I want you to want me

(WARNING - PG-13 - THIS BLOG INCLUDES THINGS LIKE HOT MONKEY LOVE AND SEX INVOLVING ADULTS WHO ARE NOT 20. SO IF YOU HAVE A DELICATE CONSTITUTION, STOP READING HERE. YOU’VE BEEN WARNED….)

I have never been wanted. Not in that carnal, primal, visceral way. Definitely not in my second marriage, where sex became mundane almost immediately. Maybe way back in my first marriage, when we were in our 20s and just raging hormones. But I have never felt wanted in that way.

Now before everyone gets on my case - yes, I know I’m attractive and all that crap. But I’ve never had a man show up at the door, cut me off with passionate kisses, sweep me up into his arms and carry me into the bedroom to make hot monkey love to me.

Until last night.

Okay, maybe there wasn’t sweeping up in the arms and carrying involved because, well, neither of us is 20. But the rest of it certainly lined up.

The thing with the Filmmaker is he makes me feel WANTED. He drove across town last night to be with me since we wouldn’t see each other for at least a week because of holidays and his kids and all that stuff. I had just accepted that we’d see each other next week. But he showed up at my door at midnight after a meeting he had just so we could be together for a few hours before the week got away from us.

Nobody has ever done that for me. Not made me feel like I am someone worth wanting.

Okay, the clowns in my head started screaming and complaining that he only wanted to come over for the aforementioned hot monkey love. And I countered with, and that’s bad how?

Sex has never been comfortable for me because I have very little experience with it. Before the Filmmaker, I had only slept with three men, two of which I married. So to be single after 16 years with one man, who was not the greatest of lovers (never try to play with food in bed with a compulsive-obsessive control freak), and to have so little experience and to know that so much of my almost-fifty-year-old body has become a victim of gravity, the idea of sleeping with someone made me want to just run and hide. Who’d want to see me naked? Really? I don’t even want to see me naked.

Maybe it’s because I’ve always been the smart one. My ex always said the sexiest thing about me was my brain. He never really told me I was beautiful, except maybe for our wedding day. I would wake up and find him watching me sleep, which was sweet, albeit a little creepy. He didn’t have the tools to express his passion, his love, because of his Aspergers. Or because he was an asshole. Take your pick. But I never felt desirable, never felt beautiful with him.

And with my family, my sister was the sexual dynamo, breaking world records at sleeping with guys. Maybe that’s why I backed off. I couldn’t compete with that. And she’s just sexy and hot and beautiful, whereas I was the smart one.

And I love being smart, don’t get me wrong. I love that I have a 4.0 GPA right now and that I am usually one of the smartest people in the room. I think that does carry a certain amount of sexy.

But all my life, I’ve just wanted someone to make me FEEL that. Feel wanted. Feel desired. Feel sexy.

And last night, this beautiful man showed up at my door and made me feel wanted.

And, sure, the sex is nice. I’d be nuts to say it isn’t. And it’s not just nice, it’s kinda awesome.

But what really makes me feel wanted is that after, he’s still there. He knew I had an early class this morning and he has his kids coming today and has a ton of stuff to do so he started to say he should go last night. But then he pulled me in close and that was it. We spent the night wrapped around each other until I finally climbed out of bed this morning to go to class.

I thought I’d never feel that again. Feel wanted. Feel that rush when that person kisses you. Feel that passion when it’s just right and new and exciting. I thought I was done with all of that, figured I’d spend the rest of my life with an empty bed and other ways to release tension.

Then this man showed up at my door.

And it doesn’t matter that we’re still figuring out our rhythms or that there’s usually a certain amount of giggling involved. And it doesn’t matter that neither of us is going to grace the cover of Sports Illustrated or Men’s Health or anything like that. And it doesn’t matter that this… thing… between us is undefined and open-ended and may not exist at any given point in the future.

What matters is right now, which is a huge step for me. I don’t know if we’ll be something incredible and together for a long time or if we’ll be just a short-lived, deeply passionate, wildly incredible fling. And right now, I don’t care.

All I know is that he wants me. Wants me in the same way I want him. And, for now, that’s enough.

Not almost

I woke up this morning wrapped in his arms, not wanting to breath, afraid to break this moment. But then he shifted and pulled me in tighter, and I breathed out, knowing nothing would break this moment.

I’ve waited for a long time for this. Almost seven years of being alone. Almost seven years of wondering if anyone would ever hold me like that again. Almost seven years of almosts.

This is not an almost.

I’m not sure what this is yet but there is no doubt that this is not an almost.

The Filmmaker has surprised me in ways I didn’t think I could be surprised in. Even if this is all it ever is, the last 48 hours have been filled with delight and surprise and little, teeny, beautiful romantic moments that made me feel special, made me feel like I’m the most incredible woman on earth. There is no question about how he feels, no wondering if he wants to be with me, if he finds me attractive, if he just wants me. I can’t remember my ex ever making me feel that way.

I’m finding it kind of strange that, at almost 50, I have never felt attractive, really. Rarely has a man told me that I’m beautiful. And only my gay male friends have ever called me sexy. And I usually pride myself for being smart, not beautiful, because I know my intelligence with always win out over my boobs.

However, I’m still a girl deep inside. And when I got dressed at the Filmmaker’s place last night to go out to this event and I came down the stairs in my sexy black, thigh-slit skirt, my fishnets and my heels, and he stopped what he was doing and just whispered, “wow”, I felt like the most beautiful woman on earth.

In a hundred ways over the past 48 hours, he has made me feel so beautiful, so sexy, so incredible, more so than my ex did in almost sixteen years.

And, for the first time in these past almost seven years, I’m not trying to figure out who to be or what to do to make him want to be with me. Because he wants to be with me. No question, no almost, no wondering. Falling asleep in his arms last night clarified that very quickly.

The difficult thing has been the clowns trying to rally in my head and find something wrong. Something has to be wrong because this doesn’t happen to me. I don’t get to have the kind, sweet, not-seriously-fucked-up-and-afraid-to-get-close guy. I get to have the seriously-fucked-up-I-want-you-oh-wait-no-I-don’t guy. The one who won’t hold me, the one who won’t gasp when I walk into the room, the one who won’t even hold my hand. The almosts. That’s what I get because I don’t deserve the good, kind, grown-up man.

Until now.

And last night, the clowns tried to get me to leave, to run away, before things could go exactly where I wanted them to go. As the past 48 hours have become more and more what I wanted them to become, the clowns have tried to get louder and louder, to convince me that there’s something wrong because he couldn’t possibly be what he appears to be, that he couldn’t possibly be doing these darling things without there being an exit strategy, without there being some kind of mother-fucking whopper of a hurt on the other end of it.

And I almost listened to them.

Almost.

There were so many moments yesterday where I almost walked away from the absolutely-not-almost because I couldn’t believe that this was really happening. I fought the urge to call him and say, you know what, I don’t think I’m ready for this, kthxbai.

Even as I was sitting thisclose to him, his hand on my thigh, his eyes locked with mine, I fought the urge to run screaming from the room because this couldn’t possibly be happening. I don’t get to have this. I get the almosts.

And it wasn’t until he wrapped his arms around me as we lay in his bed last night that I finally breathed out and believed. Believed that I could have this, for however long I have it. Just today, last night, just that is almost enough. If it’s only another week, another day, another night, it’s almost enough. Because at least this wasn’t an almost.

And I woke up this morning, certain that the almost would return. That he would turn away, find an excuse, be a hundred miles away as we woke up.

Then he pulled me close, almost asleep, and snuggled in behind me and I knew he wouldn’t turn away. He wasn’t a hundred miles away. He wasn’t even inches away. He was present, he was there and there was no almost anymore.

(Sorry, I’m having a moment of “I can’t believe I’m writing this”. But I always swore this blog would be no-holds-barred, so here we are - no holds barred.)

And without a word, without explaining anything, without talking things to death, I felt safe. I felt secure. I felt no almost.

And that was just about as scary.

I’ve had such fucked up relationships in my life that I don’t know what to do with a non-fucked-up one. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop - and it may well yet - and it makes me a little sad that I have been taught to not believe in good things. That I have been taught to question what feels right, what feels good, and keep a distance there so I can’t get hurt again, to protect my heart, protect myself, so I can’t be destroyed again.

But if I stay there, if I stay where I cannot be reached, then all those years with him, all the hurt he caused me, all the ways he tried to destroy me will be valid, will accomplish what he (unintentionally) did to me. If I don’t let myself go and let myself fall and believe and just try, then I may have just stayed with him, just stayed where I was afraid and abused and empty. If I don’t let someone in, especially someone who wants to come in, then these last almost seven years have been for nothing.

