Can't sleep - clowns will eat me.

Usually, insomnia is my friend. I sometimes embrace it because it can actually stimulate some very creative inspiration at 4:30 in the morning after no sleep. Sometimes, insomnia allows me to work through things in my barely conscious brain that my defenses are usually too high to allow me to process. But, occasionally, insomnia just plain sucks.

That’s where I am today. Sucking insomnia. Haven’t really slept well since before Christmas, which is not all that unusual, but the past four or five days, averaging about three restless hours of sleep. You can add about two hours of staring at the ceiling, listening to Twyla purr or leap great bounds into my window, hitting the clock to illuminate it to see exactly how much sleep I’m not getting.

The mind committee, which has been very quiet for so long, has returned from its brief hiatus and is catching up on all the things that it has missed as well as making up for time lost in reminding me about what in my life is not great.

Their main theme lately is that I am alone. I know I’ve blogged on this before and I thought I had gotten past a lot of those feelings. But, every once in a while, they also return. I’ve fought off the loneliness this holiday season for the most part, thanks to my dutiful, amazing friends, and had thought I had even learned how to embrace the time alone, actually feeling like I was making a breakthrough in my own journey to learn about myself.

But last night, the emptiness returned full force, unexpected, bitch-slapping me on the way home from a really terrific crappy holiday gift exchange party. Saw some old friends that I haven’t seen since all of this life-altering stuff, hung out with Chairman, which is always a pleasure, and caught up on a bit of his holiday adventures in Virginia. Even managed to enjoy myself quite a bit, considering I was so bone-tired from not sleeping, bringing home an almost not too ugly piece of sculpture.

But last night, as I walked out the door of the party, I was keenly aware of being alone. Walking to my car alone. Driving home. Getting into an empty apartment (roommate works bar-tending weekends). Cold, empty bed staring at me. And Twyla, as much as I love her, is no solution to this.

Once again, I can’t help but think of our Lifetime movie woman who is driven to sleep with the first guy who looks at her with any interest. I mean, it’s hard not to. Sometimes, when I’m at a party like last night, I just want to stand in the middle of the room and scream, “Someone hold me, for god’s sake!” Okay, so most of the guys at the party last night prefer their partners to have the same genitalia as they do, but they’re good guys and would be willing to hold a hysterical woman for a few moments. However, I don’t think that would have done a whole lot for me.

I miss being held by someone who loves me. There is nothing like that in the world. And our Lifetime heroine may find temporary solace in casual sex and passing flirtations but I don’t think that will do it for me. I’ve never been one for casual sex. The most casual relationship that I had that involved sex was a three month relationship with a guy way too young for me. And way too wrong for me.

I don’t want sex. Okay, well, maybe I do want sex. Okay, yes, I do want sex. But casual sex is not in my nature. Sex, to me, comes out of the intimacy of the relationship, not out of the desperation of the situation. I don’t immediately think about whether I want to sleep with someone when I first meet them. It’s actually a thought that develops as I get to know them. Then, somewhere along the line, sex seems like it will be an addition to the wonderful thing developing between us, instead of something that has to be done to fulfill some sort of dating requirement. I’d rather not sleep with someone for a while and find out who they are and what their soul is about rather than leap into bed immediately.

Although right now, I understand the leaping.

And it’s New Year’s Eve. Not always a big deal holiday for me. The ex and I used to usually invite a handful of good friends over, enjoy their company and climb into bed reasonably early, usually by one o’clock or so. And this year, I wasn’t thinking too much about it, other than I hoped to have somewhere to go. And I do. Several invitations, in fact. All with lovely people.

But what got into my head last night was wanting to be with one particular person tonight. The one person who has been in the middle of my insomniatic thoughts. The one person who, for all my ramblings about how to communicate with the other sex, that I cannot seem to communicate my feelings to. I talk a good game but, when it comes down to it, I’m just as scared as the rest of you of hearing the rejection, facing the reality of the situation – he’s probably just not into me. Or, if he is, he’s just as scared and uncertain about how to communicate with me. Again, I am a proponent of arm-punching but I cannot seem to find even the courage to do that. Besides, who knows if he would understand what it means. Not everyone is as diligent about my ramblings as some of you are.

So, for tonight, I’ll just try to catch a nap later today so I can at least function coherently at whatever functions I decide to go to this evening. I have to think about whether to avoid seeing the aforementioned focus of insomnia and just go somewhere and forget about him for the night (yeah, sure, that’ll happen). Remind myself of the incredible group of friends I have, for which I do thank God every day for, and embrace those around me in lieu of the one that I want. Go to bed tonight and remind myself that my Ikea bed will not always be empty and that, eventually, there will be someone to hold me who loves me. I just have to be patient. And try to get the clowns to shut up long enough to get some restorative sleep. Then, all of this craziness will be but a mere memory, caught here on the web.

Sometimes there aren't words.

Even I cannot find the words sometimes to express what I'm feeling so tonight, I'll let Mary Chapin Carpenter say it for me.

Alone But Not Lonely
(Mary Chapin Carpenter)

I haven't a reason, a clue or a sign
I haven't the slightest idea
Of the shape of your heart or the state of your mind
Do you ever let anyone near
Do you ever reach out with arms open wide
Do you ever jump in closing your eyes
Or are you one of the fortunate kind
Alone but not lonely

Everyday on the street I study their faces
The ones who rush on through the crowd
Towards their own quiet worlds, their separate places
Somewhere I'm never allowed
'Cause I've always been one to say what I need
And than the next thing it's done and I'm watching 'em leave
And I'm thinking, I wish I could be
Alone but not lonely

So which one are you tonight
Do you change with the morning light
Do you say more than what sounds right
Do you say what you mean?

There are moments in time that are meant to be held
Like fragile, breakable things
There are others that pass us, you can't even tell
Such is their grace and their speed
And this one is gone in the blink of an eye
You can ask me the truth but tonight I will lie
Unflinching I'll tell you that I'm alone but not lonely

Currently listening:
Time* Sex* Love*
By Mary Chapin Carpenter
Release date: By 29 May, 2001

Understanding The Men In My Life

I’ve been exploring the relationships in my life recently (hmm, wonder why), mostly those relationships with men, both romantic and platonic. Looking at the men I’ve chosen to be involved with, why I’ve chosen them and what their treatment of me has been. It’s been an interesting process and somewhat disturbing.

I heard myself utter the phrase “so I won’t have to beg for their love anymore.” What the hell was that and where did it come from?

Looking back at my very extensive romantic history (all half dozen guys), I do see a trend where I find the guy most likely to seem like everything on the surface yet, underneath, there is a lack of emotional connection. They’re really good at the surface stuff – remembering dates, buying lovely gifts, showing off for the public to see what a great relationship we have. But when the doors are closed and it’s just us, that connection that should bind us together is non-existent. I didn’t realize this until recently.

Yet, I am a person who craves that emotional connection. I have it with my few girl friends. But with the men in my life, it seems much harder to come by.

Then I picked up The Artist’s Way yet again (some day I’ll actually get through the whole thing) and read the chapter on Crazymakers and it all made sense. Crazymakers are the blocked artists who cannot or will not express themselves. They seemingly do but yet shy away from anything that will really make them face their creativity and let it out, let it loose, and see where it takes them. They find a zillion excuses as to why they are not fully doing what drives them creatively – job, opportunities, relationships, bad agents, no time.

Many of the key relationships in my life have been with these types. Each important man that, up till recently, I have been very close to – again, both platonically and romantically – seem to not be able to fully embrace their creative life. They are deeply creative and deeply talented in their own fields but cannot seem to allow themselves to release that inner creative child.

Having faced that myself, I guess maybe I looked at them and thought I would be able to allow them to release their creativity, and then maybe I would be able to get to mine, after they were done. Or in some way, my creativity would be released with theirs, solving their problems along with mine.

But having almost lost that creative life this year, and having that creative life challenged viciously recently, made me realize two things – too many Crazymakers in my life (although I didn’t have a name for them) and too many emotionally disconnected men in my past.

I think the emotional disconnect is familiar because I never really got to know my brother as we were growing up. He was five years older and couldn’t be bothered with me. To this day, I don’t talk to him unless I’m at my mother’s and he calls. Then it’s usually, hey, what’s up, kind of stuff. My father, who I adore and who is really responsible for my love of movies, worked nights all through my life. When we did connect, it was very, very special because he was not around a lot. We had an unspoken connection but a rare one. Maybe that’s why I found the emotionally disconnected man familiar – that’s what was existing in my life.

Now I find myself in the company of extremely gifted and talented men, including my three favs. as well as a list of others who are constantly in my sphere. These men are the first in a long time who appear to be fully embracing their creative lives. Their dedication to their craft, whatever it is, is full and committed. They don’t shy away from challenges and they examine their creative life as often as possible and try to find ways to make it even deeper and fuller. For the first time in many years, I am left alone to explore my own creative life because I don’t have anybody else’s to fix.

I also find it immensely easy to be connected to these guys. They are open in a way that not too many men in my life have been. Whether it’s a shoulder to cry on or an ear to listen when I need it or to just wrap their arms silently around me and tell me it’ll be okay, they’re not afraid to be open with me and accept me exactly the way I am. They respect my creative life and openly encourage it in every single way they can. They embrace my emotional life and allow me into theirs, with no judgments, no pre-conceived ideas of what that should be, just open, honest connection.

It’s hard to me to sometimes understand this and accept it. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for these very special men to find something wrong with me that will drive them away. Or I keep waiting for me to do something that will prove that I am not worthy of their respect and affection and force me to push them away because I do not deserve them.

But each time I show them the flawed side, they embrace it. Each time I drop a shoe, they pick it up and hand it back to me. Each time I show my insecurity and my fear, they show me theirs and we share them together. They show me every single time I see them that I am worthy of their respect and their affection and that they are not afraid to share that with me.

