Drinking and drawing

One of the favorite things in my life is the Original Drink and Draw Social Club. Every Thursday night, I get to hang out with some of the best comic book artists in the world. Trust me, they are...

And they treat me and everyone else there like a peer. It's safe, it's fun, it's encouraging and it's just amazing. I will have a blog up shortly about the mentoring I am receiving with these guys but for now, here are a couple of drawings from tonight's Drink and Draw. Both are graphite on paper... Enjoy...

"Embrace"



"In Your Arms"

Perfect

“Sometimes is never quite enough/If you’re flawless/then you’ll win my love…”

Theme song of my life that I’m trying to change.

I’m not perfect.

But I have spent my life trying to be perfect. And that’s, I think, one of the cores of my problems.

Perfect - “having all the required or desirable elements, qualities, or characteristics; as good as it is possible to be.”

How does one be perfect? It’s not humanly possible. But yet, I expect that that’s the expectation - I must be perfect. I must do everything well. Because to not do it well means that I’m bad and pathetic and less than.

In my previous life, everything had a value, everything was evaluated within an inch of its life. When I thought I did something that was beautiful and incredible and amazing, I was always informed that I wasn’t and that it wasn’t. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I believed that criticism and learned the lesson that I would never be perfect and that I should just quit trying.

My therapist was the first one to let me in on the secret that imperfection is beautiful. And, for the most part, I’ve embraced that and my flaws and accepted them and let go of the desire to be perfect.

Except when it comes to men.

I’m always terrified that I’m doing something wrong and they’re gonna see I’m not perfect. And the idea that I’m not perfect, that I’m not good enough has only been reinforced by those who have left. I did something wrong, I didn’t meet expectations, so therefore, bye.

And I struggle to realize that it’s not me, it’s them. Well, maybe not all me and not all them. It’s somewhere in the middle.

But as much as I try, there is that lingering voice saying, “if you’re flawless, then you’ll win my love.”

And, of course, this leads me back to the Filmmaker.

He, of all the men in my life, has embraced me for exactly who I am. I don’t get an expectation of perfect from him…. but I put the expectation of perfect on me when I’m with him.
Because I’m afraid he’ll see the imperfection and leave, like all the others.

And where this has reared its ugly head lately is, well, in the… um… shall we say… bedroom? (Can’t believe I’m going to write about this but I am…)

My sexual experience is almost non-existent. I have been with exactly four men - two ex-husbands, one little dalliance, and the Filmmaker.

And the Filmmaker has quite a plethora of experience, compared to me. Of course, compared to me, the Virgin Mary was a slut.

And despite the fact that the rest of the relationship is great and wonderful and “perfect”, this is the one area I’m still nervous about. Sometimes, it’s over the moon and out of the park and earth-shattering. And sometimes, I feel like I can’t find the rhythm and that I’m horribly inept.

And because of his having more experience, on those less than perfect nights, it makes me worry that I’m not good enough, I’m not perfect. And if I’m not perfect, he’ll be gone to be with someone who does it all better and knows what to do and how to do it and how to find the rhythm every single time. Cuz those women exist, right?

And I know it’s silly because I get no sign from him that there’s anything wrong. We always get things going in the right direction eventually and it’s always good. Sometimes, it’s spectacular… those are the best nights/mornings/days. And no matter how it ends, we always end up wrapped up together, warm and cuddly and happy.

So what’s my problem?

“Sometimes is never quite enough…”

And the new lesson is to learn to push that phrase away and just feel the energy between us. As long as his arms are around me at the end of it all and as long as he doesn’t pull away from me and push me away, that’s what’s important.

And I also had a very weird realization last night. Go with me on this…

I realized how much my ex missed out on simple joys in life and how much he must miss out on a daily basis.

I realized that one of the things I love with the Filmmaker is that after we make love, we curl up so close, so tight, so interconnected and intimate. And I love it almost more than the act itself. And on nights when he doesn’t let me go almost all night, those are the best.

Because I realized that my compulsive/obsessive ex would never cuddle immediately after we made love. (Okay, probably TMI but here we go… ) He had a thing about cleanliness so, after we made love, he would immediately get out of bed and go into the bathroom to, well, clean up. And that usually turned into ten minutes of him cleaning and tidying while I waited for him to come back to bed. And then, finally, when he was done with all that, we’d finally spoon together to fall asleep, all the passion gone, all the intimacy dispersed. Just his arms around me because that’s what we did.