So I will leap, I will embrace, I will let myself be taken away by this darling, sweet man who simply understands where I am. This man who will let me talk about where I am and how I feel and what’s gone on and just accept it and treat me with gentleness and care. I will hold my breath and try not to let the clowns get too loud and just be with him, without expectation, without planning, without trying to figure it all out so I can do it perfect and do it right and do it well, for once, goddamit. I will be present and be there and be moment to moment, knowing that he isn’t the only one who gets to choose how this goes. I get to choose, too. I can be there, I can walk away. I have a choice in how I participate. I’ve never felt like that before.

And I look forward to the next time his arms are around me, the next time he gazes at me that way, the next time I wake up in warmth and care and gentleness. Even if it’s only one more time or if it’s a hundred times. Each one will be treasured, because each one is real and true and not almost. It is just is.

Blatant, shamless self-promotion

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What this girl wants...

What I want is this:

Phone rings.

Me: “Hello?”

Him: “Hey, it’s me. I just dropped the kids off and I really want to see you. I’m on my way over.”

Me: “Really?”

Him: “Really…”

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. I open it. He’s there. He cradles my face gently in his hands and kisses me like I want to be kissed. No words, no sounds, just a kiss.

And from there, well, you know the rest.

What will happen:

Me, popcorn, “Dexter” and “Walking Dead”.

The thing is, I’m a bitter, cynical, non-romantic-comedy chick. I prefer watching “Dexter” to anything vaguely “chick flick”.

But deep in my dark, twisted heart lies a woman who just wants to be romanced. And I mean really romanced.

My ex knew how to play at romantic. He said all the right things, he surprised me once or twice with something he would say. He tried flowers, he tried gifts, all that stuff.

But he never really swept me off my feet.

And I realized, after spending time with the Filmmaker last week, my ex never told me I was beautiful, unless it was in response to a dress I wore. And maybe on our wedding day. I can assure you he never told me I was sexy. Ever.

And no one has ever expressed that they WANTED me in the way the Filmmaker did last week. He said things to me about wanting to take me home and how he would seduce me that sent my little heart into a tizzy. I still didn’t go home with him because that’s just not in my nature but, man, I wanted to, more than I have ever wanted to with anyone, with the exception of the Poet. The Poet was an exception to many rules.

Anyway, back to the Filmmaker…

And that set my broken, shattered, romantic heart spinning, building scenarios that can never happen, that never happen in real life. Scenarios like the one above, that only happen in sappy films that manipulate you into crying because that scenario is never going to fucking happen in anybody’s fucking life.

And that pisses me off just a bit.

Because I will never have that moment. And I want that moment more than I really care to admit. Although I did just admit it to at least 52 of you.

And it makes me ache that no man will ever do this to the woman he loves because, well, because they’re men. And men just don’t do that. At least not in my world.

And it makes me pine a little bit more for that kind of moment, that once-in-a-lifetime moment that I would carry with me forever. And really make me feel like the most amazing, incredible, beautiful woman in the world… ever…

And it will never happen.

Because it just doesn’t.

And yet, I still want it so much that I spend hours fantasizing about these incredible moments I want to have happen in my life, to find someone who will actually bring those moments to life.

And it will never happen.

And, really, the way my life has been, the one amazing night last Saturday with the Filmmaker will probably be the last one I have with him. My life is not wanton knocks on the door in the middle of the night by a man who just has to see me. It’s more like men telling me how amazing I am, how incredible I am and then vanishing into the dark.

So now I’m just waiting for the dark to swallow up the Filmmaker so I can add his head to my virtual wall of men who won’t date me. Because I am more certain that this will be the outcome of our encounter than the scenario that started this blog. I’m so certain that he’ll run that I’ll be surprised if he does actually make the next move, as much as I want him to make that move, whatever it may be. It doesn’t have to be showing up at my door, in the rain (rain always makes it more romantic), kissing me like his life depends on it. It can just be actually calling to see me again. Right now, that would be enough.

And while that may make me sound sad and pathetic, I accept that this is my lot in life. I thought I had romance with my ex-husband because he said all the right things, he brought me flowers and gave me all the little trinkets that are supposed to be romantic. And I couldn’t make that relationship work. And his romance left me feeling empty and alone, not loved and embraced.

And I have chosen to be alone and keep my protective guard up. I could have gone home with the Filmmaker on Saturday. And it would have been an incredible night, of that I am certain. But my dark, twisted heart would have been lost to him, no matter how much I may pledge that it wouldn’t be. So I chose to say no, chose to say not right now but thank you very much and let’s try it later. I chose to take a chance that this man will be a man and take me at face value, that his affection and desire for me is stronger than two little letters - n-o.

And if it’s not, then that was my choice to be alone. That was my choice to say no. That was my choice to protect myself and not get lost again.

And I’m not sure what I will do if he calls, if he wants to see me because I never have gotten that far, as far as someone actually wanting to be with me. It’d be so much easier if last Saturday was all there was because it would then be a beautiful memory of someone who wanted me once. Perfect and precious and special because it didn’t become something garish and real and wrong.

So what I want and what will be are eons apart and never the twain shall meet, in all probability. And I’m not sure what to do with that and I’m not even sure why I shared this with you. Just the ramblings of a single woman on a Sunday night thinking about a soon-to-be-lost possibility and hoping that maybe somehow, he will actually show up at my door, shattering all my cynicism and bluster with a single kiss.

Yeah, that’ll happen.

Oh, crap, what do I do now?

I got kissed last night. I mean, KISSED. In the way you want to be kissed by someone you want to be kissed by. Good ‘n kissed.

It was nice.

It’s been more than six years since I’ve been kissed and that was by my ex-husband.

It was a good night of discovery and discussion as to what this new thing is between me and the Filmmaker. There’s actually something there and something going somewhere. Where, I don’t know yet but trying to just let it go and follow it and see where it leads.

It was a night of someone I really like saying all the things one wants someone to say. It was a night of gentle and sweet and funny and ease.

It was also one of the scariest fucking nights of my recent life.

The Filmmaker was sitting in this big chair, I was sitting on the arm, his hand gently stroking my thigh as he told me I was beautiful and I was sexy and I was fascinating. He held my hand and said all those things to me.

And the clowns in my head were screaming - “RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNN!”

Run because this might actually be something.

Run because it’s feeling so good and so awesome and so thrilling.

Run because it could be something amazing.

Run because it could end like all the others have ended.

Run because I want it so very much.

Part of me was fascinated, listening to the little bastards run around in my head, trying to distract me from the words that I longed to hear. Fascinated that I was afraid of this good thing, this wonderful thing, this darling man with his hand on my thigh. That all the disappointments, especially the recent one with the Poet, made me afraid to believe this gentle man and his gentle words. He couldn’t possibly be saying that he wanted me. That’s not possible. No one wants me.

I had a huge struggle within me, fighting the urge to flee, fighting the urge to gently pull away from his caress and go back into my quiet, isolated world, leaving him standing there, his desire hanging in the air.

And he gently watched me fight the urge, listened to me as I expressed the fear and the fright and the uncertainty of what to do, his hand never leaving my thigh, his eyes never leaving my face. And he finally smiled and just asked me what I wanted.

What I wanted.

And the clowns refrained, “RRRUUUUNNNNN!!”

But a tiny voice cut through all of that screaming. The teeniest, tiniest voice spoke out quietly, shyly, whispering softly from the corner.

“I want you.”

And I spoke to him in that tiny voice and explained that I heard him and, yes, it all sounded very good and I kept feeling his hand on my thigh and how good that felt.

And I didn’t run.

And, yes, I’m terrified. And I’m scared that this is going to be like the others, that I’ll be left on the side of the road, my heart nothing but roadkill, wondering how this all went so terribly wrong, how this wonderful man who I adored could be gone without a word, without a sound. And I’m scared that his sweet, gentle goodnight kiss will be the last one I’ll feel in a long time. I’m scared that it’s going to end in anger, with me broken and shattered and lost.

And I’m scared that it’s going to be none of that.

I’m scared that it will be right. That it will be something good, no matter how long or short it may be. I’m scared that his hand on my thigh will stay there and be as comfortable as it was last night. I’m scared that this might be something this time around, that this will be what I’ve been hoping it would be. I’m scared that my heart will open up and let him in and that his will do that as well.

But I’m facing that fear and instead of running away, I’m going to slowly tread into the deep, holding my heart out cautiously, to see what will happen if I let it go, if I let him take it. Because, for a change, this is a man who wants to take it and who is not afraid to say that.

And it scares the fuck out of me. In the best way possible.

Mourning has broken

I feel like I have been in mourning the past few months.

Mourning for things lost, mourning for passions deflated, mourning for wanting that left me empty. Mourning hopes in every arena that were shattered and broken.

I’ve hidden my head and my heart and curled up to lick my wounds. I’ve been lost in the darkness, deeper and bleaker than I have been since I’ve been on my own.

It has been the scariest few months of my life since I’ve been on my own.