This is all very new to me, especially as I have just begun to be able to recognize the pattern in my life of drawing the creatively-needy to me, the emotionally-challenged to me. I am hoping that, with seeing this trend and understanding it, and with the experience of having these very special, intimate relationships with these several very special male friends, in the future, I will be able to avoid the pitfalls of the past and find myself firmly embracing one who will not drain my creative life but one who will share it, one who will not build emotional walls but who will find the paths around mine, one who will not rate and judge but will accept and respect.

I thought I had him once but now I see that I was wrong. And maybe, maybe, he’s somewhere out there right now, reading this, and he doesn’t even know what he means to me and doesn’t even know what I mean to him. But that will come clear eventually, we can only hope.

2005 memories

Memories of 2005 (in no particular order)

- First read through of "Lloyd's Prayer" with a full cast – perfection anticipated!
- Opening night of "Lloyd's Prayer" – perfection fulfilled.
- Carlos sitting in my dining room, playing my guitar, chatting, just being
- Anytime Zadra has sung
- Vertigo Road at Genghis Cohen
- The Piper Downs at Viper Room
- dancing at The Beach club in Vegas with Chairman
- one particular performance of Afterplay where Chairman brought me to tears
- "Fetish Number From Nowhere" every single time I saw it
- Zadra on absinthe
- first night I sang not so sucky at Koji's
- discovering Mikee was a Muppet at Bigfoot one night
- AJ singing Harry Connick to me
- every moment of making "Dark Guitar"
- soda fountain on Hollywood Blvd. with Shelley and Chairman and Chairman's green shirt
- Chairman's performance as Lloyd
- sitting on the couch with Tiffany, talking about men (whole lot of these)
- Tiffany with her dogs outside my room, letting them meet Twyla
- AJ and Drew and whiskey shots at The Roost
- Alison Kraus and Union Station in concert
- the Slamdance reading
- Halloween night with Chairman and then Bigfoot
- dinner last week with Peter, Peter's mother and Chairman
- first time seeing the Snakehandlers at Molly Malone's
- late night conversations at the Ark with Shelley
- one particular late, late night dinner with Chairman at Norm's
- coffee at The Alcove with AJ
- Tracy & Dick's wedding
- USC One Act Festival
- Zadra’s therapy camp

…and so many more that I cannot even begin to put down into to words. Most memorable thing: the love and friendship I have discovered over the past six months.

So instead of doing one of those silly yet compelling questionnaires about 2005, write your own list of memories, good and bad, and see what you discover.

Here’s to even more wonderful memories in 2006!

Yoga Discoveries

Thank God for yoga. I’m serious. Without it, I’m a crazy person.

Of course, I’m writing this just after an amazing 1-1/2 hour yoga class at Black Dog Yoga (www.blackdogyoga.com). They have these community classes that are mixed levels – beginners, intermediate, advanced – all together. I’m somewhere between beginner and intermediate. Begintermediate?

The amazing thing to me always isn’t the practice itself, although that helps to keep the voices at bay and the mind committee occupied with sending strength to the muscles as I attempt impossible positions with my leg left (pigeon pose) or to twist myself into a pretzel and reach the ceiling and the floor at the same time. The amazing thing with this particular place is how synergistic the lessons within the class are with what’s going on in my life.

Each class starts with the teacher talking about what to bring mentally to the practice. At first, I didn’t think much of this. But as I have continued with this practice at this studio, I find more and more often the lessons are what I am working on.

Today’s practice was about opening your “heart center.” Anatomically, that’s the part of your chest surrounding your sternum and includes your back area between the shoulder blades. We humans tend to hold a lot of tension and stress there. If you don’t think you do, ask me for some stretches next time you see me and discover just how “tight” we all are in that area. But more than that, it is about opening yourself to the possibilities in your life. Georgina, the instructor, talked about the vulnerability of opening your heart center and allowing others access to that part of yourself. That’s the main reason so many of us don’t open that area is because it does expose you to the world, leaving you vulnerable to attack.

I know I have protected my heart center for a long time. I closed it down a while ago, trying to keep myself sane and safe. But lately, that heart center has been dying for a stretch, to be opened up again and be released. I think I have started to slowly allow that to happen and I like the feeling of that openness.

Georgina also talked about using this practice today to look inside of ourselves and see what we’re hiding and keeping inside. To move into each pose and see what it reveals to us – joy, fear, anger, satisfaction. Each pose is filled with something, not just put your right foot in front and reach your left hand around behind you. Each pose should elicit an emotion, a sense, a feeling. And to be open and allow those to come out and be released, not hold them in.

I can hear the eyes rolling out there. I didn’t so much subscribe to these theories either until I acrually stopped judging them and started listening to my body. Everything we do is filled with value and though and emotion and intention. We just don’t always allow ourselves to turn our eyes to our inner voices and see what they’re saying.

As I moved through the practice today, I did look inside and discovered that today’s practice reflected so much of where I am in my life right now. Some poses brought me great joy and I felt like I was doing them well, not only from a perfectionist point of view but in that they felt good. The stretch was better, I could feel things in my body release that haven’t been released for a while. I love it when I can place my palms flat on the floor with straight, strong legs and a solid back. It feels powerful and secure and amazing. The warriors poses are named that for a reason and I nailed those today, feeling like Zena, Warrior Princess.

Then there are the things I’m not so secure in – handstands scare the crap out of me. Even doing them against the wall. And the fear that I found there wasn’t just in doing the pose. I could sense the fear of so many things in my life hanging around the edges, piggy-backing on the handstand fear. Fear of not being perfect, fear of being hurt again, fear of being left alone, fear of success, fear of being discovered for the fraud that I am. But as I inched closer to actually being able to get upside down today, I found myself facing those fears and trying to knock them down. I didn’t get too far today, never really got myself upside down, so for, today, the fears won. But the war is not over and I am determined to get there. The few times I have succeeded with inverted poses, I have never felt more powerful and strong. So I’ll add handstands to the list along with conquering the karaoke demons.

So much of what today’s practice was about was looking at what we reveal to others and the honesty that we should be seeking in those revelations. Covering up those revelations, covering up the things that we find when we look inside, all the lead to an unsuccessful practice, both in yoga and in life. It was about looking inside, acknowledging the limitations and accepting them. That doesn’t mean you can’t try to overcome them but until you see them and acknowledge them, you cannot defeat them.

So as I try to dedicate myself to yoga at least twice a week for all the regular, good-for-you kind of reasons – the 35 lbs. I’d like to lose (as I sit here with a frappucino and a chocolate cupcake), the shape I’d like to gain, the relief it gives my carpal tunnel – I am looking forward to what else the practice will reveal to me and what strengths I will gain and weaknesses I will overcome. It can be a physical manifestation of the emotional growth we all seek as well as a healing experience for the wounds that reside deep inside and don’t want to come out. All I know is, I feel stronger, taller, more content and more at peace when I practice consistently and that can’t be all bad. Feel free to join me any time. I guarantee you’ll learn something – whether you want to or not.

She IS That Into You - cont'd

So several questions have been raised by the first blog on this. Here's the answer to most of those -

Just ask. Simple. "Are you into me?" No alcohol involved, please, never gets an honest answer. If she answers yes right away, she is. If she hesitates and then says yes, she isn't.

We just want to know where you stand sometimes and a lot of men seem to like to play the "let's be friends but make out and cuddle and occasionally have sex but I'm not into you" game. That game sucks. The rules are fluid and change depending on who the guy is sleeping with or also into at any time.

We'd prefer straightforward, honest, albeit maybe blunt approaches sometimes.

So if there is some woman you're into and you think she's into you but you two have been doing that unsure what to do next dance around each other, I would encourage the direct approach - just be prepared to be told she isn't into you. But at least you'd know. From a woman's perspective, I'd rather know if you're into me or not so I can stop wasting energy pursuing you if you're not.

I'm sure there are women out there who would disagree but that's their choice.

She IS That Into You

She’s Just That Into You.

In talking to both the men and women in my life, the divide between the way we communicate is very clear. Basically, “He’s Just Not That Into You” is very correct in letting women know exactly when a guy isn’t interested in them. It’s inspired an epiphany in me earlier (please see blog around 10/20/05 for more details) and seems to have a universal appeal and acceptance.

However, I think there is a flip-side. In talking to my zany, hot roommate and my zany, hot friend, Shelley, and other single women, I realized that we all share the same complaint – men don’t get it when we’re interested. We can try everything and yet they just don’t know when you’re really interested. AJ clarified it for me – men are stupid when it comes to women who are interested in them. He informed me that they just don’t get it when someone wants them. So in thinking about that, I’ve come up with the opposite side of “He’s Just Not Into You”, which, of course, would be “She’s Just That Into You.” Here’s the list of what to look for, compiled after weeks of purely unscientific discussions and random facts::
‘
1. If a woman keeps touching you, she’s into you. We don’t touch men we don’t like. Trust me, the last thing we want to do is touch men we don’t like. We especially don’t want to be touched by men we don’t like. But the more we touch you, the most we like you. Especially the ole lingering touch. And where we touch you. Shoulder, back, head – any “publicly accessible” areas mean we like you a lot and you’re a very good friend. Forearm, thigh, chest, back – not so “publicly accessible” areas – want to be so much more than friends. Lingering on the back, thigh, arm, so into you.

2. If a woman says she wants to be more than friends, she wants to be more than friends. It’s not code. Occasionally, we do say what we mean. Take it at face value when we say we want to be more than friends.

3. If a woman asked questions about your past that are more than the “how many sisters do you have” kind of basics, she’s into you. We really don’t want to waste the time to find out about where you grew up and what scares you and what your childhood was like unless we are into you. We don’t have that much energy to expend unless there’s a hope of something there. Pay attention to the questions we ask. Those will let you know how much we’re interested. High school sports, not interested. High school crush, interested. Where you’ve traveled, mildly interested. Where, when, how, what was your favorite, do you want to go back, what did you do, can I go with you next time – interested.

