Please check out my store at Esty.com at Lee's Take-Out, Accessories To Go.
Lee's Take-Out, Accessories To Go is a re-branding of an older accessory company I started many years ago that remained dormant for a while.
There are some hand-crafted purses and notebooks up there right now, hoping to expand and include some of my Asian-inspired jewelry as soon as I can find the time to reshoot the stock. I also will be adding in some of my original oil and watercolor paintings as well.
So check it out, buy something, put some gas in my car. I highly encourage custom orders, if you don't quite see what you want.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
I don't need fixing
I realized that I thought he would fix me. I thought he was everything I wasn’t. He was smart, clever, educated, talented, ambitious, focused, reliable, consistent. So many things I thought I wasn’t. So many things that were different from my first husband, who was talented in a different way, focused in a different way, etc.
I saw myself at that time as drifting. I was thinking I was an actress but never really believed it, despite high praise from Susan Strasberg about my talent. It never felt real so I felt like a phony doing it.
He knew all about the entertainment industry, so I thought, and I figured he would be the one to guide me to success, because I didn’t know what I was doing. He would fix that. He would make me successful, after he was successful, of course. Which was fine with me then.
He knew about all my faults and was able to talk about how he perceived his own faults. I thought it was refreshing to find someone so in touch with themselves. He would help me and fix me in that way, help me to find myself and be in touch with my own flaws. When he criticized me, I thought it was because he was trying to help me, to fix me, to make me better.
I liked the fact that he was consistent and reliable. If he said he’d call by 7, I knew he would call no later than 7:02. He would help me be reliable and consistent. He would show me how to be a better person that way, because I wasn’t, or so I thought.
He would fix my flightiness because, god knows, I thought I was a mess. I needed someone to show me how to keep my feet on the ground and not go off daydreaming about what I wanted to do with my life. I had to be practical and he would help fix that in me.
He was supposed to fix me. He was supposed to save me. He was supposed to be the one who saw my flaws and loved me in spite of them. He was supposed to be the one who would find a way to help me become a better person, to be a stronger person, to fix the broken me that was standing before him.
And that’s just too much to put on a person. To stand naked and vulnerable before someone and say, “Here I am, broken and shattered and afraid and needy and uncertain and weary and wary and insecure and unsure about everything. Please take me and make something of me because I don’t know what I’m supposed to be.” Of course he wanted that job. Most men want to “fix” those they love – make things better for them, solve their problems, repair their car, whatever it takes. That’s their job.
And he took the job. He “fixed me.” Or at least he tried. He tried to fix me so that I would be whatever the person was he saw me as. He wanted me to be his ideal, his vision, his beautiful creation. Pygmalion.
And I wanted so much to fit that mold. I wanted to be what he saw in his eyes. To be the perfect wife, the perfect partner, to be exactly what he wanted me to be. And I almost died trying to be that perfect.
What I never realized until it was too late was that I didn’t need fixing. Maybe I needed a tune-up or someone to hand me the tools and suggest where a bolt needed tightening. But I wasn’t broken. I just couldn’t see it then.
And by handing the reigns of myself over to someone else, I gave them permission to take the raw sculpture in front of them and hack away at it with a chainsaw so that they could reshape it into what they saw. I gave him permission to take what I saw as a Degas sculpture and chop off my head and try and turn me into the Venus De Milo. Both very beautiful works of art, both completely different things. Both very different visions.
It’s taken me almost five years since that very dark, horrible night to finally see the sculpture that is me coming out of the block of stone. I have been seeing glimpses of what I want to become here and there but I am finally seeing the shape I want it to take, trying very hard not to let someone else’s vision – no matter how beautiful or tempting – to interfere with my work. After all, the only one who can see what I see is me. Hopefully, in the long run, the whole world will be able to see and appreciate the work of art that is truly, perfectly me.
I saw myself at that time as drifting. I was thinking I was an actress but never really believed it, despite high praise from Susan Strasberg about my talent. It never felt real so I felt like a phony doing it.
He knew all about the entertainment industry, so I thought, and I figured he would be the one to guide me to success, because I didn’t know what I was doing. He would fix that. He would make me successful, after he was successful, of course. Which was fine with me then.