It felt so much like the last few years of my marriage, where I felt lost and afraid and alone, unsure of what I was doing, unsure of what I was capable of. Knowing that I wanted something but not sure what it was. Knowing I had talent but not sure how to use that talent.

For the first time in more than six years, I stared down into the abyss again, and it beckoned. And my toes dangled over the edge, voices from below assuring me that it was okay, just let it all go and leave it all behind. No one would say anything. They’d understand if I just gave up. After all, I had failed spectacularly so they would understand.

The multi-headed beast spoke with the voices from my past, tempting me, luring me, trying to lull me into complancancy because with complancancy comes compliance. And I’m so much more easily manipulated when I’m compliant.

But the little voice that lives deep down inside of me that belongs to my heart and soul wouldn’t shut up. It stood on its tiptoes and screamed, at first, silently and ineffectively. But that little voice wouldn’t give up, struggling to be heard above the noise of the multi-headed, very loud beast.

And finally, in the past few days, that voice is starting to be heard.

It’s saying, fuck the beast, get back up and get back out there. Yeah, you hurt and, yeah, you got kicked in the teeth, both professionally and personally. And, yeah, there isn’t the support around you that you thought there was and, yeah, it’s pretty much just you, without many hands to hold you up. But there is a lot of you and fuck everybody else. If I can’t hold myself up, there’s no point to all of this.

And strangely enough, the voices has been loosed by my art classes at school. Last week, we had to do an abstract painting using a variety of techniques. There was to be no plan, just basically throwing paint on the canvas board to try different mediums, different paints, different styles. But as I painted, I started to see my depression and started to see a manifestation of that feeling of running into walls and not being able to find my way. I almost cried as I finished up the piece. I don’t think anyone else will see that in it but a bit of my heart ended up in the painting.



And my digital illustration teacher cannot give me enough praise for what I’m doing. But lately, that praise has felt empty because I haven’t been connected to the work that I’m doing.

But this current project is a cubist self-portrait based on another artist’s style and I was struggling with what I wanted to show with this self-portrait. Who am I in this portrait? Lee, the painter? Susan Lee, the writer? Susan Lee, the director? Who am I?

I started out putting an easel and a canvas in the painting but that didn’t feel right. I circled around and around and last night, I realized something.

I forgot that I’m a director. That at the heart and soul of everything I do, it’s because I’m a director. Even my artwork somehow ties into that. Although the production nightmare of “Diary” sucked my soul out and made me debate about ever directing again, it is what my soul lives for. And I realized that I had lost some of that desire and wasn’t sure if I could ever do that again.

But today, as I got up and got ready for school, I read a quote by Daisaku Ikeda, the president of SGI, the Buddhist group I belong to.

The worst mistake you can make is to give up on yourself and stop challenging yourself for fear of failure. Keep moving forward with a firm eye on the future, telling yourself, “I’ll start from today!” “I’ll start afresh from now, from this very moment!”"

Hmmm.

Fear of failure.

Well, I have failed in a magnificent way this year and yet, I’m still here. What is there to be afraid of now? I can’t fail any worse than I have so I might as well get off my ass and get back out there, get things started again.

I won’t regret taking the time to mourn what I’ve lost this year. I won’t regret taking this time to ponder and retreat.

But now it’s time for me to put my boots on again and stick my neck out once more, to face failure and take it on full force.

And if I fail again, oh, well. That’s the choice I’m making. Because this is the life I chose - to be able to fail, to be able to succeed, to be able to make these choices for myself and not to give in to what is expected, give in to what’s easy.

My life has never been easy. So why should I stop now?

So stay tuned. Hoping to have some interesting things on the horizon. We’ll see where they take me…

All out of love

I’m all out of love…

Over the past two years, I have thrown my heart and soul into a couple of key projects - “Mastermind”, first the play and then the short film, and the play version of this blog, “Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis”.

And I threw my heart into someone that was so very close to what I thought I wanted, what I hoped would turn into something. Held my breath and jumped.

And I sit here now, out of love with most of the things in my life. And I’m not sure where to go to fall in love again.

“Mastermind” was one of those very precious, special projects that took every ounce of creativity I had. Getting into Comic-Con with it made me think it was going somewhere that would… I don’t know what. Change my life, change my destiny, seal for me that I am something special, that I am capable of creating something truly special.

And then… nothing.

Cast and crew couldn’t have cared less. It was me. That’s it. Me. Promoting, pushing, building, creating, willing it into life. While everyone stood by and watched. And now the film sits on my hard drive, my will to do something with it completely and totally gone. The love sucked out of it.

Then “Diary”. Wow. “Diary”. Taking this blog and writing the play was so… overwhelming. For over a year, I lived and breathed these words over and over again every single day. Figuring out how to put them together in a way that would speak to people who didn’t know me and who probably didn’t care about my life. Trying to find a way to make it not masturbatory, make it real and honest and open. I fell back in love with my own words, my own writing. There are entries in this blog that I still can’t believe I wrote and things I wrote that I could barely hear read out loud when this show got up on its feet.

Lived, breathed, loved.

And then… it all crumbled around me. I cast someone who couldn’t handle the language. Okay, I’m not Shakespeare but I’ll admit that my writing is challenging. She gacked and blew my entire opening weekend. Crushing my heart, crushing my soul, crushing my love. Lost two other actors in unprofessional and disappointing ways. Had probably the most difficult rehearsal/production of anything I have done in my entire career.

My having to go on stage and replace my actress was bittersweet. I actually enjoyed getting up on stage for the first time in years and reveled in telling my own story. And maybe if I had planned to do that all along, it might have been different.

But by the end, I had been beaten and battered. And the resounding lack of audience and support crippled me.

I was left at the end empty and broken and devastated.

And then you.

You.

I get it, we talked, that’s fine. But even after we talked and I thought the friendship would live, you faded away, breaking my heart even further. I get that you didn’t want what I wanted but…

And now I sit, alone, week after week after week since “Diary” closed, buried in depression, buried in melancholy, trying to get back on my feet, trying to figure out where to go next.

And I realized tonight that I am out of love.

I don’t know if I ever want to direct again. I never thought I would say that. Directing has been the heart and soul of my life for more than ten years. But now, there’s nothing in front of me that I’m in love with, that’s driving me to direct again. And I’m tired. Tired of fighting for what I want, tired of building and building and never moving forward. I’m watching people who, granted, have worked just as hard, but they have incredible support around them and are moving forward in ways I thought I would be. And it makes me wonder why I’m doing this. What am I doing wrong that’s keeping me here? I don’t know if I’ve got the energy or the passion left in me any more for this.

My artwork still moves me but I can’t remember the last thing I painted/drew that I was in love with. I can’t paint right now. Oh, sure, I’m painting but it’s stuff I have to paint. A painting for school, life drawing class, illustrations for a children’s book I’m supposed to be doing. But nothing that stirs my passion, that drives me to the sketchbook or to the easel. While I was at Comic-Con this summer, I began to feel the stirrings of passion but they’ve faded away in the ensuing months.

And in researching the art school I’d like to go to on the East Coast, there’s no way in hell I could afford it, even if I got accepted. Grants and loans will only go so far and I can barely pay my rent, never mind find $20,000 for school each year.

And you. I really don’t want to feel that again. I don’t want to find someone and reach out and give away and feel that strongly again. I just don’t. Because it always ends this way - me, alone, even the friendship gone. And it’s so incredibly painful and confusing and heartbreaking. And I just don’t want to go through that again.

So I’m all out of love, in every single area of my life. I’m facing 50 next year, and I thought I had it all figured out.

And now…

Out of love…

Out of passion…

Out of answers.

Not sure where to go from here. The sense of loss is overwhelming right now.

Maybe it’ll turn around, now that I’ve put words to it. Maybe I can get some perspective and find that love again. Maybe.

I should have

In the dark of the night
Now
Long after I should forget you
My one regret
Is that one night
That perfect night
When you had me in your arms
And I could hear the pounding of your heart
Over the pounding of mine
My one regret
Is that I didn’t kiss you
Because then
At least
I’d have the memory of that.

Missing

Can you hear me
over there
if I whisper
"I miss you"
from over here?

Let go...

I saw you tonight for the first time in a long time. And for the first time, my heart didn’t break when it saw your smile. And that made me a little sad.

But I guess I had to let you go completely eventually. It just took me a very long time because my heart refused to listen to my brain.

And now, it’s wistful and it’s sad but it held together.

I wish you hadn’t disappeared from my life. I wish you were still a phone call away. I wish.. I wish…

But tonight, I think I realized that I have let you go…

Though there is still a tiny place in my heart where you will live always…

Wishing...

I wish I could tear you out of my heart, forget how your eyes looked into mine, how your arms felt around me, how close we almost got.

I wish I could not feel you so often and so strong, like your heart is reaching out to mine, despite your denials, despite your not being able to look me in the eye anymore. Despite the fact that when you do, there is still something there, something sweet, something delicate, that you choose to tear away.