4. If a woman finds an excuse to call/email/text/contact you consistently, she’s into you. Again, not gonna waste time memorizing your phone number and typing messages on that little keypad on our cell phones unless we dig you. One or two contacts a week, good friends and she’s sharing her life with you. One or two contacts a day, she wants to share her bed with you.

5. Check out her perfume. Something light and simple and you barely sense it, she’s put it on for the world to smell. Something deep and musky and captivating, she’s put it on for you. And we don’t put on that perfume for friends. It’s for you.

6. If a woman, can’t take her eyes off you, she’s so into you. If she’s hanging on to every word and keeping intense eye contact and has her hand on your leg as you’re talking, into you.

7. See my 12/09/05 blog about arm-punching, a whole new way of saying she’s into you.

I’m sure there are a million other things that show she’s just so into you. Please feel free to send me more and what you do when you’re interested in a guy, so we can further the understanding between the sexes – and maybe find a way to say it without actually having to say it.

Simple joy.

I have been gifted with simple, elegant, unending joy.

It’s a gift I do not take for granted as I went so many years without it.

I’m not taking about the manufactured joy of purchasing something you can show off or even the joy of an achievement that you can point at and say, I did that. This is just pure unadulterated joy. Joy that requires nothing but your participation. Joy of just being.

I always used to feel that I had to be “on” in any situation, be the center of attention, make sure I was heard and seen and appreciated. But as I embrace the joy in my life and in the people around me, I no longer feel the need to be the one that everyone’s listening to. In fact, I find myself sitting back more and more and just watching and listening to those I love. I don’t feel driven to talk endlessly about nothing because I am no longer afraid to not be interesting, to not be quiet. I think I always felt I had to fill the silence. Now, I embrace that same silence.

There is such joy in just sitting on the couch with my dearest, best-est friend, Zadra, drooling over Pierce Brosnan and thinking that Rene Russo didn’t need to be so naked in ”Thomas Crown Affair.” Sharing salt & vinegar chips. Talking about men. Talking about nothing at all. Such pure joy on that couch. No expectations of what I have to be. Explaining to her exactly how knitting works.

There is such joy in preparing massive stir-fry for those I love and those they love. Destroying my once-clean kitchen (okay, I did break down and wash about half the dishes and the rest are in the sink). Inhaling the garlic and the hoisin sauce and the chicken and the beef. Listening to Peter and Chairman and Peter’s mom talk in the living room while I cooked. Listening to my dear Chairman play along with the Ipod. Not having to be the entertaining hostess and drive the conversation. Just cooking, just listening, just enjoying the company.

Being driven to Koji’s for karaoke (pleasure not to drive for a change) and listening to Chairman talk about what’s on his Ipod. Silences in between that don’t have to be filled with chatter. Comfortable, easy, old friend type of silences.

Simple joy of hugging your friends. Simple joy of watching Peter and Mikee and Chairman and Damien and Erin and Vicky and everybody else sing their fool heads off. Watching the love and the joy fly back and forth between all of those amazing people. And having a lot of that love and joy ricochet on to me.

I never want to lose this. I went so very long without it. It’s like breathing now. This joy that has been given to me used to make me weep, because I think a part of me thought that I didn’t deserve this type of joy, that I didn’t deserve to be this happy. I spent so much time so far down in the darkness and struggling to just hold on to any glimmer of hope and love that it left behind deep, permanent scars. Joy had always been associated with such fear that it was going to be taken away because it usually was – and harshly, suddenly, unannounced. Leaving me stunned, shaken, terrified to trust that joy when it came around again.

When I first began this mid-life adventure, I was shown this joy and I was afraid to take it. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to rip that joy out of my heart and leave me broken and beaten on the ground. Along the way, there have been moments of joylessness, moments where something that used to give me great joy was tainted and almost taken away from me. But in those moments, one of these incredible gifts God has given me in the form of the friends who surround me would step forward and embrace me – literally or metaphorically – and bring me a little bit of joy again, just to make sure that I didn’t forget it was there.

I know I gush endlessly about this and I don’t think that any of you will ever understand how dark and how ugly my life had gotten. I don’t even think I can yet begin to understand it myself. It’s so hard to look at that pain and that anger and that unhappiness because it was so terribly frightening and so unbearably endless.

I no longer feel that I don’t deserve the joy that has been given to me. I no longer feel that it’s going to be taken away from me because if anybody tries to take it away from me, they’re going to suffer. Boy, are they going to suffer. I no longer feel that darkness hovering just out of sight, waiting for a moment of weakness, waiting for my guard to go down. Because I no longer feel the need to keep my guard up. I no longer fear that darkness.

And even those recent moments of darkness and hurt and devastation have begun to fade, begun to take a back seat to the present day wonder of my life. I will always carry those wounds with me but they are healing and, while some of them will never be fully healed, they are at least scarring over and I have stopped picking at the scabs that cover them.

So in this season of love and peace and joy, I have been given the precious gift of this:








These are some of the greatest joys in my life. Not everyone is there as I don’t have great pictures of everyone. But I have great pictures in my head and my heart.

I can never thank all of you for your love, your gifts, your passion and, most of all, the joy you all share with me every single time I see you. Thank you for effortlessly allowing me to be in that joy and live in that place. Thank you for allowing me to just be me, flawed, frightened, vulnerable, impatient, righteous, imperfect, broken-hearted, arrogant, terrified, and everything else that comes with this package.

May God bless all of you and your families this Christmas and bring back to you some of the joy that you have so selflessly shared with me. You all have my heart.

Keep Your Arms & Legs Inside the Relationship (safety rules)

Whether on a tour tram or in a relationship, there are safety rules that should be established and adhered to throughout. Otherwise, appendages and body parts are lost, both internal and external.

As I think about my life now and my former life, I realize how much safety and that feeling of safety comes into play. And it has nothing to do with my roommate showing up in my doorway one night, brown paper bag in her hand, asking if I wanted/needed the condoms held therein. I was startled, then kind of flattered that she thought I might eventually have need for them, but turned the gift down. She politely informed me where they would be, should I find myself in need of them.

In a way, that’s what I’m talking about. How the people in my life make me feel safe and protected so that I can take chances. Although I’m not sure I’m ready for the kind of chance that would require a condom but at least I know that they’re there if I need them.

What that does for me is allow me to be vulnerable. I don’t like to be vulnerable. I like to keep myself protected. I think that’s because, through the last few years of our relationship, my ex and I forgot about the safety rules. We didn’t notice arms sticking outside of the tram or legs protruding from beneath the safety rails. We were both too busy counting our own appendages and ensuring that all of our personal items were safely within our reach. And when the tram stopped, we both got off, our own stuff in tow, but we forgot to check behind and see what we left there. Maybe if we had, we would have found the trust and the comfort and the safety behind the rails and maybe we could have gotten back on that tram instead of getting stuck in Prop Plaza (sorry, deeply inside Universal tour guide reference). It means getting stuck where you don’t want to be.

I stopped feeling safe with him. I stopped counting on him to catch me if I fell because he dropped me one too many times. I’m sure I did the same. So many times, we don’t realize that we’ve lost our grip on the one we love until it’s far too late to do anything about it. We should have reviewed the safety rules more often, just to make sure that the injuries were at least reduced, if not eliminated. Maybe we should have posted one of those OSHA signs – 180 injury-free days – just to keep track. Every time that sign went back to 0, we’d have known there was something wrong on one side or the other.

I’ve discovered the feeling of safety again, ironically, since I have been on my own. For one thing, I have to trust in myself now and not look to someone else to see my reflection. That means I have to review my own safety rules with myself consistently, to make sure I don’t lose an arm or a leg to someone who just boarded the tram and doesn’t know the rules yet. Even to protect myself from those who have been on a the tram for a little while but maybe weren’t listening when the rules were read. And maybe to protect myself from those who have been on the tram for a long time and maybe need to be reminded of the safety rules.

But I think most of the people in my life who are on my tram instinctively know the safety rules, they don’t have to be read to them. I find myself hanging off the side of the tram (might as well continue the analogy as long as we have established it) and there are always at least two sets of hands hanging on to the back of my shirt to make sure I don’t fall into Jaws lake.

What are those safety rules? I’m not even sure. But I’ll take a guess.

1. Keep your arms wrapped firmly around me and your legs ready to run to my side when I need you.

2. In case of emergency (or emotional breakdown), pull me close and hold me tight. Make sure that my emotions come to a complete stop before exiting the tram.

3. Don’t throw your trash over the side of the tram – or at me. I can handle some crap, as I expect you to handle some of my crap. But don’t leave that crap behind for me to clean up.

4. Do not feed the egos. If we can keep egos out of the way, so many things could be solved.

5. Please do not leave your inner child unattended – especially during an important argument, discussion or complete emotional breakdown. There is a time and place for that child to be released. Know those moments.

6. Yes, you will get wet if it rains. That means there will be times when it’s not pleasant to be on the tram with me but if we pull down the rainguards, maybe we can ride it out and go get hot chocolate.

7. Tip your tour guide. Sometimes it can be a tangible tip. Sometimes it can be the intangible. Try an unexpected compliment. Try just wrapping your arms around me and tell me I’m beautiful. Try kissing the side of my neck when I’m not expecting it. You might get tipped in return.

Some of these rules apply to friends (maybe not the neck-kissing part), some apply to potential romance. But all mean the same thing – make me feel safe. Make me feel protected. Make me feel like those hands will be there when I reach out for them. And I will make sure I remember the safety rules when you need them. So we can enjoy the tour together and get off the tram, unharmed, arms and legs intact, and maybe with all of our personal belongings in tow.

Mid-life crisis to be televised – at least part of it.

In the on-going strangeness that is my mid-life crisis, it looks like my tattoo event will be televised.

In exploring with friends about obtaining a tattoo, Shelley sent me a link to “Inked,” an A&E show that features people getting tattoos at a shop in Vegas, with apparently some amazing tattoo artists. I’ve watched the show a couple of times and am always fascinated by why people choose the icons they choose and the inner workings of the shop.