He knew about all my faults and was able to talk about how he perceived his own faults. I thought it was refreshing to find someone so in touch with themselves. He would help me and fix me in that way, help me to find myself and be in touch with my own flaws. When he criticized me, I thought it was because he was trying to help me, to fix me, to make me better.
I liked the fact that he was consistent and reliable. If he said he’d call by 7, I knew he would call no later than 7:02. He would help me be reliable and consistent. He would show me how to be a better person that way, because I wasn’t, or so I thought.
He would fix my flightiness because, god knows, I thought I was a mess. I needed someone to show me how to keep my feet on the ground and not go off daydreaming about what I wanted to do with my life. I had to be practical and he would help fix that in me.
He was supposed to fix me. He was supposed to save me. He was supposed to be the one who saw my flaws and loved me in spite of them. He was supposed to be the one who would find a way to help me become a better person, to be a stronger person, to fix the broken me that was standing before him.
And that’s just too much to put on a person. To stand naked and vulnerable before someone and say, “Here I am, broken and shattered and afraid and needy and uncertain and weary and wary and insecure and unsure about everything. Please take me and make something of me because I don’t know what I’m supposed to be.” Of course he wanted that job. Most men want to “fix” those they love – make things better for them, solve their problems, repair their car, whatever it takes. That’s their job.
And he took the job. He “fixed me.” Or at least he tried. He tried to fix me so that I would be whatever the person was he saw me as. He wanted me to be his ideal, his vision, his beautiful creation. Pygmalion.
And I wanted so much to fit that mold. I wanted to be what he saw in his eyes. To be the perfect wife, the perfect partner, to be exactly what he wanted me to be. And I almost died trying to be that perfect.
What I never realized until it was too late was that I didn’t need fixing. Maybe I needed a tune-up or someone to hand me the tools and suggest where a bolt needed tightening. But I wasn’t broken. I just couldn’t see it then.
And by handing the reigns of myself over to someone else, I gave them permission to take the raw sculpture in front of them and hack away at it with a chainsaw so that they could reshape it into what they saw. I gave him permission to take what I saw as a Degas sculpture and chop off my head and try and turn me into the Venus De Milo. Both very beautiful works of art, both completely different things. Both very different visions.
It’s taken me almost five years since that very dark, horrible night to finally see the sculpture that is me coming out of the block of stone. I have been seeing glimpses of what I want to become here and there but I am finally seeing the shape I want it to take, trying very hard not to let someone else’s vision – no matter how beautiful or tempting – to interfere with my work. After all, the only one who can see what I see is me. Hopefully, in the long run, the whole world will be able to see and appreciate the work of art that is truly, perfectly me.
Friday, May 23, 2008
"I was alive and I waited, waited..."
...to paraphrase Jesus Jones.
“I was alive and I waited, waited/ I was alive and I waited for this/Right here, right now/There is no other place I want to be/Right here, right now/Watching the world wake up from history.”
I realize this song has a more global purpose and message but, for some reason, those lyrics resonated very personally today.
“I was alive and I waited, waited…”
I spent so many years waiting for my life to start. Figuring I had all the time in the world, I could wait for it to get better, for things between us to get better, for everything to get better. I was asleep, living in history and not thinking about the next day/month/year. Just getting through the history of that day.
“I was alive and I waited, waited…”
I waited for him to define me, to tell me who I was, who I am, who I would be. I waited because I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t realize I could wake up and find my own definition.
“I was alive and I waited, waited…”
Waited for someone else to save me, because I knew I couldn’t save myself.
“I was alive and I waited for this…”
Waited for a life worth living, waited for friends who allowed me to be who am I, waited for a history that would begin new and not be weighted down by the history I dragged along behind me.
“Right here, right now, there is no other place I want to be…”
Simply true. Right here, right now, there is no other place I want to be. “Watching my world wake up from history.”
Right here. Right now.
“I was alive and I waited, waited/ I was alive and I waited for this/Right here, right now/There is no other place I want to be/Right here, right now/Watching the world wake up from history.”
I realize this song has a more global purpose and message but, for some reason, those lyrics resonated very personally today.
“I was alive and I waited, waited…”
I spent so many years waiting for my life to start. Figuring I had all the time in the world, I could wait for it to get better, for things between us to get better, for everything to get better. I was asleep, living in history and not thinking about the next day/month/year. Just getting through the history of that day.