I wish you could be strong enough to stay here, be here, not leave me behind. Be what you said you would be, let us be what we were.

Because I miss talking to you. I miss that. Just that. So simple. Just talking. For hours.

I wish you were more than a season, more than a lesson, more than something ephemeral, something to be lost as a sweet memory, something -- someone -- who happened once.

I wish I could tell you this because I thought I could tell you anything.

And I can’t.

Because I can’t. Because you won’t.

I just wish I could tell you…

… how much I miss you.

Only two weekends left of "Diary" on stage

If you're in the Los Angeles area, check out the play version of this blog, "Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis" Eclectic Company Theatreat in North Hollywood.

Critics say: "The writing is personal and hits hard...Her depth and sensitivity give her an individuality that few autobiographical characters have...Lee deserves credit for not holding back and not being afraid to tackle subjects such as abuse, divorce."

Oh, yeah, and not sure if I've mentioned it but I'm on stage as myself for the balance of the run. So it's also the last chance to see me on stage ever.

Eclectic Company Theatre
5312 Laurel Canyon Blvd., North Hollywood
818-508-3003

Fri., Sat. @8 PM, Sun @ 7 PM

Mention this blog and get $9 tickets at the door!

Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb

I was dumb enough to believe you.

Because I always want to believe.

Because I want it t be so.

Because I wanted to believe you. That you were different. That you would stay.

I was dumb enough to believe you.

But you lied.

And you left.

The same way others have before.

You snuck away, not saying anything, leaving me standing there, wondering what the hell happened.

You said you’d always be in my life. That you treasured me and you treasured us and that nothing would change.

And I was dumb enough to believe you.

And I can’t say anything because you’ll deny it.

But you have changed. You’re gone. You’re polite and you’re nice but you flinch when I touch you and you barely answer my calls and you have found new muses that expect nothing from you so they’re safer than I am so you answer their siren call and leave me at the side.

I should know better.

I guess I do now.

So when you get back from your adventure, you’ll find me gone.

But what breaks my heart…

You won’t miss me a bit.

Review of "Diary"

Great review of "Diary", especially considering it was on the first weekend I took over the lead...

The Patch.com

"Diary" comes to life

Here's a peek at the stage version of this blog, with me in the middle of my sock puppets:

Life imitating art imitating life...

Because nothing in my life is ever that easy...

Turning this blog into a play has had its challenges in every way, from writing to the script to casting to raising money. Well, the challenges continue...

Through a series of circumstances that resulted in my lead actress leaving the show, I am now going on as... well... myself in "Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis", the play, starting tonight and for the entire run through July 3rd. Under any other circumstance, I would never consider stepping into a role in a play I'm directing, but since this is my life, it makes the most sense.

So if you're in LA and you want to see how this all turns out, get your tickets at Eclectic Company Theatre and see how it all turns out.

Fall in love again

I need to fall in love with my life again.

When I first began this journey just about six years ago, I discovered a life that I fell in love with. I embraced the newness of what I found. I fell.

And for a long time, it was true love. Beautiful, touching, amazing. Discovery around every corner. Adventures. Love. Perfect in its imperfection.

But then reality set in and, like most things, love was fallen out of. And it got difficult. And ugly. And hard. And the love I felt once, so long ago, was gone.

And I’ve been not in love with my life for a while. I’m not sure when it happened but I turned around and there was no love there.

And I need to fall in love with my life again.

I need to stop shedding tears over what has been and what has been done and I need to find tears of joy for what is to become.

I need to find the music and the dance and the joy and the light. I’ve spent too much time in the dark, living on the edges, peeking around corners at life.

I need to stop waiting, wanting, needing, craving someone to share this with, someone who will somehow magically make it all better, make it all light, make it all love. I need to truly discover that I am enough and that I need to let go of the expectation that someone is going to be at my side and lead me into the sunset. The vision I had a few years ago of a window and a chair and music and love is fading. It was a beautiful fantasy while it lasted.

But now I need a new vision, one that is solely me. And for the first time in a long time, I can’t see the canvas that this vision will be painted on. I just see… me. Just me. Nothing else. No one else. That’s the vision, that’s the future.

And it doesn’t mean I’ll be alone. It just means I have to be able to be alone and be able to find the joy that way, not through someone, not because of someone. But just because of me.

I need to fall in love with me again. The me that made me leave. The me that believed I could be strong, I could be powerful, I could be exactly what I wanted to be.

I need to look around my life and be in love with every moment and every day and every second.

I need to be in love with this life because it’s taken blood and sweat and too many tears to count to build. And it would be wasted if I didn’t love it. It would mean that everything I’ve done doesn’t count, doesn’t mean anything.

And I need to be in love with me. Broken, battered, bruised, fragile, delicate, breakable, and all of that, all of the flaws. Be in love with that and treat that person with the love she deserves.

I need to fall in love with my life again. And right now, I at least have a crush on my life again.

Feature article on "Diary"

So my play version of this blog opens this Friday in LA and an article I wrote about the production, this blog and all that goes with it is featured on the LA Stage Times website today. Check it out.

http://www.lastagetimes.com/category/blogs/

Photos from the stage production of "Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis"

For some of you new followers, you may not know that I am turning this blog into a stage production, which opens in North Hollywood, CA on May 27th.

Here are a couple of shots from the show.



If you're in LA and want to come see the show, check out the info at:

A long time ago...

You were so handsome. Waiting there for me. I was so glad we did the tuxes and the dress and the whole nine yards instead of just a suit and a dress.

Everything was perfect. From the silly invitations we designed ourselves to the simple reception in the church basement. Simple. Personal. Perfect.

I loved my dress. It was exactly what I wanted and it was exactly what I could afford. I felt more beautiful than I had ever felt in my entire life. And you even said so.

I knew it was right. I knew we’d be happy. I knew we’d be forever.

Twenty years later…

You’re there and I’m here. We don’t talk - we can’t talk because I won’t let us. It got dark and ugly and brutal. It went from forever to fourteen years in the blink of an eye.

I never thought there wouldn’t be a forever, even when I told you I needed time. I always thought you’d be there at the end of that time. I always thought you’d be there along the way, figuring it out with me, taking your own time to see where your heart was.

But I guess you did.

And now we’re here. Forever is forgotten. And I’m not sure what it all meant, what it all means.

And I’ve lost faith in forever. I’ve even lost faith in fourteen years.

And I still miss you every single day.

And I can’t help but wonder if you miss me. And I mean MISS ME. Me. The me that was there at the end, not the one you imagined me to be.

And taking this blog and putting up on stage just brings it all too close, too present. And the emotions are impossible to sort out. Love, fear, anger, passion, pain, resentment, faith, trust… all of it. And I don’t know what was real anymore and what is just my clouded memory.

But I do know I remember that day. And I do know that I loved you more than I ever imagined I could. And I do remember how perfect and how beautiful and how much I looked forward to the next twenty years.

And now…

Here we are.

Not where I thought we’d be.

Yes, it's bad poetry time

I'm so afraid
I broke us.
And I'll turn around
one day
and
you
won't
be
there.

I miss...

...the hope of you.

And so it begins

So Tuesday, April 19th, I start rehearsals for the stage production of "Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis", putting this blog on stage.

I'm very excited about this. I think it's going to be an amazing production. I have a great cast and the script has come together very well.

So be prepared for updates along the way. The show opens May 27th here in Los Angeles (North Hollywood, actually) at Eclectic Company Theatre.

If you'd like to contribute to the production fund and help the show out, please go to:

IndieGoGo.com/Diary-of-a-Mid-Life-Crisis

Thanks!

Not broken

Thank you for handing my heart back to me without breaking it. Though I do believe a small, special, precious sweet spot will remain with you as long as you’re in my life - and beyond that - because of this.

You taught me a lesson, whether you knew it or not. You taught me that I can love just as fiercely and just as ferociously without being in love. That it’s okay to still love you that much and that you wouldn’t run away from that. You’re stronger than many men I’ve known in the past to stand up to my ferocious love and not hide from it.

And that you love me as much as you can, without being in love with me. And just the fact that you’re still here after what was said and what we said and how much was put on the table makes me know that you love me and that much is true.

And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish it turned out the other way. If I said I didn’t wish for the rom-com moment where you come to your senses and realize I’m the only woman for you. Because a part of me still wishes for that, still hopes for that. But I know it won’t happen because that’s not what life is about. Life is about hurting and growing and changing and discovering and surviving. Life is about tough choices and hard answers but that doesn’t mean it can’t be good in the end.

And I’m glad we’re okay - better than okay. I’m glad we never missed a beat after all of this. That we’re exactly where we were, without my ridiculous, crazy, muddled heart standing in the way. We have something precious and special and it has survived what has killed most in my life.