So I sent them a very short, Reader’s Digest version of my recent life and they asked me to come in and interview. Well, today I went in for the casting session. I wore my lucky Supergirl underwear (didn’t tell them that part) and my sassy Santana red boots, my “destiny” necklace and “om mani padme ohm” bracelet. The tattoo would be those two images wrapped around my left wrist.







They thought my story about my life – the ex’s false arrest, my depression, my suicidal night, my mid-life crisis on the whole – was fascinating and just the kind of story they want to tell. So it looks like I’m going to Vegas some time soon to get my tattoo on TV.

It’s just strange to me, to consider telling my story on television. It feels freeing and frightening both at the same time. I think it’s important to share my story, that’s why I keep blogging, because it seems to touch people and maybe might reach someone else going through the same thing I went through. And maybe this is a continuation of that.

The main thing I want to avoid is painting the ex as a frightening, overbearing control freak. I have to find a way to share some of that without him coming off as an ass, although I think he has that tendency sometimes. And I certainly want to make sure that my friends and my support system get some of the credit for where I am today.

The symbols are important to me for a couple of reasons. Destiny, for me, is why I have changed everything in my life. I feel I have a path in front of me, although sometimes it is a little blurry where it is. Destiny is why I sacrificed so many things, so much of my life. Om mani padme ohm is a chant for blessing and enlightenment, both of which I need every single day of my life. The two tied together will hopefully serve to remind me that there is a purpose, there is a reason, there is a goal in the long run and that, if I ask for help, for blessing, for guidance, someone will be there to help, whether it’s one of my usual support team or just whoever is driving my life. To remind me that sometimes you have to let things go and just trust.

So the mid-life adventure continues. Zadra’s hoping to tag along and be there as I do this. I would certainly welcome any company that cares to tag along and participate. Otherwise, I will let you all know when the show shoots and is televised. Maybe a tattooing screening party will have to happen.

Stay tuned/

Warning - overly sentimental 4:30 am ramblings

I had been looking toward the holidays with trepidation and caution. Everything that happens for the next year will probably have that sense of newness and weirdness, until I get used to my life.

But as I tiptoe into Christmas, I am starting to really look forward to figuring out what the holidays will be for me.

There were so many things that we had done every year, as happens in a marriage. Christmas lights to look at, presents to buy, tree to decorate. It all got to be very safe, repetitive, predictable, as things do in 16 years. And that wasn’t bad. It was soothing, I think, to know that every year, there would be the trip to Fresno, either before or after Christmas, visit Christmas Tree Lane there, hang out with friends to some extent before and during the holidays, all sorts of Christmas festivities.

This year, though, it’s finding my own traditions. I don’t know what those will be yet. And I may not figure it out this year. There are some thing we did that I want to continue to do – find some wonderful neighborhood full of garishly overdone lights (one in Woodland Hills comes immediately to mind) and stroll down it instead of drive; figure out where the “Scary Bunny Christmas” house is in Beverly Hills, the one that recycles last year’s Rose Bowl floats into creepy, strange yet wonderful tableaus on the front lawn; finding the perfect Christmas tree (which probably won’t happen this year due to funding issues). And, of course, Christmas Eve at Dean and Rick’s, waiting for the cheesy, funny, wonderful caroling truck that circles their neighborhood like the evil ice cream truck that circles my neighborhood.

This year, partially due to funding issues, most friends will be receiving handmade gifts, which is a tradition I would like to continue. Each gift is made with love and made specifically for that person. I love making things, as most of you know, and I love giving those things away. And I think, hopefully, they are received with affection and appreciation.

I was a little worried about feeling alone during the holidays, as the transition in my life has left many old friends behind. People who I usually expect to see and participate in the holidays with aren’t necessarily there this year for me. I think that’s what I will miss the most this year, those people who I love and have pretty much lost because loyalties cannot always be divided and the best of intentions cannot always overcome the required choosing of sides. But I will think of them with love and hope that their holidays are warm and wonderful.

New friends have, however, more than filled any void I may have felt. I know I won’t be alone Christmas day, thanks to offers from two very good friends, one old, one new. Christmas morning will be hard, waking up alone, no Christmas Eve “okay, I’ll only open one present” ceremony, no one to share that morning with. But there will be much merriment to look forward to later in the day so I think that will carry me through the morning and into the day.

I will think of my friends who are not here this year, home with their families scattered in Atlanta and Virginia and Cincinnati and places beyond. Pieces of my heart scattered away, which I will be glad when they return home to me.

And I will think of him, as I do quite a bit right now, as I sort through the mysteries of my life. I will miss him, although I will not miss the drama that always surrounded the holidays for us. I won’t miss trying to find the exact perfect present for each person in his family without any direction as to what that perfect present might be. I won’t miss Fresno, which sounds harsh and awful, but no matter how much everyone tried to make it lovely, it was always hard and difficult. I will miss decorating the tree to The Monkees (don’t ask), I will miss waking up with him and opening presents. My heart breaks as I think about it now and as I think about what he will go through on Christmas day. I wish I could make it easier for him, to help him understand why this is better for both of us. But all I can do is pray he will find comfort in his friends and family as I find with mine,

So, as the year comes to a close, and as I move deeper into my self-examination and self-discovery, I find myself beginning to let go of each lingering memory of a life gone by, some with difficulty, some with wanton abandon. And I look around and am grateful for a huge list of things and people. And I know I go on ad nauseum sometimes but without these people in my life, I would have no life. Zadra, for her beauty and her humor and her ability for analyzing my life better than I can. Tiffany, for her openness, her craziness, her depth of feeling and her enthusiasm for all the things in her life. Peter, for his soul, his spirit, his smile and his ever-expressive eyes. Erik, for checking in on me, for sharing his transitions and feelings, and for his humor. Shelley, yet another beauty, both of face and soul, for her sharing of stories and sharing of heart. Tracey, for being my right hand and my partner in crime at the Ark. A.J., for his unique view on life, his wisdom and his depth. Erin, Mikee, and Damian and the whole Koji’s gang for sharing their freedom and their joy and making me sing. The Ark Theatre and all those involved, especially Paul W., for helping me find my creative, authentic self and encouraging the hell of it. And, of course, Chairman, for so many things I cannot even begin to express or explain, for proving to me what a friend truly is, for sharing with me his heart and his soul.

As for my old friends, I hope to rediscover those of you who I have not seen through this transition and reacquaint myself with you to share some of the joy of discovery and newfound passions in my life. I haven't forgotten you, just maybe lost track of you for a while.

And I am grateful to you, dear readers, for putting up with this blog, for reading it more than I thought anyone would, for responding to my words and my pain and my joy, for making me feel warm and loved and supported. This blog has gotten me through some tough nights and some dark days. And I’m glad I had you all to share it with.

So, although I am sure you will hear more from me before we all get knee deep in Santa time, let me wish you all the joy, the love and the peace that this season should bring. Enjoy those around you, be grateful for them and make sure they know how much you love them. That’s the best gift you can give, May God bless you and yours now and throughout the new year.

Quiet

What I realized about my life right now is how quiet it is.

And not just because my roomie and her two Chihuahuas are out of town for the holidays. Actually, she and I have such crazy, busy schedules, we’re rarely home together at the same time, which is probably why we get along so well.

No, it’s that I’ve noticed the white noise that seemed to constantly occupy my life is gone. There always seemed to be a million voices talking to me at once and sometimes it was hard to think straight.

Sometimes that voice was my ex, throwing question after question at me, such innocuous things as what’s for dinner and what’d you do today to a zillion other such innocuous things. But they always seemed to come in bunches of about 200 and I’d just finish answering one and there was another there, waiting for its own answer. Half the time, no matter what answer I gave, it didn’t seem to be the right one so I had to provide yet another answer and then another answer until I came close to what was expected. I realize now that a lot of that was my own doing and my own desire to be/do/act as I thought he wanted me to but it doesn’t change the fact that it felt like a ton of questions all the time. It actually got to the point in the last few years that I would finally say to him, “Too many questions!” to get him to stop.

Then there were the demons in my own head that didn’t want to shut up. Long after he and I would be done with something, the mind committee would convene and rehash and rerun play-by-plays in my head, showing me what I should have said/done, what I could have said/done, what I should say/do the next time. Then there were the anticipated planning meetings for the next day and what the mind committee was going to do with that information.

Then there was the Ebert & Roeper team that ran a constant running commentary on how I was fairing that day, thumbs up or thumbs down. A lot of thumbs down, it felt like, in the last few years.

Put all that together, it made an awful, ugly noise in my head continuously. It was hard to think, it was hard to feel, it was hard to say anything over that sound. And it just got louder and louder as the years went by.

Even the first few months on my own, those voices and that committee and that critical team kept up the noise level. The only thing that was missing was his voice, feeding them the material to keep living on. Again, I’m not saying it was his fault or that he is a bad person. His voice was just added in with all the others and lingered for months, even after he wasn’t around.

It’s just been in the last month, when I’m finally having some professional downtime, that I’ve noticed how quiet things are. The white noise has become an almost inaudible hum, still there in the background, but I can tune it out now and turn it up when I have time reflect and focus and let the noise go to full volume. The committee, too, has chosen to take periodic sabbaticals, occasionally returning as they did last night to hold a very long, very unproductive debate about one on-going issue in my life that is out of my hands to resolve presently. But considering that is the first night of an all night long useless debate, I think I can learn to live with that.

As for Ebert and Roeper, they’re becoming more of a thumbs-up kind of pair now, acknowledging the positives and the pluses of things instead of finding fault with the direction and production of my life.

Part of this quiet is due to the work I’m doing with my therapist. I never thought I would need a therapist as I always thought I was a well-adjusted, self-aware, enlightened kind of person. But she is helping me illuminate a few of the dark corners, explore why I get into destructive relationships, both romantic and platonic, and find ways of recognizing that at the beginning instead of 16 years later. Therapy is not something I’m going to need to do my whole life but right now, an objective voice is helpful in cutting through the white noise.