But he missed those beautiful moments after. Those very special, very intimate moments where the passion is still in the air…

Oh, wait…

That would mean there was passion to begin with. Sorry, that’s a bit of a diss but it’s true. My ex was not one you would call passionate. And that’s another weird realization.

My ex never had passion. Never allowed himself to have passion. Occasionally, I would see a glimpse of what he might be able to feel but he never let himself really let it go. Part of it is the fact that he has Asperger’s syndrome and is just simply not able to access that part of himself. And so he was never able to convey that desire, that passion that the Filmmaker does. My ex just is not capable of that.

And not just passion for me, but my ex lacks passion for much of anything. He tries, he really does. And maybe he feels as much as he’s able to.

But he’s lost so much by not being able to let that go.

Even something as simple as a meal would suffer because he had to do the dishes -- and I mean all the dishes -- before he would sit down to eat. And then he would complain about the dinner being cold, after he’s been at the sink for ten minutes, cleaning.

“If you’re flawless, then you’ll win my love…”

So I don’t know how this all ties together - his lack of passion, his lack of intimacy and now my fear of screwing things up in the bedroom. But somehow, it’s all tied together.

And it makes me sad for my ex that he missed out on those beautiful moments between us that could have been. Because those are really, truly the moments I treasure with the Filmmaker. The other night, I don’t think I left his embrace more than a few minutes at a time after we made love. And it’s not every night that it’s like that but in the short time with the Filmmaker, there have been more nights like that than I ever had in my whole marriage. And there is beauty in those moments, there is wonder in those moments. Those are the moments to treasure, not waste by leaving the one you love waiting for you to share those moments.

And I hope that my ex is able to find at least one of those moments somewhere in his life, whether it’s making love to someone he loves and being able to be messy and sloppy and just stay there with her while she wants him to hold her, or being able to just sit down and enjoy dinner with her, or just be able to let go of the control and just have some fucking passion for once, just once, just… once.

Let go of perfect. Because someone will love you, flaws and all.

All I've ever learned from love...

My favorite line in “Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen is “all I’ve ever learned from love/is how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya.”

And as I listened to this beautiful song this morning, it hit me.

You will leave me.

You’ve already told me that. It’s just a matter of when.

You will leave me.

You outdrew me.

And you were honest, so I can’t be surprised.

You will leave me.

And I can stay right here, right now, and be with you and enjoy every single moment of your arms around me, the look in your eyes, the touch of your hand. And I can savor each moment, knowing that it might be the last one, knowing that you’re going to be gone one day, sooner or later.

Or I can choose to leave now, break my own heart, tear myself away before it becomes impossible.

Maybe it would have been better if you had disappeared. Just vanished into the ether. Because that, I can handle. I’ve handled it many times before.

But you came back. And that just made me fall harder, which I don’t know if you knew that would happen. You came back and I handed you my heart again, despite telling myself I wouldn’t … because you will leave me. I knowingly handed it to you even as I thought about the repercussions.

“All I’ve ever learned from love/is how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya.”

Now I need to choose whether to outdraw you…

And my skin is painfully new...

(Not entirely sure this post is going to make sense to anybody but me, but, oh, well... Read at your own risk...)

There’s a Melissa Etheridge song, “Please Forgive Me”, that seems to sum up this relationship with the Filmmaker, at least on my end.

“Please forgive me/if I don’t know what to do/It’s an old fire/this familiar desire/and my skin is painfully new.”

I’m learning slowly but surely how to work my way through the landmines of this relationship. And it doesn’t help that there are still landmines left behind from the brutal experience that was my marriage. And every once in a while, one of those dormant mines goes off.

As it did this week.

The Filmmaker had a birthday and I guess I pushed a bit hard to spend time with him on his birthday, because, well, that’s what one does when one cares about someone. He behaved in the way I’ve come to expect from the men in my life - he ran away. Didn’t return emails, texts, phone calls asking if we could do something. Okay, seriously, two emails over four days, one text and one phone call. So it wasn’t like I was inundating him with communication. However, it didn’t matter because what I got back was radio silence.

