pieces hurt like hell. I was shattered, of course I was. Is that what she wants me to say? But saying it today doesn't make me cry. It happened three years ago. At the time, it hurt like hell, but that was then, and I'm not sorry if I no longer feel a need to cry about it now. In the end, my ex's seemingly spontaneous and complete departure from our life together was not really spontaneous, and really, in the end we didn't have much of a life together.
Today, I mourn far more for those lost hopes and illusions than I ever mourn for him. I can -- and do -- still hurt for them. For my lost ability to trust easily, to believe in real love, to imagine that someone out there really wants to know me fully, and for me to fully know him, and that in that complete knowledge we can accept each other in joy, not with reservation. I don't know that I believe in this ideal any more... and that, if I think about it enough, can make me cry.
I guess -- I'm used to it. What happened in my marriage is something bad that happened, and then it was done, and now it's over. Yes, understand that at the time he wounded me almost -- but not quite -- to the point of a mortal wound, and I realize I'm scarred now. It's those scars that are causing me some trouble, not the wounds that created them. But it's as if my counselor thinks that poking emotionally at the fact of the divorce will spawn some other reaction from me than disillusioned acceptance... that by rehydrating those feelings of abandonment and betrayal, I'll somehow see them differently or work through them differently. But nobody can reconstitute a mummy, and those feelings are verily mummified within me. They had their time in the sun, and they're reconciled. I can accept them. I can accept the history that unfolded since then. But then, I've had three years to do it.
The other level on which I find my counselor amusing is that she seems to want to provoke me, or at least to provoke feelings that I put to bed already. For example, she often expresses utter marvel at the idea of my ex-husband's flight of no return and what kind of terrible detrimental effect his choice must have had on me. That's just remarkable that he did that, she'll say, staring into my eyes as if willing me to break down and howl. Instead, I want to laugh at the soulful look on her face. Well, duh, it was remarkable, and it sucked. It was shocking and traitorous that the person who promised to love me forever decided he didn't love me after all and disappeared without backward glance. To have my all-important marriage come crashing down atop of me, crushing my hopes and illusions and leaving me to live amid its broken pieces hurt like hell. I was shattered, of course I was. Is that what she wants me to say? But saying it today doesn't make me cry. It happened three years ago. At the time, it hurt like hell, but that was then, and I'm not sorry if I no longer feel a need to cry about it now. In the end, my ex's seemingly spontaneous and complete departure from our life together was not really spontaneous, and really, in the end we didn't have much of a life together.
Today, I mourn far more for those lost hopes and illusions than I ever mourn for him. I can -- and do -- still hurt for them. For my lost ability to trust easily, to believe in real love, to imagine that someone out there really wants to know me fully, and for me to fully know him, and that in that complete knowledge we can accept each other in joy, not with reservation. I don't know that I believe in this ideal any more... and that, if I think about it enough, can make me cry.
I guess -- I'm used to it. What happened in my marriage is something bad that happened, and then it was done, and now it's over. Yes, understand that at the time he wounded me almost -- but not quite -- to the point of a mortal wound, and I realize I'm scarred now. It's those scars that are causing me some trouble, not the wounds that created them. But it's as if my counselor thinks that poking emotionally at the fact of the divorce will spawn some other reaction from me than disillusioned acceptance... that by rehydrating those feelings of abandonment and betrayal, I'll somehow see them differently or work through them differently. But nobody can reconstitute a mummy, and those feelings are verily mummified within me. They had their time in the sun, and they're reconciled. I can accept them. I can accept the history that unfolded since then. But then, I've had three years to do it.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Courage
After a date with a guy a couple of months ago, I came home and started crying. I was scared. Miserable. I immediately ceased all contact with him, and returned to flying solo with relief in my heart.
I thought I wanted to meet someone and was ready for a boyfriend. I believed that. This guy was lovely, and we had more in common than I'd ever have expected. He was funny, smart, and engaging. He took care of everything in the hours we spent together. Yet, my enduring memory of that evening is trauma. Wanting to get away.
What is it that scares me? The answer to that question is both complex and incredibly simple. I know I can make it on my own; this way, I'm okay. I don't know what someone else could do to me or the life I've fought to establish for myself. I don't know that I can fulfill what someone else needs, wants, or expects.
Failure. Disappointment. Regret.
The relationships I've had with men that lasted longest (college boyfriend, husband, and the "Hunky Latino") had few hallmarks in common.