Part of this quiet is due to the active changes I have made in my life. I have lost a lot of friends along the way in the past few months, some obviously and publicly, some quietly and on the sidelines, slipping out in the midst of the chaos, never to return. And while that makes me very sad, it also makes me realize that those are probably the relationships I don’t need at this time. Housecleaning applies externally as well as internally, I guess.

And a great part of the quiet is owed to my new, usual group of friends, people I never thought I would share this much of my life with, people I’ve known for years or for only months, people who I have grown to care for so much sometimes it makes me cry. These are the people that let me let the noise escape in their presence so it doesn’t haunt me and keep me awake at night.

And the rest of the quiet is due to me. I’m learning to be okay with the quiet. I have always been afraid of it. Now I realize it serves a purpose. Without the quiet, there is pain, anger, black pits of despair and chaos. With the quiet, I can deal with the pain and process it and put it away, I can acknowledge the anger and dispel it, I can shed some light on the black pits and drain them.

And with this long, tumultuous, noisy, chaotic year coming to an end, I’m looking forward to finding new quiet and new peace in 2006, and learning how to embrace that even more.

The night it almost ended...

I think I realized that my marriage was over when my husband didn’t understand the significant of my Supergirl underwear. It has this very cool Supergirl logo at the T at the back and I found them weirdly empowering. He thought they were silly and didn’t get my excitement over them. Mind you, he is also one of the few men I know that doesn’t care about lingerie. On me, that is. I told my best friend, Zadra, that I had gone almost 15 years without buying any sexy or interesting underwear and she thought that was way too long to go without sexy or interesting underwear.

I don’t know why I find that relevant tonight. I had about 100 thoughts in my head leaving my usual Thursday night karaoke, thoughts about how I never felt like I fit in anywhere in my life, that I’m always the outsider, the un-cool one wanting to hang out with the cool kids. Also about how I always seem to choose people in my life – until recently – that only made me feel bad about myself, never ones that made me feel good.

Somehow, all those thoughts led me to my Supergirl underwear.

Maybe because most superheroes and superheroines don’t fit into normal life either. They’re always in disguise, never able to show those around them who they really are. Keeping everyone at arm’s length and pretending that they are strong and don’t need anybody. They cannot show any weakness or let anyone see through their façade.

I’ve spent a lot of time trying to build that façade in the past few years. Actually, probably my whole life. I’ve tried to put on that I’m confident and happy and okay with everything in my life. Even the night I almost committed suicide.

I was very logical that night. I knew I was not happy and I didn’t think anything would ever make me happy again. I didn’t call anyone because I didn’t think I could let anyone know how miserable I was. I couldn’t even explain it to myself. I threw out everything that was important to me – plays I had wanted to direct, scripts I had been writing, jewelry I had been making. I had piles of what was to go to the church as a donation and what was trash and what was to be given away.

I then very calmly went down to the kitchen, counted out how many Tylenol PM we had – the strongest drug we had in the house – and debated about whether or not there were enough there to do the job or just make me sick. In the end, I decided there weren’t enough and I wasn’t strong enough to go out and find something else. I almost literally crawled into my bed and waited for my husband to come home, to hopefully comfort me and help me find my way out of the blackness I was in.

He came home. He found me curled up, sobbing uncontrollably, babbling incoherently about nothing. I could not express to him what I felt other than I was very, very sad. He sat on the edge of the bed, confused, shaken, uncertain of what to do. He waited for me to tell him what to do. I told him to leave me alone, I was fine. Don’t worry about the sobbing and the hysterics. I just needed to be alone.

And he left me alone. Walked out of the room and shut the door behind him. I thought he would come back and check on me. He didn’t. I thought he might call my best friend or my parents or somebody. He didn’t. He went upstairs and watched TV while I lay downstairs, numb, angry, and almost deciding that if I did die, it would serve him right. I had a few hours before he’d come to bed. I would be good and dead by then. Then maybe he’d understand how much I was hurting.

Then it hit me. Give up my life because of him. I had given up so much because of him. To do this now would not be right. I wasn’t finished yet. And I think in that moment, when he shut that door and did not come back to find out if I was still alive, I realized that my marriage was over. It was nobody’s fault. I couldn’t tell him how I felt and he couldn’t figure out how I felt. It was as basic as that. After 14 years, we didn’t know each other at all.

Shortly thereafter, I discovered the Supergirl underwear. I decided that they were for me. I wore them religiously for show nights and any important events because I kind of enjoyed knowing that I was wearing them and no one knew I was. I even got a kick out of the times when the logo would pop up over the top of my jeans – those damn low cut jeans that are the only style that exist nowadays – and someone would see the logo and laugh. Somehow, that made me feel good about my silly underwear.

Then I discovered my old cowboy boots and there was no turning back. I had to go on this journey to find out who I was and what I was to become. I had left myself behind a long time ago and now it was time to go and see if she was still there somewhere. Unfortunately, he couldn’t come along for the ride. He had lost that privilege. And it’s not that he’s a bad man or a mean person or a horrible husband. He just didn’t understand.

So in this journey, the Supergirl underwear are worn a little more often, the cowboy boots, as you all know, are the standard footwear of every day and I’m finding myself trying to shed the superheroine façade more and more, let more people into the reality that is me, good or bad. Because I realize that you all see that anyway. You’re just polite enough not to peek behind the glasses and the disguise and let me pretend for a little while longer that I need the disguise. Eventually, there will only be me.

Poem - now don't cringe...

This was written just after the "war" in Iraq started. A radio station was holding a "Hugs From Home" and you bring in donations to send to the troops. I brought a bunch of stuff from friends and make this incredibly young woman who inspired this. So bear with me for this moment and do with it as you will:


the face of war
will always be
twenty-four
female
freckled
tanned
blond
too young to bear this
maybe too young to understand this
three year old by her side
cut offs
middy top
clutching a list of names
saying, please write to them
talking about her fiance
and her ex-husband
too young to have either
please tell them thank you, she pleads,
that’s all they want to hear
she smiles as they pack
toothpaste
mouthwash
baby wipes
boxes to go
to the list she clutches
given by strangers
handled by strangers
going to strangers
now
there are no strangers to me
they will all have her face
whenever I hear about fallen soldiers
whenever I hear about loved ones at home
whenever I hear our fearless leader is sending more
they will all be her
blond
tanned
freckled
female
twenty-four
alone

New adventure update

Meeting went well today. Looks like we're going forward with the film, providing that all the details can be worked out, which I don't see why they wouldn't be.

Thought you should know, faithful readers. Stay tuned for more...

New adventure, new fears

It’s a night for bad free verse poetry, the likes of which I will not subject you to, dear readers.

I’m nervous. Quasi-big meeting tomorrow about a deeply personal project which I love, needless to say. It’s with the board of directors at my theater company to decide whether or not to support shooting this film. I think that most of the board like the script, like me, and want to do it. But nothing is 100% until after tomorrow and whatever time they need to take to decide.

Meanwhile, my usual demons are up and tap-dancing in my head. They’re running slide shows of all the mistakes I’ve made in the past, the failures and the disappointments in projects both recent and long ago. Certain negative things that have been pointed out – both real and imagined – by those who supposedly cared about me. It’s like “Defending Your Life” only I’m not dead yet.

It’s also the first time I’m going into something like this alone. I mean, I know I have support and those who have read the script and my good friends have all been very enthusiastic and encouraging. But I’m the one getting up there tomorrow. I have no hand to hold. I have no one there to push me forward and tell me it’s okay, I’ll be great. Again, I know the support is there from friends, etc., but I’m scared.

Scared of being discovered that I really don’t know what I’m doing. Scared of all my short-comings being brought up and trotted out for examination. Scared of taking on this project and whether or not I can handle it. Scared of being proven that I’m a fraud.

Most of all, I’m scared of doing this alone. I know that’s what I wanted but, right now, I’d give anything to have someone with me here tonight, to just hold me, to just tell me good things. To remind me of the good things I’ve accomplished and tell me how proud they are of me. I know I shouldn’t need that. I should know what I’ve accomplished and how I feel about the work I do. But sometimes, nothing helps more than to just feel the arms of someone who loves you wrapped around you while you fret and worry and stress and are consumed with doubt and fear.

But I left those arms behind in June, for the very reason that they didn’t give me comfort anymore. They didn’t make me feel confident and supported and secure about myself, my talent, my ability. They stopped embracing me and started smothering me and holding me down. They pulled me away from what I wanted instead of holding me up to the possibilities.

So the best I can ask right now is for positive thoughts being sent towards the Ark Theatre at around 12:30 today as I hold my breath and dive into this new adventure, alone but supported, frightened but hopefully not too terrified, nervous but strong. Stay tuned…

Why can't we just say it?

What is it about us that makes us unable to actually tell people how we feel about them?

In lengthy conversations with my roommate, I keep hearing both of us saying variations on the fact that we don’t feel that we can actually tell someone how we feel about them romantically. There are a myriad of reasons why and it always ends up that there is something that stops us from saying what we feel.
‘
Why is that? I know that, in my own recent experience, the thing that I keep telling myself is, “I’m not ready for a relationship right now” or “I just don’t want to really get involved yet, I’m just getting out of a 16 year relationship.” And, you know what, that’s bullshit. It comes down to this – I think we’re all afraid to say that we love someone in the fear that they’re not going to love us back. It’s that simple. If I go up to a particular person who I want to tell how much I care about them and they don’t respond in the same way, I’ll be crushed. No matter how much I may say I can handle anything they might say, no matter how much I claim to subscribe to Zadra’s theory that to love anyone without expectation is great, I want something back.

If I’m going to hang myself out there and say, “I think I might be in love with you” or “I think I’m developing these feelings for you,” I definitely want something back. I spent 16 years – or at least the last few years – holding back my emotions, holding back my feelings, holding back so many things because there was nothing coming back to me. I don’t want to put myself out there again and throw myself open only to have that throw deflected and tossed aside.

It’s easier for us to say, “Oh, I’m not ready, I can’t say it yet, there’s too many things we don’t have in common” and totally avoid having to place our hearts out in the open.