And I hope that we stay this way for always. Close, special, true. There is a quote from Brian Andreas from storypeople.com that always makes me think of our friendship:

“They came to sit & dangle their feet off the edge of the world & after awhile they forgot everything but the good & true things they would do someday.”

But I know so much in my life is transient and wayward and that you may not always be there, despite your best intentions. And if you decide to leave, just drop me a note before you do so I can say good-bye. Because I would let you go. I just need a little advance notice.

Almost... but not quite

You were almost. Just so close to almost. And I was willing to wait, despite my many denials that I would. But you were so close…

And we were so close. Your hand on my face, your arms around me, the way you looked at me that one long night. So close. So very close.

And I was willing to wait to see how close we’d get, to see if we could get past so close and just be whatever comes after that.

Because you’d look at me that way, your eyes so full of your heart. And my heart would look back out my eyes at yours and we’d be thisclose. So close.

And I thought we’d get there. I really, truly did. Despite the red flags, despite the wondering and the waiting and the what the fuck. But we were so close.

Your heart pounding as you held me. The touch of your hand. All those little silly, ridiculous, wonderful things you said, did, showed me.

And I thought you were almost. Just so close to almost.

But you’re not.

Because you showed me that we’re not almost. We’re not so thisclose. You showed me by omission that I’m not in your heart or your mind. You showed me that I’m chicken soup for your soul - there when you need me but otherwise, out of sight, out of mind. Not almost. Not even close. Nothing.

It was a simple thing that a single call, a single text, a single email could have shown me that I was almost.

But I guess I don’t get to be that for you. And you no longer get to be that for me.

And I almost forgave you. Because that’s what I was taught to do. I was taught by years of abuse to be passive, to take what I’m given and make that almost. To be willing to be invisible, to be willing to be unimportant, and to say, thank you, sir, may I have some more?

And I went there. I forgave and was ready to hand my heart back to you and say, please sir, may I have some more? Because you’re almost…

Until I got my shins kicked soundly by those who see me and love me and know me. They made me see how not almost you are now. And how almost will never happen because you don’t choose to have it.

And you probably won’t even notice that almost is gone. Because I’ll still be there on the periphery. I’ll still see you and I’ll still talk to you and we’ll still be friends… almost.

But the almost will be gone. And the special connection that we had will be gone. Because I choose it. Because I don’t want any more, thank you, sir.

Because I deserve more than almost. I deserve someone who will make that call when it should be made. I deserve to have someone who doesn’t see me as chicken soup but sees me as something beautiful and delicious and wondrous to be savored and cultivated and cradled as often as possible.

And I’m so sorry you weren’t that. Because you were almost…

But I have to let go of almost and of you because I deserve more than.

And it hurts like a motherfucker.

Can't do it again

I can’t do it again. I can’t be the one to fix and to hold and to solve and to help. I can’t look at you and see the wounds and want to heal them. And I can’t look past the things that are right in front of me that scare me about you, because I’ve done that before and I can’t do it again.

And it’s killing me because it’s so familiar and it’s so exactly what I know that I don’t know how not to do it. How not to be drawn to it and to you and to that.

I need you to want to heal me and to chase me and to solve me. And you’ve done that a bit, enough that makes me hopeful and hopeless, but I guess I want/need/have to have more. And I don’t know how to do that either. To let you know I need more because I’m not sure you can give more.

And I can’t do without more again.

And I adore you, and that’s familiar, too. And that’s what gets confusing and difficult and heart-breaking. I adore you. And when I get near you, I lose all my conviction and just fall into your eyes and into your embrace. And I adore you. And I forget about the flags and the warnings and all the rationales. I just see you and your eyes, looking back at me the way I want to be looked at. And I adore you. And there in your eyes, I see you adore me, as much as you can.

And you’re him and you’re the other him and you’re a bit of the other him and that’s just… too many hims maybe. And I got lost in their eyes, too. And I wanted to heal and to help and to fix and to hold and to solve. And I got lost in them. And they left me standing here, broken, alone, wanting, needing, hoping… and then there’s you…

And there are those moments that are so clear, so crystal, so present, where I’ve seen this in a future moment a while ago, where I’m where I want to be with someone I want to be with and it’s beautiful and it’s perfect and it’s right. And there are moments with you that are so clearly from that vision, from that moment where I saw it, and it takes my breath away.

But the echoes of the past blur the edges of the future and I don’t know what to do.

I want you to get lost in me. I want someone to get lost in me. And maybe I’m so afraid of that never happening that I let myself get lost instead.

And maybe this is where I learn to break this cycle, step away from the familiar, pulling my reluctant heart away from your eyes. Still care, still be there, but just not be all the way there. Stand on the periphery of you so you’re not left alone, because I think you’re very alone and I would never leave you like that, like I’ve been left. And I will continue to adore you, just maybe from a safe distance.

Because I can’t do this again. As much as I wish that I could… as much as I wish you could let yourself go and make this into something, take the chance, take my heart. But you won’t and you can’t.

And I can’t either.

Get the f**k out of my way!

This has been an interesting week of discovery of how I manage to get the hell in my own way all of the freakin’ time.

As I’ve mentioned before, the years of emotional abuse have left me constantly trying to figure out all angles of any situation before I get into any situation. So I spend a lot of time just going, okay, so if he says this, then I’ll say that and then what if this happens and what if that happens, then I should do this and… and… and… and I get on the hamster wheel and run in circles, because there is no answer to any of it.

And because of a couple of men in my life who have hurt me in quiet and vicious ways, I’m so afraid of making the wrong move with someone I care about that I obsess and obsess and obsess over making sure I do everything just perfectly right.

Well, you know where that gets me? That’s right, hamster wheel. I run in circles and circles and circles. And you know what that running in circles does? It generates enough kinetic energy to wind up the clowns and set them loose.

And I found myself there the other day, running in circles, clowns hooting and hollering and circling their little clown cars. All because of a minor change in communication, which was totally understandable and rational, but clowns, when you’re on a hamster wheel, do not allow much room for rationality. So I allowed myself to chase myself into a very dark place, all because of… well… absolutely nothing. Just because he was busy this week and we didn’t talk as much. However, this is how a major relationship with a major OOMA ended - he just stopped calling, stopped returning my calls and emails and just basically faded away, taking my heart with him. It took a while for me to realize this because he was a master at it. But it left me afraid when I don’t hear from a man who I care about because, of course, I’ve been taught that I’m always wrong and everything I do is wrong. And so, I had decided I had done something terribly wrong and he would be angry with me and reject me out of hand.

But, wait. What?

I found myself circling the drain and then finally was able to stop and really think about what I was doing.

I was getting in my own way. Making decisions about what was going on without having any information from the other side about what was going on. There was a big clown-me standing in front of me, getting in my own way.

So I kind of screamed to that clown-me, Get the fuck out of my way!

Wow. Silence. The clown-me stood for a moment, trying to figure out how to fight me. But I pushed that clown-me out of the way and listened to the silence while the clowns retreated as well.

And you know what I heard in that silence?

Silence.

Just pure silence.

No mental math, no algebra. No hamster wheel. Nothing.

Just silence.

And I had a nice conversation with the me that was left. Told myself to just calm down. Just breathe. Just be real and be honest and be true to myself. That’s all I can do. In any relationship. But my relationships with men always seem to get so complicated by the clown-me. The one who’s been taught to complicate things.

And I just want to get out of my own way and be true. Just be me. Just be silent for a while mentally and really listen to what’s underneath everything. How DO I feel? What DO I want?

And really listen to him. Hear what he’s saying, whether it’s out loud or not. Just listen. No matter where this goes, listen to him. To his soul. To his heart. Because otherwise, what’s the point if I’m not listening?

Because if I can’t get out of my way now, when it’s just friendship, when it’s just the beginning of something maybe/possibly/hopefully, how can I get out of my own way if it actually turns out to be something?

I have to learn not to drag the past along behind me and start to let the past go, get out of my way. This relationship is its own creature. It will have its own voice, its own rhythm, its own time. And if I get in my way and drag this shit behind me, then this has no chance of being anything but what has gone on before.

And I want to see what this relationship may be, whatever it ends up being. Good friends, lovers, colleagues, collaborators, something in between all of those things. It almost doesn’t matter as long as I let it be what it is going to be.

And the only way it can be that is if I step aside and let it be, quietly, simply, honestly. Not try to figure it out, not try to force it to be something, just get out of the way of it and follow it instead of driving it.

Huge lesson. Hard lesson. Reeeaaallly hard lesson.

When I get out of my own way, I can hear my heart and my breathe and my soul. And what those pieces are whispering to me is just trust, just be real, just be honest. Don’t struggle, fight, figure, calculate, panic, freak out. His

And then I can hear his heart, his soul, in those quiet moments, sitting on the floor, listening to him talk about his life and his soul and his hurt, without saying it. And that’s as beautiful and true and real as it can get.

So get the fuck out of your own way, stupid, and maybe -- just maybe -- there’s a chance.