Boom.

Landmine.

In my past experience, particularly with CB and with the Poet, radio silence means the end. That’s it. We’re done and I’m too chickenshit to tell you about it. Instead, I’ll go hide over here and totally ignore the fact that you exist, until I see you face-to-face, and then I’ll pretend everything’s fine. That’s what radio silence means to me.

Boom.

I was hurt, angry, stunned because things had been going so very well. He hadn’t behaved like most guys I know, constantly surprising me in the way he interacts with me, in this relationship. I had high hopes that he wasn’t going to become one of those men who ran away and left me standing by the side of the road, wondering what the hell happened. Wondering what I did wrong to drive them away. Wondering what happened to “I’ll never hurt you” and “I treasure our friendship so I’ll always be here”. He had entered that realm.

Boom.

I spent a very long night, agonizing over what to do. So I did the mature thing - I blocked him on Facebook. Yeah, cuz that’s today’s equivalent of tearing up photos and throwing out love letters - unfriend/block someone.

I don’t know why I did it. Well, maybe I do. I kept obsessively checking to see if he posted pictures of whatever amazingly fun birthday event he was attending while ignoring me. And I couldn’t take it. So I reverted to a 15-year-old and blocked him.

Yeah, I know. Stupid. But he unfriended me later that night so I guess we were even on the childishness scale.

I didn’t sleep, I cried a lot, broken-hearted that this wonderful man could do this to me. I spent a long night talking to my two amazing best friends, who alternately kicked the virtual shit out of him and gave me possible reasons why this could be happening.

Boom.

In my life, silence is deadly. When I did something wrong, my ex would look down at me like a father looks at a naughty child and he would say nothing. It was up to me to figure out what grievous sin I had committed. And there was silence if he disagreed with anything I did, which was everything. Silence was punishment, silence was deadly, silence was ugly.

My family pretty much ignores me unless they want something. I don’t get long, intimate phone calls from them where we discuss all the little tiny details of our lives. My sister is currently trying as hard as she can to reach out and be more connected. And I appreciate that. But after a lifetime of being treated like a non-existent human being, it’s hard to trust that even this effort is going to last very long. My contact with my family never lasts more than five minutes. My accomplishments rarely are acknowledged and I’m treated like an afterthought most of the time.

And there’s the other silence that’s hard to explain. It’s the silence of not being heard. It’s the silence of standing in the middle of a room, screaming to be heard and being ignored by everyone around you. Asking for help, asking to explain, asking for them to just listen. And then getting nothing back. Empty, hard, hollow spaces with no voice, no answers, nothing but silence.

I’ve spent my whole life in that silence and getting this from the Filmmaker, with whom I’ve had a great stream of communication, cut me to the quick. Here we go again, another guy who said he wouldn’t hurt me, who proclaimed our friendship meant the world to him, and yet, radio silence.

Boom.

And like any mature woman, I gathered the few mementos that I have accrued in our short time together and stopped short of throwing them away. Okay, yeah, I know. Overreact much?

I kept going over the last time we were together in my mind, trying to figure out what I had done wrong to trigger this. And I came to the usual conclusion - I got too close. Again.

That always seems to be the trigger. Because when I care for someone, it’s with all my heart and soul. It’s big and it’s loud and it’s intense. And most men can’t handle that. Madame H once said she hoped that I would find someone who could handle the whole impact of me. They don’t know what to do when someone cares for them THAT MUCH. So they run. They hide. They disappear.

Boom.

In the morning, after virtually no sleep, I finally gathered the courage to call the Filmmaker, because I figured at least if he told me we were done, I would know and I could deal with it. And I wasn’t gonna let another man get away with just vanishing. Own up to your shit, tell me you’re done and we can go our merry way.

And, first surprise, he actually answered the phone. Tried to play it off as though nothing had happened.

Now, this is where I usually buckle and succumb and just let it be. But I’m learning to not do that. I’m learning to speak up. Because at least if I’m heard, the end result almost doesn’t matter.

So I called him on his behavior. There were excuses and there were reasons but eventually, he admitted he was being a dick and he just didn’t want to answer me.

Boom.

Here it comes, I thought. “We’ll be friends forever but…” and then disappear into the darkness.