“I was alive and I waited, waited…”
I waited for him to define me, to tell me who I was, who I am, who I would be. I waited because I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t realize I could wake up and find my own definition.
“I was alive and I waited, waited…”
Waited for someone else to save me, because I knew I couldn’t save myself.
“I was alive and I waited for this…”
Waited for a life worth living, waited for friends who allowed me to be who am I, waited for a history that would begin new and not be weighted down by the history I dragged along behind me.
“Right here, right now, there is no other place I want to be…”
Simply true. Right here, right now, there is no other place I want to be. “Watching my world wake up from history.”
Right here. Right now.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
17 years
It would have been 17 years today. 17 years. 19, if you count the time we knew each other before we got married.
I don’t know why it’s sitting with me this year – 17 years – when the last two years, this date passed with just a thought of, “oh, it’s our anniversary.” I was kinda glad it was that insignificant. I don’t want this to be an “anniversary” date the rest of my life, although I do occasionally think about my first marriage on that anniversary.
I’m not sure if I really miss him today or if I just miss “us”. Being a couple, having someone in bed with me every night (other than my cat), having someone to bounce ideas off of, someone to hold my hand in the movies, someone to GO to the movies with.
I am overwhelmed with the feeling of loss these past few days. We don’t talk at all because I choose not to. I am so filled with anger when I do see him – anger at him for the way he treated me and how much he added to the wounds of my life; angry at myself for letting him treat me that way, not seeing what was going on, just existing instead of participating in my life. I want to slap him and scream at him and ask him if he really understands the consequences of his actions. Maybe it’s a good thing I don’t talk to him.
17 years. What does it mean? What came of that relationship? How could we have been together so long and not made it? How could we have been together so long and not have a relationship now? And I don’t want to have a relationship because I’m afraid it would go back to being what it was – hard, angry, difficult, negative. I have a finely balanced life right now and I don’t want that life to tip back to the dark, dank place it was on that horrible night I almost took my life. I never want to be there again. But what did all those years mean? Is it just a void in my life now, something I can refer to gingerly, an era I don’t want to acknowledge but can’t avoid acknowledging?
He is still on the fringes of my life and even that pisses me off. He does little things that make me feel like he’s clinging to our relationship yet he’s the one who chose to close the door by filing for divorce before I knew what I wanted.
I guess I still struggle with the fact that, even though I was the one to say I need to be alone for a while, I never thought it would end. I thought we’d separate, I’d figure out where my head was at, get myself straightened out emotionally, we’d stay in counseling, and eventually, we’d get back together, stronger, better, ready to face the rest of our lives together. I know it hurt him when I told him I didn’t want to be with him anymore. And maybe filing for divorce was his only way to regain some control over the situation, make it hurt less somehow. But that simple act ended any relationship we could have had.
Maybe that’s what I’m angry about as well, that the way he handled the end of our relationship was just the same as the way he handled most of our relationship – making it what he wanted, not considering what I wanted. Maybe it’s best we ended that way instead of hanging on, trying to figure out if we were ever going to be together again, having that undefined, disconnected lingering thing that so many couples go through. When my first husband left me, there was that period where I didn’t know what we were – together?, apart? He’d call and want to see me and then call can cancel. We’d have drinks and I’d think we were getting better then I’d hear he was with this girl he left me for. I finally had to put my foot down and stop maintaining any contact with him because it was too hard to be on the edge of something and not know what that something was. I guess that’s how RJ had to be – put his foot down to figure out what the end of our relationship was.
I just know that today, I am struggling to find closure, find perspective, find some reason why it ended and why it couldn’t have been that beautiful future we planned on May 11, 1991. Wondering what I could have done to change the course that ended in June, 2005. There are answers I’ll never know, no matter how much I look at it. And maybe I’ve gained some insight that will carry through into another relationship 100 years from now when my wounds will have healed enough to allow me to let someone else in.
For now, I’ll just try to get through to the 12th and put the 11th behind me, for this year anyway.
I don’t know why it’s sitting with me this year – 17 years – when the last two years, this date passed with just a thought of, “oh, it’s our anniversary.” I was kinda glad it was that insignificant. I don’t want this to be an “anniversary” date the rest of my life, although I do occasionally think about my first marriage on that anniversary.