Fight or... let's get the hell outta here...

I want to run right now. Run away. Away from figuring things out. Away from the inevitable hurt that’s going to come. Because I want. Because I need. Because I’m me.

I want to hide away, pretend nothing was ever there. Because I’ve been here before -- and again. And probably will again. And it’s always the same.

Because I want to run. And I usually do.

And tonight I thought, I need to pull away, run away, leave you there because I think that’s what you want… now. After all that, after all the close and the want and the pounding heart, I have now decided that you don’t want it or me or any of it and it’d be easier to just run and hide and pretend there was never a want or a need or pounding hearts.

But really, I have no idea what you want, need, whatever. Because you’re a guy. And you’ll never let on what you want, need, whatever.

So my instinct right now is to run.

But a thought invaded my carefully laid plan to leave you in the metaphorical dirt.

Why is it when it comes to fight or flight, I flight? Why don’t I fight? Why don’t I stand in front of you and challenge you instead of running and hiding? Why don’t I take a risk, take a dare, take a chance and just fight for what is hanging in the air between us? Why is fight not an option?

I dunno.

Because fight means that it means something. Flight allows me to pretend that it never meant anything. Flight means I get to keep myself protected and pretend I never even thought about what was there.

And I don’t know how to fight for whatever is there. Because what if there is nothing there and I’m just shadow-boxing?

Because you’re in flight. Because you won’t fight. Because you’re so good at pretending there’s nothing in the air - no want, no need, no pounding heart. Because you’ve had to be in flight your whole life because nobody ever fought for you.

What would you do if I fought for you? If I stood my ground and made you see it. If I just refused to let you flee. Would you fight for me?

I dunno. Probably not. Because no one has ever fought for me either.

I guess I’m tired of fighting for something that the other person won’t fight for. I’m tired of having my gloves up and protecting myself while the other person fights their way past me, leaving me in the ring alone. Because that’s where it ends up - me alone.

And if I run away now, at least I choose to be alone and it’s in my control. If you leave me behind, then it’s not my choice. And I’m left to close up the wounds left behind.

But why can’t I choose to fight? Why I can’t I choose to be the one to do something about the circling and the shadow boxing?

I dunno.

I don’t know a lot tonight. So I apologize if this blog makes no sense. It just needed to get out.

You may return to your regularly scheduled… whatever.

Guest blog

Check out my guest blog on Her Film. I get to talk about being a female director who wants to direct like a man.

http://herfilm.wordpress.com/2011/03/26/we-can-do-that-guest-post-by-filmmaker-susan-lee/

Wildly optimistic heart

I was listening to my Ipod on the way home from job #342 this afternoon. It’s been a long day and my butt is tired and I was looking forward to coming home and crashing for a bit.

Then my Ipod got the better of me, playing Keith Urban’s “If Ever I Should Love”.

Go to:

http://www.cmt.com/videos/shows/cmt-crossroads/529722/cmt-crossroads-with-john-mayer-and-keith-urban-if-ever-i-could-love.jhtml?artist=1161250


Then my wildly optimistic heart took over.

First of all, I love this song. There is something to the rhythm of it that just makes me twitch. And there’s a point near the end that is so beautiful, so full, so ridiculously wonderful that it almost makes me cry every time I hear it.

So I’m in my car, singing at the top of my lungs and, suddenly, my hands take over. I used to be a dancer, for those of you unfamiliar with me, although I haven’t really danced in probably ten years. Not even at parties/weddings/social gatherings. The closest I’ve come was probably in 2006 at karaoke. Some drunk guy was dancing with all the cute girls and kind of decided to dance with me at the last second. He was actually pretty good, considering how drunk he was, and we danced really well together, ending with him dipping me in the most fabulous way. When I stood up from the dip - which I executed with aplomb - he stood there for a moment and finally said, “Wow.”

But there haven’t been many “wow” moments since.

I also kind of resist dancing because, well, it breaks my heart when I dance. I miss it terribly. But for a lot of reasons, I just don’t really dance anymore. Occasionally, I do what I call “kitchen ballet”, where music will move me, usually while I’m making dinner or something, and I’ll bust out a couple of moves in the kitchen.

But lately, I’ve felt like dancing. My hands get started, marking dance steps, marking rhythm, getting my brain doing on what I could do to this music. And then my body starts to twitch and my feet start finding the rhythm.

The other thing that has gotten me thinking about dancing lately -- well, actually two other things. One is that, in turning this blog into a play (opening May 27th in North Hollywood), a number of dance numbers have erupted in the writing. A couple of fun jives, a waltz or two and a (hopefully) heart-breaking tango in the middle of it. So I’ve been thinking a lot about dancing, in regards to that.

The other thing is that a really wonderful man who is close to my heart constantly refers to me lately as a dancer. Not “oh, you used to be a dancer”. But “you’re a dancer”. Usually associated with me knocking something over and being incredibly clumsy (many things have been spilled in his apartment), since dancers are notoriously clumsy off the stage. But the way he says it… He sees me as a dancer. Period. And that makes my heart soar.

And right now, my heart has reason to be optimistic. So the lyrics from the song really speak to me right now, making my heart want to leap out of my chest and go running wildly through the streets. I feel so close to something wonderful, which I’ve probably jinxed by putting that thought out here in this blog, that I can hardly breathe sometimes.

The last verse of the song builds and builds and that’s what made me dance tonight. These lyrics:

“I was scared to love again
Feel the pain that came when she walked out of my life
I got hurt so bad I swore I'd never
Let another get inside this heart of mine
But you touched my hand and every plan that I had
Disappeared like a falling star
And there's a new beginning
And I'm movin' to the rhythm of a beating, braver heart”.

And I was thinking of this special person and how he makes me feel. And I was thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve really, truly felt this happy. And I was thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve danced. And I mean DANCED. Full on, no holds barred. Just let the joy out and danced.

And so, I got out of the car and my feet could hardly hold still. There was a little pirouette at the mailbox, I will admit, which I’m sure made my neighbors wonder even more about me. And I couldn’t wait to get into the house. Dropped my bags, tossed my jacket aside, reset the song to the beginning and danced.

And danced.

And danced.

My heart soared. I know, it’s corny but it’s true. Tears streamed down my face… tears of joy, of pleasure, of hope, of love. All the emotion I hang on to so tightly, all the passion I feel for this hope, this man, this heart let go and I danced. Like I haven’t danced in years.

I’m sure it was ugly. I’m sure it was clumsy. I’m at least thirty pounds overweight for dancing (or anything else, really). I have no idea what I’m doing anymore when it comes to dance. And I'm sure this love, this passion will all come crashing down around me, because that's what it does, and next week, I'll be back to my usual heartbroken, morose self.

But tonight, I danced.

And it was beautiful…

Upon a time

03/14/11 - upon a time

Once
upon a time,
he cradled my face
in his hand
just as you did
last night.
Looking at me
with want
and pain
and true
real adoration.
He held me close
like you did
last night,
our hearts beating
together
together
just as ours did
last night.
And I’m so afraid
you’re going to
be him
and I’m going to
be me.
And I’ll be right back
there
then
again.

But I don’t remember
holding my breath
waiting
hoping
wanting
like I did
last night.
Praying
it will be
different
better
more.

But
I don’t know
if I can
do
it.

Fundraising round deux

As time creeps closer to this blog turning into a play in Los Angeles, I have started another IndieGoGo campaign to raise the production funds needed to produce the show.

Here's the blurb:

"Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis", written and directed by Susan Lee, chronicles her recovery as she rebuilt her life after leaving a sixteen year long abusive marriage. Based on her popular blog, http://diaryofamidlifecrisis.blogspot.com/, the play will be filled with discussion of abuse, the beauty of discovering lost talents, unrequited love -- and clowns. And sock puppets. And maybe some martial arts. And one beautiful heart-breaking tango. (And, no, Susan will not be performing in addition to writing and directing. She's not that much of a narcissist.) A percentage of any profits from the play will be donated to Sojourn, a shelter for victims of domestic violence - http://www.opcc.net/tabid/88/Default.aspx.

Here's where to give me your dough:

http://www.indiegogo.com/Diary-of-a-Mid-Life-Crisis-1

Any contribution is welcome - $5, $50, $500. There are perks at every step, from a simple thank you on my website and in the program to sock puppets and clown noses to an original oil painting done by yours chumly.

So if you've got a buck or two to spare, please toss it into the IndieGoGo fund and I shall be eternally grateful!

Thanks much.

A heart worth breaking

You’re going to break my heart… and I’m going to let you. Because apparently I haven’t learned how not to let someone break my heart yet.

It’s the same thing - I fall, you say you don’t. Yet you do. Yet you won’t. But I will.

And I’ll dream and I’ll want and I’ll wait.

And we’ll do this … whatever this is. This limbo, this nothing yet everything. This thing that leads nowhere yet we can’t not do it.