Why can’t we be like children and just say what’s on our mind and even feel free to express our disappointment that someone doesn’t share that feeling we have. It doesn’t mean we’re going to love that person any less. In fact, it may help to know exactly how that other person feels rather than drag on, waiting, wanting, not knowing, guessing. If we could be like children and just go up, hit the guy on the arm and say, “I love you,” and wait for them to hit us back, it’d be so much easier. Okay, so we’d all be bruised a little more but better a bruise on the arm than looking back and going, “Why didn’t I hit him on the arm that night?” and agonizing over whether or not that was “the moment” and that we missed it.

Does that mean I’m going to change my ways? Probably not. I’m not going to go up and start punching arms, although that might be fun. But I do think I need to start investigating whether the feelings that crop up are real or just imagined loneliness rearing its ugly head. Because I would like to get to the arm punching stage eventually. In the meantime, I’ll just adore from a distance and hope that the other person has developed arm-punching telepathy.

Missing something tonight.

I missed him for the first time tonight. Really missed him. Not just someone. I missed the man he used to be, the way we used to be together. I missed the way we were at parties, connecting across the room. I missed sharing the party with him. It was the first time that we were both at a function where I wanted to go over to him and be with him, like we used to.

I still don’t regret my decision. The man he is today is not the man I miss. Maybe I am not the woman today that he would miss either. Somewhere along the line, those two people packed up and went away, never to be found again. And that breaks my heart.

Even with all the love and warmth and affection that I was surrounded with tonight, I couldn’t help but think of past parties, past events, past times in our lives where we were so connected, so attached that the telepathy across the room was seamless.

I have my favorite guys who share a bit of that kind of connection with me. I find when we’re talking or in a conversation with others, there is that silent, shared connection that goes between us that everyone has with their very close friends. But tonight, it was a particular connection that I missed.

As he left and there was that awkward moment of how do we say goodbye, because we haven’t progressed to the friendly hug point yet – and may never – but for one second, I wanted his arms around me. I wanted to remember what it was like to love him because I think I’ve forgotten that. Somewhere in all the anger and the hurt, the feeling of his love was lost and I don’t think I will ever be able to find it again. And that is the saddest thing of it all.

The perfect fit...

“Sex and the City” would have us women believe that the sexiest shoe on the face of the earth is a $900 pair of Manolo Blahnik strappy sandals or $500 Jimmy Choo strappy sandals that no real woman could: a) possibly afford or b) possibly wear. Pair that with an impossibly short skirt that only can be worn if you weigh the same as an 11-year-old pre-adolescent girl and are built just like an 11-year-old pre-adolescent girl. Top it off with the requisite no bra and constantly perky nipples and you have Sarah Jessica Parker.

Well, “Sex and the City” is wrong. I found the sexiest shoes on earth tonight and they are neither $900 nor strappy nor sandals. And they do not go with a micro-mini or mini of any sort and any 11-year-old built girl – excuse me, woman – would run screaming from them. That’s my idea of a pair of shoes.



I’m talking about an unbearably sexy pair of cowboy boots. Okay, cowboy-style mules or half-boots designed by Carlos Santana. Red. Vintage looking. Three inch stacked heels. Less than $100 a pair. I saw them, I wanted them. No, needed them. In two different colors. Red and Havana Brown. I think I had a little O when I put them on my feet. Toes are a little pointier than I would normally wear but, oh, my god, my feet have never felt more desirable. (Early Christmas gifts from my ever-loving parents, who spoil me rotten).

I don’t need a micro-mini to go with them. My vintage wash boot-cuts are perfect. Even with a little fraying around the edges. The boots would tolerate nothing less. Topped off by one of my favorite Rare Vintage men’s shirts, I would stand toe-to-toe with little Miss Parker and her quarter of sissy, martini-swilling, over-enhanced bitches any day, whiskey in hand, my voluptuous figure towering over their little tiny, frail, bony-ass, poor-excuse-for-a-woman body and I would crush their little toes in their $900 sandals and send them home to think about what they have done to the female gender.

Damn, I love these boots!

Housecleaning cont'd

It began innocently enough. I moved one or two things, trying to find something.

Now it’s about four hours later and my room is miraculously cleaner. I won’t say clean as there is still work to do. But suddenly, I have room to move. Okay, don’t open the closet but even that is moderately organized. Still stuffed to the brim but moderately organized.

I realized today that I have been living in boxed since July. I started packing up my belongings then. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do, put 16 years of a relationship in boxes. Figure out who gets what. I never thought he and I would get to that point. I never actually thought we would ever be apart. We were supposed to be soulmates. We were supposed to be forever. Even now, as I write this, I have a hard believing we didn’t make it.

I think that’s why I haven’t unpacked. I haven’t been ready to accept the fact that this is not a temporary situation. Even though the decision to leave was really mine, at the beginning, I thought it would be temporary. We’d spend some time apart, I’d get my head together, figure out what I wanted, and then we’d be back together. It hit me like a truck when, two weeks after I told him I needed some time, he informed me that he was filing for divorce. But I guess that’s what he needed to do to go on.

I don’t regret my decision one bit. But I don’t think I’ve been ready to accept my own decision and what it really meant. I kept thinking somehow everything would fall into place and work out somehow. Somehow, magically, everything would feel and become permanent. I don’t even know what I mean by that but I have felt like I’ve spent the last five months waiting – waiting for something I can’t even explain.

I’ve hauled these boxes with me from my – our – home to Zadra’s therapy camp to my “new” apartment. I’ve moved the boxes around in my room, barely able to open them and explore what’s inside. Too many memories, too many ghosts.

But today, for reasons I cannot explain, I started opening those boxes and releasing the ghosts. And I was kind of amazed what I found.

First of all, I found Chairman, ironically. I sometimes forget how long this man has been involved in my life, no matter how peripherally. I found a photo of him from I don’t know how many years ago. I had asked all my friends one year for my birthday to bring a photo of themselves for this photo wall I had planned that never materialized. But I have kept those photos all these years and was delighted when I found Chairman’s photo amongst them. I’m sorry I didn’t really get to know this wonderful man as well as I have until this last year but I do know that I’ve always been delighted to have him as a part of my life.

I found pictures from my first marriage. God, was I ever that young? I remember how passionate we were for each other until he discovered a passion for somebody else. The hurt and the pain of that very short marriage has mellowed down to something more like a bittersweet memory now. I know his life did not turn out the way he had hoped, which makes me sad sometimes.

I found my favorite picture of my grandfather and I. He’s the inspiration for many of my creative crafts and I’m sorry he died when I was so young. I never got to know him.


A million other ghosts and voices found me this afternoon as I build shelves and resituated things. Friends I’ve lost track of, friends whose names I can no longer even remember, family that are now gone and family that is now far away.

But as I put boxes back into the closet in a more organized way and as I filled my shelves with all the junk that we fill shelves with, I began to feel more permanent. I began to feel like I’m finally ready to begin my new life. I’ve struggled a lot over these five months, feeling disassociated, lonely, lost. I say I know what I’m doing but deep inside, I’ve been terrified to admit that I don’t know what I’m doing. Up until June, I thought I knew what the rest of my life was going to be. Then, on June 21, everything changed. I changed everything. And I haven’t been able to accept that – until now.

I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I still don’t know what the future hold. I don’t even know what I’m doing for the holidays. I have a half-assed idea what my creative life will be in 2006 but as for my personal life, it still is in transition. And I think it’s going to be for some time, until I figure out who I am, just me, by myself, with no one there to define me. I have been such an extension of someone for so long that it’s been hard to see me.

And now, with a piece of my life organized and feeling more centered, I think I can start unpacking mentally and start figuring out where the pieces go to put together the person I want to be. And that’s the biggest home improvement project yet. But I can’t wait to get started.

A love letter to the Koji's crowd

I had a small epiphany tonight – an epiphanette, if you will.

First of all, had a lovely evening full of good music (Vertigo Road’s holiday cheer and Adam Marsland & His Chaos Band), good food (yummy salmon), great company (the ever entertaining Chairman), topped off by karaoke at Koji’s.

What I realized while sitting at Koji’s tonight is that I am spoiled. I am spoiled by the friends I have in my life right now. And I know sometimes it seems like I forget I have friends like this in my life. But I think it’s because I have friends like this that makes the days or nights without them almost intolerable.

Walking into Koji’s is like walking into a warm hug. I know, corny, cheesy, and all that, but it is. It’s actually a row of hugs that go around. Rick, Erin, all the regulars. And as I sat there tonight, I felt so safe and protected. I was surrounded by some of my favorite men, first of all. Peter seated in front of me, Chairman beside me and Mikee behind me. I knew no one could hurt me, surrounded by these men. Then there are the others scattered around – Damien and Rick in particular – that are quickly becoming part of that sentry. And the absent ones who come by as they can. There are the fabulous women of Koji’s, led by the indomitable Erin and followed by Gretchen and Kristen. Then there are those I don’t know very well but I am always delighted to see when I arrive. They also greet with hugs and warmth.

Okay, to the epiphanette. My heart has taken quite a beating over my lifetime. I tend to give it away too freely, too often and, as we all do, sometimes to the wrong people. My heart has been beaten up a bit lately, with the end of my marriage and some recent falling out with a few friends. It has been easy to focus on that, the pain, the hurt that my heart feels for having given itself away and not gotten anything back in return. I’ve let myself dwell on that and then allowed that hurt, angry, depressed sorrow creep into all other aspects of my life.

But tonight, I think I really realized that the percentage of my heart that has been given away and not given back is miniscule. And there will always be bits and pieces that are given away and not appreciated. That’s to be expected. But I’ve allowed these people who have not taken this gift to somehow make me feel unworthy of their love, undeserving of their affection, undesirable to be around. I’ve let them convince me that I do not deserve to be loved.