The first, when I was youngest, was a passionate and tempestuous exercise in extremes, where each of us wanted to be "boss" and neither of us had the faintest idea or inclination to how to temper our frenetic youthful energy with compromise and concession. Nor should we have... after all, we were glorified children. That was immature love, and from it I learned that ostensibly positive feelings like love can generate secondary feelings like jealousy, anger, frustration, and panic. I look back now and fancy that our affection was sincere, but so was our inability to cope with the power of those feelings. We were a match made in idealistic hell. That relationship ended after four and a half years (years beyond what it should have), and I consider it an enormous growth experience that I was the one who ended it, cold turkey, no takebacks, despite the ensuing drama.
What from that relationship did I apply to my husband, whom I met about eighteen months later? Somehow, from it, I learned to equate maturity with control. My first boyfriend was an exercise in excess -- too much food, too much drink, too much arguing, too much laughter, too many tears, too much passion, too much fun, too many gifts, too much attention, just too much. Exhausting. But my ex-husband was a paragon of control. When I tried the drama on him, he walked away from me; such histrionics would not work on him. He was independent, with his own job, apartment, and car. He did what he wanted because he had the resources. He didn't need me for anything, so I could just be a good thing. A treat. A cherry atop the sundae of the life he'd already made for himself. He was a grown up, I thought. An intelligent man with a degree and a wonderful sense of humor that kept me constantly in stitches. Finally! And I was beyond judgement, because I could do -- or not do -- exactly as I pleased for him, and it was all just a big fringe benefit as far as he was concerned.
Little did I realize that his grownup-ness and sense of humor cloaked a raging inability to share himself fundamentally with another person. It's hard to get close and serious with another joke lined up. While he was good to me, and we had some good years together, but he stood steadfast in remaining entirely himself. I in turn, while bearing no secrets, learned that when it came to him, his reliability was fleeting, his attitudes mercurial. Sometimes, his behavior was equally mercurial as well as difficult to bear. But I had him, and that was enough. My one-sided and all-encompassing love of him was something I offered more to the idea of my husband than to the man who bore the title. His leaving me was no less painful for that. The hole he ripped into my soul when he left hurt just as much as if we'd been soul mates, even more because I didn't understand how he could possibly leave. I'd never asked anything of him, never prevented him from having what he wanted. How much could it cost him to stay with someone who asked for nothing? And got it, too, let the record show.
But then he was gone, but I found his twin in the form of "The Hunky Latino." The packaging was much prettier, the attitude much happier and joyful. This was a beautiful man who was used to the world giving him exactly what he wanted from it. Though he was far from my husband's literal twin, he was certainly his spiritual one. The self-sufficiency, reluctance to rely or lean on anyone else, the absolute disinclination to true intimacy, they all emerged in short order My old friends were there! They made me feel comfortable instead of frustrated. Here was another man who didn't need me, at least not for much more than a warm body around which to wrap himself on occasion. I didn't have to listen to his problems, stroke his ego, care for his home or health, or in any way make up for wherever it was that he found himself lacking. A hand or a shoulder? He made sure he didn't ever need those things. So did I.
What do these three relationships have in common? Very little. But perhaps the negative elements of the first taught me the frailties of emotions and not to trust them, let them guide me, or lend them any faith. That first breakup was ugly, for all its crushed youthful idealism, and it's a situation I'd rather chew off my own arm than repeat.
But the relationships that followed it bore out a pattern of choosing men who don't need "a relationship," because, then, how can I have failed to live up to their expectations of a relationship? They didn't have any expectations. That way, I couldn't fail.
But choosing men who don't need a relationship means that, well, quite obviously, we wind up not having a relationship. We might eat together, travel together, spend lots of time together, have deep conversations and attend social events as a couple... but we are playacting. Our minds and bodies are in context, but the generally good thoughts between us never cross from like to mutual love and high regard, never do we see each other's hearts and souls along with our faces and figures. Without trust, passion, intimacy, friendship, and investment, there is not an actual relationship, it's a functional facade of one, and such a thing actually diminishes me. That prefer it or seem to choose it indicates that I've developed a quite effective fear of what I already noted: failure, disappointment, regret. Easier to aim for something that cannot get close enought to evicerate me.
Jan Denise, my relationship guru, says that she doesn't believe those people who claim they want to find someone just to watch TV together in the evenings. Just companionship. She maintains that what we want is for someone to know us fully and entirely and to still think we're perfect.
I've always thought I had to try so hard to be thought perfect.
What happens if I don't have to try? What if someone just thinks I am?
I thought I wanted to meet someone and was ready for a boyfriend. I believed that. This guy was lovely, and we had more in common than I'd ever have expected. He was funny, smart, and engaging. He took care of everything in the hours we spent together. Yet, my enduring memory of that evening is trauma. Wanting to get away.
What is it that scares me? The answer to that question is both complex and incredibly simple. I know I can make it on my own; this way, I'm okay. I don't know what someone else could do to me or the life I've fought to establish for myself. I don't know that I can fulfill what someone else needs, wants, or expects.