And we’ll be thisclose and this far. And then thiscloseagain.

And you’ll break my heart. And I know it.

But I can’t wrangle the want and the need and the hope. They all lead me down that inevitable road, where there is nothing at the end but nothing. You going this way, me going that. We’ll smile, we’ll hug, you’ll say we’re friends and we’ll always be friends.

And you’ll be gone. But you’ll linger in the pieces of my heart, where the ghosts of others come before live.

And I’ll go on and you’ll go on. And maybe you’ll remember and maybe you won’t. But I will. I’ll remember the talks and the poetry and the food and the laughter and the want. And you’ll be held dear deep inside, whether you want to be or not.

So I’ll let you break my heart because I don’t know how not to. And maybe next time, I’ll learn.

“This time I’m mistaken/for handing you a heart worth breaking.”

Just to be safe

Just to be safe

Safe
–adjective
1. secure from liability to harm, injury, danger, or risk: a safe place.
2. free from hurt, injury, danger, or risk: to arrive safe and sound.
3. involving little or no risk of mishap, error, etc.: a safe estimate.
4. dependable or trustworthy: a safe guide.
5. careful to avoid danger or controversy: a safe player; a safe play.
6. denied the chance to do harm; in secure custody: a criminal safe in jail.

Such a small word - safe. S-A-F-E. Four letters.

But so many meanings.

Safe.

To be safe. To feel safe.

Something we all want. To be safe, to feel safe. To be with someone who makes us feel safe. To make someone else feel safe.

Sounds so simple.

Safe.

I have never felt safe in a relationship. Neither of my marriages made me feel safe. My familial experience with safe is spotted at best. I thought that was just the way every relationship was - “safe” was a word that meant something but didn’t apply.

I’m not sure what would make me feel safe. I’m not sure I could ever feel safe at this point in my life. I do have people in my life who I trust -- mostly my girlfriends. But safe?

“Free from hurt, injury, danger, or risk: to arrive safe and sound.”

Free from hurt, injury, danger, or risk.

I want a relationship free from hurt, injury and danger. But I’m not sure any of us can have that. We all get hurt, we all hurt. Doesn’t matter our intentions, we hurt. That’s life. That’s nature. We hurt, we get hurt, we get injured, we injure. How can we feel safe if it is inevitable that we will get hurt, get injured and injure those we love?

I threw a life preserver (virtually) to someone last night, hoping to make him feel safe because I know that he doesn’t -- in any aspect of his life. And I want to be the one to make him feel safe, to make him feel secure and whole and valued and beautiful and loved. But I know he probably won’t let me because he’s been hurt and injured and he’s hurt and injured and maybe he thinks he will never be able to be safe again so he lives in the hurt and the injury rather than risk.

And I stand over here, pondering how to maintain a peaceful heart when all I want is someone to make me feel safe. Someone to throw me a life preserver - virtual or otherwise. But I know I won’t let them because I’ve been hurt and injured and I’ve hurt and injured and I’m not sure I can make anyone feel safe anymore because I’m not sure I believe there is a safe left.

And can I love even if it doesn’t feel safe?

Sometimes, I think safe is not trying to love, not letting someone in. If I don’t ever let him in, then I won’t ever get hurt. Or so I tell myself. And maybe he’s not the one hurting me, maybe I’m the one hurting me by not letting him in.

Safe is protecting myself and keeping my heart to myself. Safe is not letting him get as close as I’d like him to because then neither of us can hurt each other. We can stand at this distance, arms at our sides, heart buried deep inside, fighting the urge to risk, fighting the urge to hurt, fighting the urge to just not be safe for one single, delirious, beautiful moment.

Because that would be dangerous. That would be risky. And the definition of safe is “free from… risk.”

So how do we be safe and not safe at the same time? How do we do that? How do we put ourselves out there in the ether, praying it won’t hurt this time, praying we won’t hurt him this time? How do we risk when the cost seems so very high and when it feels safer to just stay home, just keep your heart tucked away, keep yourself and himself safe?

I risk so much every single day in the life I have chosen to live. I risk the system, I risk living the life I want to live. I risk losing everything every day because I can’t pay my rent and I can’t pay my bills, and I can’t even afford gas for my car this week. That’s risk. That’s danger. That’s pain and hurt and all of that stuff. But I choose to do that every single day because of love. Because I love my life. I have chosen a life I love and so I’ve chosen to not be safe.

But I can’t yet choose to not be safe with you. And you won’t choose to not be safe with me. Not yet. Maybe not ever. So we’ll both just stand here, at a safe distance, still hurt, still hurting, still wanting and aching and breaking and needing. But “safe”. Without seeing how unsafe we are not.

And maybe we’ll never be brave enough to let go of safety enough to be with each other as more than just good friends. Maybe there’s a safety in that that somehow reassures us and keeps us here. Occasionally, one of us risks the loss of that safety with a touch or a glance or a few moments of holding my hand, unexpectedly, overwhelmingly. Yet we retreat to our safe corners, to watch, to wait, to be safe.

Or maybe -- just maybe -- I say, fuck that and jump. Because I want the way it feels when it’s not safe. I want the risk, I want the unknown, I want the… everything that goes with not being safe. I want to feel. I want to live.

I want what this poem expresses so beautifully. But until I risk, until I stop feeling safe, I’m not sure I’ll be able to.

So I’ll end with a little e.e. cummings, who was never safe and always risked and left behind a legacy of words filled with un-safety and beauty. Because I already carry your heart with me now, whether you know it or not.

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Let It Be

“Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be. There will be an answer, let it be.”

Yeah. I’m not good at that.

Letting it be. Whatever “it” is.

I have to know. I have to know what the answer is. I have to know what the end result will be. I have to know. I have to examine every situation from every single angle and figure out all of the variations that could come from any situation so I can figure out what’s going to happen in the end.

I finally figured out where that comes from.

My family life growing up was chaotic, to say the least. I never thought there was anything wrong or different. I thought everyone lived like we did. Fighting. Arguing. Mom throwing things. Mom being just a little bit bipolar so never really knowing how she was going to react to anything. Whatever I thought she was going to do -- bad or good -- she always reacted the polar opposite of what I expected. And the rest of my family, well, let’s just say there were other challenges within that dynamic.

Then with both of my ex-husbands, who both came from alcoholic families and had all the tendencies alcoholics have, I found myself repeating this pattern. I had to figure out every angle on everything so I would be able to be what they wanted me to be, to do the exact right thing and be the exact right thing. Maybe not so much with my first husband but definitely with my second.

R was volatile at the best of times but if things didn’t go the way he wanted, there was hell to pay. Now, emotional abuse is hard to understand unless you’ve been on the receiving end of a vicious, cruel, screaming tantrum. You live to avoid those situations so you become really good at figuring out how to walk the minefield that has somehow become your life.

So I’ve spent most of my life dodging minefields and tiptoeing through relationships. Trying to protect myself, trying to make sure that everything stays stable and easy and that I don’t get my head ripped off because of some tiny, teeny, little, bitty thing I missed.

“Let it be, let it be…”

But now, when I don’t have that crazy, insane, abusive life anymore, I’m still hanging on to one or two vestiges of that life. And one of those vestiges is trying to figure everything out. Which is not necessary when life isn’t crazy and I’m surrounded by people who love me and respect me.

But when it comes to the men I care about, the ones (oh, let’s be honest right now, the ONE) who I want to be with, who I want to invite into my life, I still cling to those old habits. Figure out everything, analyze everything, make sure I know every angle of every situation and try to figure out how to make everything work out perfectly, no matter what the response from the other person is.

The problem is, the man I am currently interested in is not like my two exes. Well, in some ways, of course he is because there is something in each ma I’ve fallen for that ties them together. But he is not abusive, he is not angry, he is not vindictive towards me. He is gentle and sweet and challenges me just the right way. This goes for all of the men I have fallen for in the past five years. They’re gentle, they’re sweet, they respect me like I’ve never been respected before.

Yet I still walk on eggshells. I’m still afraid that what I’m doing is going to be wrong, going to drive them away, going to end up with me being screamed at and destroyed and ruined, all because I’ve done something wrong.

So I still spend hours and hours and hours trying to figure out what every gesture means, what every word means, what every single interaction means. Because if I can figure that out, then I can make everything perfect.

Except I can’t.

Because there is nothing to figure out. For the most part, these men - including the current OOMA (object of my affection) - are pretty much what they seem to be. They have issues, sure, don’t we all. And some of those issues are complicated and do veil things but not the way my brain thinks it is. So I obsess and I lose hours and create heartbreak in myself because I simply cannot just let this be. I HAVE to know. I HAVE to figure it out. I HAVE to have an answer.

But there are no answers by doing this.

“There will be an answer, let it be.”