I’m not sure if I really miss him today or if I just miss “us”. Being a couple, having someone in bed with me every night (other than my cat), having someone to bounce ideas off of, someone to hold my hand in the movies, someone to GO to the movies with.
I am overwhelmed with the feeling of loss these past few days. We don’t talk at all because I choose not to. I am so filled with anger when I do see him – anger at him for the way he treated me and how much he added to the wounds of my life; angry at myself for letting him treat me that way, not seeing what was going on, just existing instead of participating in my life. I want to slap him and scream at him and ask him if he really understands the consequences of his actions. Maybe it’s a good thing I don’t talk to him.
17 years. What does it mean? What came of that relationship? How could we have been together so long and not made it? How could we have been together so long and not have a relationship now? And I don’t want to have a relationship because I’m afraid it would go back to being what it was – hard, angry, difficult, negative. I have a finely balanced life right now and I don’t want that life to tip back to the dark, dank place it was on that horrible night I almost took my life. I never want to be there again. But what did all those years mean? Is it just a void in my life now, something I can refer to gingerly, an era I don’t want to acknowledge but can’t avoid acknowledging?
He is still on the fringes of my life and even that pisses me off. He does little things that make me feel like he’s clinging to our relationship yet he’s the one who chose to close the door by filing for divorce before I knew what I wanted.
I guess I still struggle with the fact that, even though I was the one to say I need to be alone for a while, I never thought it would end. I thought we’d separate, I’d figure out where my head was at, get myself straightened out emotionally, we’d stay in counseling, and eventually, we’d get back together, stronger, better, ready to face the rest of our lives together. I know it hurt him when I told him I didn’t want to be with him anymore. And maybe filing for divorce was his only way to regain some control over the situation, make it hurt less somehow. But that simple act ended any relationship we could have had.
Maybe that’s what I’m angry about as well, that the way he handled the end of our relationship was just the same as the way he handled most of our relationship – making it what he wanted, not considering what I wanted. Maybe it’s best we ended that way instead of hanging on, trying to figure out if we were ever going to be together again, having that undefined, disconnected lingering thing that so many couples go through. When my first husband left me, there was that period where I didn’t know what we were – together?, apart? He’d call and want to see me and then call can cancel. We’d have drinks and I’d think we were getting better then I’d hear he was with this girl he left me for. I finally had to put my foot down and stop maintaining any contact with him because it was too hard to be on the edge of something and not know what that something was. I guess that’s how RJ had to be – put his foot down to figure out what the end of our relationship was.
I just know that today, I am struggling to find closure, find perspective, find some reason why it ended and why it couldn’t have been that beautiful future we planned on May 11, 1991. Wondering what I could have done to change the course that ended in June, 2005. There are answers I’ll never know, no matter how much I look at it. And maybe I’ve gained some insight that will carry through into another relationship 100 years from now when my wounds will have healed enough to allow me to let someone else in.
For now, I’ll just try to get through to the 12th and put the 11th behind me, for this year anyway.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
My heart (warning - poetry ahead)
My heart
breaks tonight
for love I had
and
love I lost
You
when I was
young
and sure
and wrong
and can’t let back in
because the wounds are still there
and will never go away
You
who was my
soul
mate
who broke my
heart
soul
ego
passion
and just about
broke all of me
and the years between
are just air
nothing
gone
done
You
who
still holds my heart
in his indifferent hand
and who I still feel
within that empty space
where your heart lives
And you
who I never had
and yet
I somehow
always have
but can never have
So
here I am
pieces of my heart
scattered to the wind
mourning the losses
and
wistful for the promises
that may never come
breaks tonight
for love I had
and
love I lost
You
when I was
young
and sure
and wrong
and can’t let back in
because the wounds are still there
and will never go away
You
who was my
soul
mate
who broke my
heart
soul
ego
passion
and just about
broke all of me
and the years between
are just air
nothing
gone
done
You
who
still holds my heart
in his indifferent hand
and who I still feel
within that empty space
where your heart lives
And you
who I never had
and yet
I somehow
always have
but can never have
So
here I am
pieces of my heart
scattered to the wind
mourning the losses
and
wistful for the promises
that may never come
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