But looking around me tonight, I realized so clearly how much love I have in my life. I realized how much of my heart I have given to these people, especially my dear “guys” who have not only been there for me so much through these troubled times, but never cease to show me how much they care without my asking. The things these men have done for me are both large and small, things you’d notice or maybe not. There are so many precious and sweet moments that I will always treasure with these people that I cannot even begin to count them.

And I look at how much of my heart I am given back by the Koji folks on a regular basis, whether it’s there or on Myspace or at the Ark, since many of them are members there. I’m beginning to realize that reaching out to them is okay because they are going to be there to grasp my flailing hand and guide me to where I need to go. They are teaching me about joy and pleasure and appreciation. They are showing me that love comes in many forms and it’s always okay to love. It’s worth it to lose some small pieces of my heart in order to find the big pieces that are special.

And I think that’s why I feel so lonely and so empty when I have long stretches of time where I don’t get to see these people, either individually or as a group. They so fulfill me and so delight me that I feel kind of empty when I’m sitting at home alone. The joy and affection I feel with these people is so large and so encompassing that I want to have it all the time. And I have a hard time realizing that I cannot.

So I am beginning to learn to take that feeling of love, joy and appreciation and find a way to hold on to that in the days inbetween Bigfoot (secondary karaoke joint) and Koji’s and Ark opening nights and any other excuse I can find to hang out with these people. Take that feeling and let it fill the silent moments, the empty, dark days when they come, the impossibly lonely nights. Take that feeling and try to find it within myself and give a little piece of my heart to myself so that maybe someday I can have that joy, that love, that appreciation for myself within and not have to seek it without. Although it’s nice to know it’s there, waiting for me when I need it.

Warm and grateful...

Warm, cozy night...
Current mood: complacent

Just put clean, brand new flannel sheets on the bed, bought a little space heater at Target and am about to climb my trying-to-get-sick body into bed. My little kitty, Twyla, has the sneezes and it's so cute, I could cry. Sneeze, sneeze, sneeze then brush her little nose with her paw. I know, it's just cheesy but she's cute.

Anyway, although I'm a bit under the weather with my on-going bronchitis battle, I'm feeling a bit more centered now that all the chaos around me is settling down. I'm working madly on the Cinderella re-write and will probably finish in the next day or two. Then I get to focus on my jewelry/journal making talents for a couple of upcoming sales.

And so as I sign off (early for me - 11:43 PM), I am grateful for my sneezy cat, warm flannels, my Nick & Nora's (thanks, Mom), and my new heater. Now, if I could find someone to help me keep the sheets warm.... hmmmm... I guess we'll make that a New Year's resolution. For now, me and Twyla will do just fine.

Good night and stay warm!

Because it's 2 AM and I'm still awake

If you're curious about what has led to and started this blog, I've posted most of the blogs that migrated over from Myspace. So you'll see there is an archive that goes back to August, 2005, when I started documenting this adventure. Please feel free to check out some of the older blogs, if you've got nothing else to do!

Oh, the joys of alcohol and absinthe...

I just came home (3:45 AM) from ensuring that a very drunk, very emotional friend got back to their place without killing their significant other or inflicting any further emotional damage on themselves. The lesson I learned this evening is absinthe is bad. Never give it to someone who cannot handle their liquor. I was offered a shot and laughed. I can barely handle a shot of whiskey, absinthe certainly is not in my future.

Anyway, as I got this friend home, I kind of marveled at what alcohol does to one. I sort of envied the blamelessness of whatever you say when you’re that drunk, because the next day, everyone will disregard it and go, “You know, they were really drunk when they said that.” And everyone goes on their merry way.

I think I am envious of the way drunks rail about in almost-truths and unexpressed emotions, throwing out things that are buried so deep down that we don’t dare talk about them without the solace of alcohol. Everything seems to clear when you’re that drunk and it’s so important to tell the person(s) around you exactly what you’re thinking and feeling about them, good or bad.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never really allowed myself to get absolutely shit-faced, throw up in the car on the way home, confess my deepest darkest secrets kind of drunk. I’ve been tipsy, bordering on drunk. My recent margarita-soaked trip to Vegas had those moments where I was dangerously close to going over to the dark side. One more drink and there would have been things said that I wouldn’t have been able to take back, to cover up. I felt the edge of it coming on and chose not to have that next drink. Luckily, I was with someone I trusted and they didn’t push when I said I had had enough. I have never been able to allow myself to be that vulnerable.

I almost wish I could. Then I could say the things I’ve wanted to say and have that drunken night excuse to cover them up the next day. Believe it or not, there are emotions and feelings I haven’t been able to express throughout these past few months and maybe one long night of whiskey shots or margaritas could help that. There are things I’ve wanted to say to people around me that I would never be able to stone cold sober, both good things and bad things, and things that might change relationships. Those, especially, should never be uttered unless completely and stupidly drunk. Then you can hide behind the liquor and pretend you didn’t mean any of it. People will go along with that, for a while at least.

Instead, I’ll stand by and watch over those who choose to embrace the freedom that liquor gives you. I’ll mock you when you’re that drunk, be sure of that. But know that a part of me wishes I could just join in, throw caution and my insane compulsion for control to the wind, confessing everything about unrequited love and murderous hate and everything in between. I’ll make sure you make it home and tuck you in, just as I did tonight. But be warned. If I ever join you, I expect you to return the favor and take my secrets to the grave with you.

The Great Blonde Experiment

I have been a redhead for the past 16 years of my life. I have embraced the red and all that it implies – fiery, feisty, fierce, funny – all qualities I hope to have.

Recently, however, I was led over to the blonde side by my dear friend, Chairman. We were at a party and I noticed a proliferation of blondes running around. Almost jokingly, I suggested I should try being blonde for a while. Always one to be supportive, Chairman immediately posed the question – why not? I couldn’t think of a reason to not do it but still hesitated. He suggested trying it for our weekend in Vegas to see how I liked it. It took me a couple of days but I kept coming back to his initial question – why not?

Well, several process and a whole lot of experimentation later, I am sort of blonde. There’s a punk-rock streak of red that won’t go away in the front but, for the most part, I am a blonde.

And I hate it.

Every time I look in the mirror, I wonder who that person is. It’s not that it looks bad. In fact, the reaction to it has been split right down the middle. Mostly, everyone thinks it looks nice and half of them don’t think it’s me, the other half think it’s exactly me. My best friend, Zadra, says it takes 30 days for your eyes to accept a new hair color on yourself but I don’t think I’m going to make it that long.

The interesting thing has been the reaction of men. It’s so true. Men like blondes. I even noticed how many blondes my male friends have as friends and how they react to the blondes around them. Even with my fickle color, I have been finding more men striking up innocuous conversations with me at counters, holding doors open, those kind of things. Moreso than usual. Even at Bigfoot (a neighborhood bar where we karaoke), one of the regulars, with whom I have a passing acquaintance, spotted me and immediately leapt to my side, far too close inside my personal space, fascinated by my recently blonded locks. “Wow, you’re blonde, I mean, wow, when did you do this? I mean, wow, it looks great and it’ll be really cool when it grows out and you’ve got that punky kind of dark roots and blonde tips kind of thing and, wow, you’re blonde.” I’m still trying to get the drool out of my shirt.

But the face peering out from under the blonde does not match the color. I think it makes me look harder instead of softer, which is what I had not wanted. I thought the blonde would soften my face but it does not. I thought it would make me feel more “girly” but it makes me feel like an imposter. It does show off my eyes better, which is what I’ve always felt was my best asset. But the color somehow makes me feel weaker, less powerful, less serious than the red does. I know, that’s a lot to infuse a hair color with, but that’s what I feel.

So in the days to come, expect to see the blonde disappear and the feisty, fiery redhead to return. Maybe a little softer, maybe a little lighter instead of the deep reds I have been. Maybe there is a middle ground between blonde and red that might satisfy both sides of the fence – strawberry blonde, reddish blonde, the perfect color I haven’t found yet cross between red and blonde. If not, then good old Garnier 100% Light Coppery Mahogany Brown will have to do. It has done well for me so far. It won’t let me down now. And the Great Blonde Experiment will come to a close.

Housekeeping

Time for emotional housekeeping. I need to organize the crap in my head and need Martha Stewart to provide the pretty little boxes to put things in.

These past five months have been all about emotions. It’s been hard to keep them in check, both good and bad ones, and there have been an abundance of both. And you, dear readers, have experienced them right along with me.

But I can only allow these emotions to run rampant so long before they have to be corralled and wrestled into something less disorganized. I could get away with being overly emotional only so long before even I’m sick of myself. So I thank those of you who have been holding my hand and my heart all the way along.

So I need to take all the confusing, conflicting thoughts and feelings and put them in a red box so I can find them when I’m ready to look at them one at a time and figure out what they mean and where they should go from there.

I need to take all the hurt and wounds and injuries and heartache and put them in the oversized wicker basket, making sure that the lid is on tight and nothing can escape. Those are to be exhumed and examined at a much later date, when distance and time and healing will make it safer to open that lid and let the demons come out. For now, that one goes in the back of the closet, and everything gets stacked up on top of it.

And then the pent up frustration and anger and bitterness can be slid into that flat wrapping paper type of storage container and hid under the bed, lurking with the dust bunnies, waiting for the right time to be let loose and destroy the world, or at least become focused and purposeful and specific.

Then there is the glass case, the one to hold the misplaced and misguided affection, the passion and the desire, all those feelings that were put away in a mess over the past few months, sloppily hidden and tentatively secured. These are the hardest ones to put away because many of them are still very strong and very visceral. They don’t want to hide in a case, they want to be unleashed, uncorked, allowed to be free and to be delivered to whoever they want to be delivered to, no matter what the mess, no matter what the consequence.

Then there are a ton of little, tiny enamel boxes needed to file away all those other unspecified things that aren’t all that big, aren’t all that easily defined, aren’t all that simply hid. I might need a whole lot of those.

Hopefully, this will give me some new space to find new emotions, new loves, new passions and even new anger. Open spaces in my head and heart and soul to allow me to go into the New Year with clarity and focus, to find my path, explore the possibilities and be able to maybe, just maybe, find a new love and a new life without complications… or at least with fewer complications. And to continue to allow me to enjoy and embrace the loves and the friends and the pleasures already around me.