I’m trying to learn to just let things be. I cannot control anything but myself, as much as I want to control him. I cannot make him do what I want him to do, no matter how many ways I think about how to do just that. I cannot understand what’s going on in his head because I can’t. I have to just let it be what it is. Friends? Something more? Something less? Every algebraic equation I come up with won’t solve anything. Won’t net an answer.

“There will be an answer, let it be.”

I have to just let it be. In so many ways. Not just with whatever is going to happen with this OOMA but with many things in my life. I have to learn to let go of the patterns of abuse and try to heal that last, lingering part of myself and learn to just let it be. Chanting helps. Since I’ve joined Soka Gakkai International, a lay Buddhist sect, chanting has become a big part of my life and helps me let go some, let the universe know what I’m needing/wanting/lacking and trying to just let the universe take care of me. But I’m not good at that yet so I’m still pushing and twisting and bending.

“There will be an answer, let it be.”

Maybe once I learn this, I can leave the last of him behind me, the last of our life behind me. Maybe then I’ll be able to move forward with someone, whether it’s this complicated, enigmatic OOMA or someone else in the future, and be able to just let things be. Not try algebra for the simplest things, just let it be.

“There will be an answer…

Let it be.”

Thought for the day... or for life...

I'm currently reading Nick Hornby's "A Long Way Done" whilst trapped on the LA
Metro (which on twitter has become lametro - lame-tro). He wrote the novels
"About a Boy" and "High Fidelity". Brilliant, funny, dark, moving writer. This
one is about four people who climb to the top of a tall building in England to
jump off and kill themselves on New Year's Eve. Instead, they form a twisted,
dysfunctional, poignant family, trying to help each other find their lives
again. I'm not quite finished with it yet so I'm not quite sure how it's all
going to turn out.

But as I am currently going through a very deep, dark peer into my soul right
now (that has nothing to do with "Diary"), there was a passage today in this
book that really spoke to me. Don't know if it'll speak to you but here it is
anyway.

The quartet are meeting for coffee, trying to understand why they each wanted to
jump off the building. They began to talk about what they would do differently
in their lives or what they would want back. If they had three wishes, what
would they wish for, what would their lives be like? Then there's this passage:

"We all spend so much time not saying what we want, because we know we can't
have it. And because it sounds ungracious, or ungrateful, or disloyal, or
childish, or banal. Or because we're so desperate to pretend that things are
O.K., really, that confessing to ourselves that they're not looks like a bad
move. Go on, say what you want. Maybe not out loud, if it's going to get you
into trouble: 'I wish I'd never married him.' 'I wish she were still alive.' 'I
wish I'd never had kids with her.' 'I wish I had a whole shitload of money.' 'I
wish all the Albanias would go back to fucking Albania.' Whatever it is, say it
to yourself. The truth will set you free. Either that or it'll get you a punch
in the nose. Surviving in whatever life you're living means lying, and lying
corrodes the soul, so take a break from the lies just for one minute."

I love that.

"Surviving in whatever life you're living means lying, and lying corrodes the
soul, so take a break from the lies for one minute."

Take a break from the lies of surviving life today and say "I wish"...

And make it a big one... or two... or twelve.

I wish...

Such powerful words.

If we start with "I wish", where do you think we can end?

I'll start:

I wish I left my marriage earlier, then maybe we both would have been happier
sooner.

I wish I could spend every single day directing.

I wish I had someone in my life to be a partner and a lover and to share this
difficult and amazing journey with me.

Now you go...

(share if you want to, don't share if you don't, but wish)

Dark of the night

Bottom of the pit last night.

Very dark, very black.

Darker than I’ve been in a while.

Can’t quite make sense of it all… or of any of it.

Don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing.

Can’t figure out if what I’ve done means anything at all.

Dark of the night, dark of the soul.

Not sure I’ve quite shaken it today.

Maybe gotten to indigo from pitch black.

But the pit is still there -- tempting, taunting, teasing me to jump.

Just give up.

Just give in.

It’ll all be fine if you’d just…

Give everything up and just accept mediocrity.

It’ll all be fine.

It’ll all be easy.

Just do it.

Just
do
it.

Comfort food

I am tired of being the human equivalent of comfort food for the men in my life.

I’m the girl they turn to when they’re alone, when they want someone to make them feel warm and fuzzy and loved -- with no strings attached. They know I won’t demand anything of them because, well, because I’m stupid. I’m so happy to have their attention, have their focus, even if it’s just for a few hours, that I toss everything aside just to be there for them.

The late night visits which, in someone else’s life, should turn into a booty call turns into watching “Thomas Crown Affair” and searching Craigslist for someone for ME to hook up with since apparently nothing’s gonna happen with Dude Boy.

The last call of the day from Dark Boy, who wants/needs/desires to have someone be just that, with long, wine-filled conversations and poetry, who thinks I’m amazing as long as I’m doing things to help him out. But when push comes to shove, I’m not the “spice” he’s looking for. But I’m comfy enough to spend time with… as long as someone else isn’t there.

I’m the one they turn to when they just need a warm fix. They don’t want sex. They want soup. I’m chicken soup. I’m warm cookies. I’m reliable and dependable and maybe I smell good.

But comfort food is temporary. Once you’ve been comforted, the empty soup bowl goes into the sink and then back into the cupboard, to wait for the next rainy day, the next cold, lonely night, to be brought out when there’s nothing else to eat.

But I’m done with that.

I will no longer comfort you, unless you’ve lost a limb.

I will no longer answer your last-call-of-the-night calls.

I will no longer be your comfort food. If you need comfort, find someone else. I’m done with warm and fuzzy and good-smelling. Well, maybe not done with good-smelling.

I am moving on to being dessert.

I am that gorgeous, delicious, indulgent cake you see sitting in the dessert case, beautifully lit, just waiting for you. But you can’t reach into that case unless someone lets you in. I am the dessert to be coveted, to be oogled, to be desired and wanted, only to be denied unless I decide to let you open the cupboard.

You have to earn me. You don’t just get to have me. You’ve got to plan and sacrifice and leave room for me.

You are going to miss me, I guarantee that. But I’m out of comfort for you. It’s time for some comfort for me.

Oh, but I thought… cuz you… oh…

Oh, I thought that we were…

Because there was poetry once…

And the four hours we always talk…

And the food on the spoon…

And soup…

And you reached out…

And I reached back…

So I thought…

And we acted like…

And you treated me like…

And there seemed to be an us growing…

But I guess…

But I thought…

But apparently you didn’t…

And then you said…

And then my heart broke.

Single word

A single word tonight, from either of us, could have changed everything.

But I think we’re both just so afraid of that single word that we just don’t know how/when/if to utter it.

Just a single, simple word.

Stay.

I wanted to hear that word, even though everything else was screaming it. I wanted to hear it from your lips, to see it in your eyes.

Stay.

Just that simple word.

You, over there, sleepy, beautiful, and, for a very brief second, vulnerable in a way I have never seen you be.

Me, over here, tentatively placing my hand on your leg, you not pulling away. My hand resting there, your eyes closed. The closest we’ve been. The closest we’ve let ourselves be.

I just wanted to hear that one word.

Stay.

And I guess you were saying it by just letting me be there, letting me connect, letting me in for just a single moment.

And I didn’t hear it. Until it was too late. Until I broke the silence and brought us back to where we were.

I heard that simple word just as I opened my mouth and took it all away. Screamed in my head to just shut up so I could hear that word that was hanging out there, unspoken but said.

And I wanted to just take it back, to go back to just being there with you, the simplicity of my hand on your calf, your eyes closed, the quiet of the room. That moment of time, just suspended, just hanging there.

But it was gone.

And I still hoped you would say that simple word. Even as I walked away, I wanted to hear it. I wanted my phone to ring and to hear you say, come back, stay.

But I guess we’re not there yet. And I guess we’re both afraid to say that simple word.

Stay?

Stay.

Because it is not so simple. It would change everything. It would mean everything.

And maybe we’re just not ready for that.

Not yet, anyway.

Blatant self-promotion post

Huge news! "Mastermind" has been selected to compete for a $250 grant through Patron of the Arts to help with festival submissions. The whole thing is driven by Facebook so if you have a Facebook account, help us out!

Please "like" Patron of the Arts page:

http://www.facebook.com/patronofthearts

And then go to the Mastermind link and "like" Mastermind (near the comment box on the bottom).

http://www.facebook.com/patronofthearts#!/photo.php?fbid=486399397874&set=a.486398867874.260373.106420007874

Two quick steps, one quick vote, and you can help "Mastermind" take over the world. Please repost and help us out.


For those of you who haven't been following this blog very long, I am a filmmaker and "Mastermind" is a pet project of mine, which I shot last year. Last summer, it made its world premiere at Comic-Con, which was amazing! But I don't want to stop there. However, financially, it's expensive sending films out to festivals so this grant could cover submission fees, publicity, etc. So if you can help out, that would be awesome!