Failure. Disappointment. Regret.
The relationships I've had with men that lasted longest (college boyfriend, husband, and the "Hunky Latino") had few hallmarks in common.
The first, when I was youngest, was a passionate and tempestuous exercise in extremes, where each of us wanted to be "boss" and neither of us had the faintest idea or inclination to how to temper our frenetic youthful energy with compromise and concession. Nor should we have... after all, we were glorified children. That was immature love, and from it I learned that ostensibly positive feelings like love can generate secondary feelings like jealousy, anger, frustration, and panic. I look back now and fancy that our affection was sincere, but so was our inability to cope with the power of those feelings. We were a match made in idealistic hell. That relationship ended after four and a half years (years beyond what it should have), and I consider it an enormous growth experience that I was the one who ended it, cold turkey, no takebacks, despite the ensuing drama.
What from that relationship did I apply to my husband, whom I met about eighteen months later? Somehow, from it, I learned to equate maturity with control. My first boyfriend was an exercise in excess -- too much food, too much drink, too much arguing, too much laughter, too many tears, too much passion, too much fun, too many gifts, too much attention, just too much. Exhausting. But my ex-husband was a paragon of control. When I tried the drama on him, he walked away from me; such histrionics would not work on him. He was independent, with his own job, apartment, and car. He did what he wanted because he had the resources. He didn't need me for anything, so I could just be a good thing. A treat. A cherry atop the sundae of the life he'd already made for himself. He was a grown up, I thought. An intelligent man with a degree and a wonderful sense of humor that kept me constantly in stitches. Finally! And I was beyond judgement, because I could do -- or not do -- exactly as I pleased for him, and it was all just a big fringe benefit as far as he was concerned.
Little did I realize that his grownup-ness and sense of humor cloaked a raging inability to share himself fundamentally with another person. It's hard to get close and serious with another joke lined up. While he was good to me, and we had some good years together, but he stood steadfast in remaining entirely himself. I in turn, while bearing no secrets, learned that when it came to him, his reliability was fleeting, his attitudes mercurial. Sometimes, his behavior was equally mercurial as well as difficult to bear. But I had him, and that was enough. My one-sided and all-encompassing love of him was something I offered more to the idea of my husband than to the man who bore the title. His leaving me was no less painful for that. The hole he ripped into my soul when he left hurt just as much as if we'd been soul mates, even more because I didn't understand how he could possibly leave. I'd never asked anything of him, never prevented him from having what he wanted. How much could it cost him to stay with someone who asked for nothing? And got it, too, let the record show.
But then he was gone, but I found his twin in the form of "The Hunky Latino." The packaging was much prettier, the attitude much happier and joyful. This was a beautiful man who was used to the world giving him exactly what he wanted from it. Though he was far from my husband's literal twin, he was certainly his spiritual one. The self-sufficiency, reluctance to rely or lean on anyone else, the absolute disinclination to true intimacy, they all emerged in short order My old friends were there! They made me feel comfortable instead of frustrated. Here was another man who didn't need me, at least not for much more than a warm body around which to wrap himself on occasion. I didn't have to listen to his problems, stroke his ego, care for his home or health, or in any way make up for wherever it was that he found himself lacking. A hand or a shoulder? He made sure he didn't ever need those things. So did I.
What do these three relationships have in common? Very little. But perhaps the negative elements of the first taught me the frailties of emotions and not to trust them, let them guide me, or lend them any faith. That first breakup was ugly, for all its crushed youthful idealism, and it's a situation I'd rather chew off my own arm than repeat.
But the relationships that followed it bore out a pattern of choosing men who don't need "a relationship," because, then, how can I have failed to live up to their expectations of a relationship? They didn't have any expectations. That way, I couldn't fail.
But choosing men who don't need a relationship means that, well, quite obviously, we wind up not having a relationship. We might eat together, travel together, spend lots of time together, have deep conversations and attend social events as a couple... but we are playacting. Our minds and bodies are in context, but the generally good thoughts between us never cross from like to mutual love and high regard, never do we see each other's hearts and souls along with our faces and figures. Without trust, passion, intimacy, friendship, and investment, there is not an actual relationship, it's a functional facade of one, and such a thing actually diminishes me. That prefer it or seem to choose it indicates that I've developed a quite effective fear of what I already noted: failure, disappointment, regret. Easier to aim for something that cannot get close enought to evicerate me.
Jan Denise, my relationship guru, says that she doesn't believe those people who claim they want to find someone just to watch TV together in the evenings. Just companionship. She maintains that what we want is for someone to know us fully and entirely and to still think we're perfect.
I've always thought I had to try so hard to be thought perfect.
What happens if I don't have to try? What if someone just thinks I am?
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