11/22/05 This is my life?

I’m having a very strange and wondrous life.

If someone had told me that at 43, I’d be living this kind of life, I would have never believed it.

I’m on my second divorce, let’s just start there. I always thought I’d be married forever. Even the first time, I thought that. He thought 16 year olds were much more interesting. Damn, I hadn’t considered that. My second marriage I thought was made in heaven. I’m still kind of convinced that if he wasn’t the one, there isn’t one out there for me. But this was a choice that I had to make or die. And I came very close to dying two years ago and that’s what pushed me into this decision. But that’s for another blog.

I’m living on my own for the first time in 16 years. I was with my ex for almost 1/3 of my life. How weird is that? Adjusting to single life, as you all know and have read here, is very, very strange. Don’t know how to act, don’t know what to do. Way too many confusing feelings to even begin to assess.

Then there’s the strange social life I would have never anticipated that I would be participating in. Karaoke seems to be my main source of entertainment. Two nights of karaoke, yet. One apparently isn’t enough. Although, to be honest, it’s mostly about hanging out with friends and laughing until I cry. I guess we could do that anywhere, we just happen to do it where you get to unleash your inner rock star. Still, I have rarely sung karaoke in my life, mocked it openly, in fact, yet was always envious of people who could just get up there and sing.

The last two nights have kind of made me stop and think about the social aspect of my life. I found myself last night at the Viper Room, far too hip a place for an old lady like me, listening to The Piper Downs, an amazing, kick ass, rowdy as hell rock band that Chairman has introduced me to. I found myself saying to another friend, “Yeah, going to the Viper Room tonight.” Now, although I have lived in LA almost 18 years, I still have a little bit of star-struck, Winnipeg girl in me and it never occurred to me that ordinary folks like me were allowed in the Viper Room, I don’t care if it’s Sunday night at 9. We’re still not allowed. And I’m standing in there last night, listening to this amazing band and enjoying my time with Chairman, thinking, this is really great. Strange, odd, not at all what I envisioned my life at 43.

Then tonight, stopped by Bigfoot for what was supposed to be an early night for me. I was anticipating midnight curfew and bed. And I was well on my way there until I left the bar – actually left around midnight, right on time – and ran into AJ and his adorable friend, Drew, from Athens. Well, had to go back in for a bit to say hi and listen to more karaoke. Next thing I know, I’m down at another bar, drinking whiskey shots and listening to AJ and Drew tell hysterical stories about their friendship and sharing gin in the shower (ask them about it). And again, I’m thinking, what the hell am I doing drinking whiskey at 1 AM on a Monday night. This is not a world I am familiar with.

And yet, strangely enough, it is a world I am becoming attached to. I like the night owls. I like hanging out until the bars are closing. I am developing a wicked taste for Jameson’s. I love spending time with these crazy kids, most of which are at least 10 years or more younger than me, although there are one or two that at least are in the same generation as I am. They make me feel old and young all at the same time.

So now is where the dilemma arrives. 2:37 AM. I have at least eight hours of work or more to do before 3 PM. I could sleep until 6ish and get up and fight my way through it. Or I stay up now, struggle to keep awake while that warm feeling whiskey leaves in me battles with my eyelids. Or split the difference, whatever that means. Whatever happens, I’m sure the weekend will only promise more adventures in the Land of the Midlife Crisis.

11/21/05 - Two very different men, two amazing gifts

I am torn by two very interesting and amazing gestures from two of the men in my life, both of which fill me with an emotion I cannot express.

First, my soon-to-be ex showed up at the opening night of the new holiday show at the Ark Theater Company, where I direct and where he writes. Nothing adds tension to a show like a couple who is divorcing writing and directing it. We have been pretty well-behaved although I have come close to banning him from rehearsals once or twice. He likes to correct my directing and tell me how to “fix” things. Fix this, is about all I can say. Anyway, opening night and my head was full of another drama going on. My ex came up to me with a wrapped package, handed it to me and said, “Just a little opening night gift.” I gave everyone little silly edible shotglasses flavored with Christmas flavors. Anyway, I open his package and it is a photo book by Jeff Bridges for “Seabisquit.” Now to understand this, you have to know how rare these books are to find. Mr. Bridges does one of these books for each film he does. They are shot with a panoramic lenses and in black and white. A hardcover was released at Christmas last year, which the ex got me, because I love these books. I stumbled on them when I found the one for “Wild Bill” on a $2 discount table. The ex found another one for “K-Pax.”

I was overwhelmed when I opened the package. This is the part of him that made me marry him in the first place, his ability to surprise me and overwhelm me with thoughtfulness. And it made me want to cry because he had lost that in the last few years. He would still surprise me but there was so much hurt and anger there, at least on my part, that the gesture felt empty, like he was being generous because he didn’t know what else to do. Give me something instead of dealing with me.

I couldn’t say anything to him because all I wanted to say was, where did this part of you go? Where did this thoughtful, generous, gracious person go? Did I push him away? Did you put him away? And why bring him out now? On top of that, he has been sending me little emails about how great a job he thinks I did directing these one acts. That’s something he never did before until it was too late. He still coached them with a few “despite the obstacles” and stuff like that but at least he made the gesture at the beginning instead of way too late. Now what do I do with that? I am way past him. I am still confident that this decision is the right one because I feel it in my soul every time I see him. Yet, this week, it made me ache a little bit that we couldn’t stay the way we were 100 years ago, when we met, before the false arrest and the money problems and the depression and all that crap. I miss that man he was. And I miss who I was with him then.

Then my dearest, most amazing friend reached out through my pain and helped take it away. He moved when I needed someone to. He didn’t tell me what or how or why or anything. He just made a stunning gesture of friendship that moved me to tears. I can never repay him for that. I’ve thought about ways I could – grandma’s fudge every day, take-out, doing his laundry, cleaning his house. There is nothing I can do except to accept his gift and be grateful that he is in my life and that he cares for me.

So after a week of feeling lost and unloved and wounded and bleak, these two very different men showed me in very different ways that how full my life is. I have come to realize that more and more as I work my way out of this depression and start to get my feet back under me again. And I will try not to lose sight of that.

11/19/05 - Depression is a funny thing.

Okay, maybe not funny but certainly never dull.

As many of you experienced this week, I have been in the thralls of a very deep, dark place for about 10 days. I love to blame it on the full moon because I’ve been living in LA too long and it actually sounds logical. Really, it’s circumstantial and you would think I would learn by now what contributes to the depression.

What contributed this week was a whole bunch o’ things. Sleepless nights (gee, Susan, really? You, sleepless?) going into tech week of the Holiday Suite. Spending too much time in the proximity of my soon-to-be ex. Frustration with the aforementioned show. Then there is the bleak, harsh, vile betrayal of an A who used to be a M that I deeply loved.

When you are deep in that type of depression and that type of despair makes you feel like you’re standing in the middle of a room, trying to scream, your mouth being stuffed with cotton and your arms cut off. Everyone is standing around you, puzzled, asking, “What is she saying? Do you think she needs help?” Meanwhile, inside, you’re trying to say, “Help me, I’m dying, I can’t go on one more second. Make it stop. Make the pain stop.”

So, while I will not apologize for any previous blog, I will say that I do realize that I have a very great support system and I do realize that there are many, many people out there that I can simply pick up the phone and call when I need something. But keep in mind, it’s hard to dial a phone or send an email when your arms are cut off. Sometimes the only thing you can do is try and reach out in whatever way possible, and sometimes that way is not always the most thought-through way.

I am slowly coming up for air. It takes a while sometimes. The multitude of warm hugs and kisses and pure affection shown to me over the past few days has been a help. I know I may not have been able to respond to it but it has made sure I truly survived these past few days. I think I knew I was in trouble last Sunday when AJ’s charm and fish faces did not even penetrate the blackness. A tiny bit of it lifted that night with Zadra’s band and the quiet support of Chairman.

But then Wednesday and something so loathsome that I will not devote another sentence to it. I felt betrayed, destroyed, attacked, and violated.

I know something was wrong because my mother even asked me on the phone if I was okay, which she usually does, but she would not let it go. Then my sister called from Minneapolis, a rarity. Hmm, I think maybe some family communication went on there.

Only late today and tonight, with, again, my key supports, Zadra, Chairman, Peter, Erik, was I able to begin to feel the pain and the hollowness start to fade away. The offer of ice cream cake and shared pain with the zany roomie also a big contribution to the lifting of the blackness.

Why am I telling you this? I am learning that depression is going to be a part of my life from this point on. Not enough to be too terribly medicated but just enough to cripple me occasionally. So, although this blog is meant to be entertaining and stimulating, I feel it is important that the ugly side of the midlife crisis be represented as much as the hilarity and goofiness of re-entering the dating scene. They go hand in hand, often sometimes within moments of each other.

And I want you all, dear readers, to know that I do know you are there. I know that I am loved and, believe me, I am grateful every day when I look around my tiny room, see the photo of Chairman and I on the New York New York rollercoaster from our margarita-ridden weekend in Vegas, my Picasso print from Zadra, the notes from the cast of “Afterplay” (once again, my dearest CB). I am grateful I get to play with you all over and over again. And I am grateful you tolerate and understand my journeys into the blackness and the dark places that my soul likes to go without warning. I appreciate that you’re all still there when I get back. I appreciate more than I can say – especially when I am incapable of saying it – the hands and the hearts that are held out to me when I claim that I cannot see or feel them. I think I know they are there and that is what helps bring me back.

And know that I love you all back as fiercely and as devotedly as I can. I hope to live up to my end of the friendship and I will try not to bitch too much about how nobody loves me, everybody hates me, worms, etc. And even though the events of this week make me terrified to give any pieces of my heart away again, I know that I already have with you all and I trust that those pieces are in gentle care, as all the pieces of yours are in gentle care in mine.