I told him that radio silence, to me, means that we’re done. And if we’re done, just tell me.

Bo-- wait.

He said, no, I still really want to see you.

Um, what? Wait. Where’s your script? You’re not supposed to say that. You’re supposed to say, I like you as a friend and we’re done but we’ll still be friends… and then you disappear. That’s what I know. That’s what I expect.

The whole conversation took a turn I didn’t expect but I had always hoped for. We talked. I told him how hurt I was by his behavior and why. I was angry and hurt and I cried a bit but I didn’t turn into crazy, screaming, high maintenance woman that I’m always afraid I will turn into and probably the type of woman most of these guys have had in their lives. I just said, just tell me what you want, what’s going on. Just talk to me. Softly, quietly, just said, talk to me.

And he did. He told me how he felt, what he thought. And I will keep that for me because, well, because. He opened up and really talked to me. And he heard me. He heard me say I need communication. He heard me say I’m really happy about where we are and that we were on the same page about so many things. And he talked. And I listened.

At the end of the conversation, I asked where we went from there. He said we should process what we talked about and talk soon. And then we hung up.

Huh.

Not what I expected. I was heard. I was understood. And it made it easier for me to hear him, to make sure he was understood. Without having to shout over the white noise of the radio silence, I was able to make myself heard by someone who turned the white noise off.

“Please forgive me/if I don’t know what to do/It’s an old fire/this familiar desire/and my skin is painfully new.”

And we solved the Facebook thing. Cuz it’s just dumb but that’s what we do.

And then -- radio silence for more than a day. Ah, well, at least I got heard. At least I said my piece. This is where the disappearance would take place. A little later than expected but at least it’s familiar. At least I know how to do this. Cry, sob, be broken-hearted, pine, rinse, repeat. I can do this. I’ve done it a half dozen times before.

Bo--

Wait.

He texted me. Wants to have a drink. Even acknowledged that it was last minute, as per our conversation when I said I didn’t mind spontaneity but maybe planning something once in a while might be good. Did I want to have a drink?

Wait. What?

You’re supposed to be gone. You’re not supposed to do this. Because this is exactly what I want you to do. I want you to reach out to me. I left you alone because I heard you and I heard that you needed some time. Because that’s what you wanted. But I never get what I want. I never get the guy who reaches back and does what I want them to do, which is just talk to me, just don’t disappear. Just be a man and stay.

And I waited like a 16-year-old on her first date for him to pick me up. I ran scenarios over and over again. Would he take me for a drink just to break up with me? Would there be more conversation? Would he profess undying love for me? I had no idea because I’ve never been here before. I figured I’d let him set the pace, see where he wanted things to go since this all started because of his feelings, of what he felt coming from me, and what he needed to process.

He pulled up in the driveway to pick me up and my heart was in my throat. I wanted him to open the door, lean over and kiss me, just like it’s always been. I wanted that look in his eyes that I adore, that tells me he adores me. That’s all I wanted.

And that’s exactly what happened. All I wanted. No rehashing of what we talked about, no continued discussion and beating the issue into the ground. Just him leaning over and whispering, come here, and kissing me.

Yes, it was a little tentative for a bit as we each gently reached out to see if there were boundaries, to see if there were things we needed to approach with delicacy. And then we both breathed out and we were back to where we should be. And it was easy again. His eyes smiling at me, the intimacy clicking back in place.

And when we finally got back to the passion that we both have for each other, there was no need for words.

And he held me a little closer all night. He’s always been close when we sleep, cuddling up and spooning behind me. We usually fall asleep wrapped all up in each other and eventually roll away to our own sides of the bed, occasionally finding our way together during the night. But last night, he rarely let me go. Granted, we were in my smaller bed compared to the gigantic bed he has, but it was more than that. It was him pulling my arm around him when I rested my hand on his side. It was him moving into me whenever I shifted, getting closer, pulling me nearer. And when we woke up, it took a long time to let go.

Exactly what I wanted.

Exactly what I don’t know what to do with.

This is uncharted territory. He continues to surprise me and astound me by not behaving like anyone else before him. And although I know this relationship probably has a very near expiration date on it, and it will break my heart when it ends and when he’s not thisclose, I am optimistic that we may be able to stay in each other’s lives, to be what the others promised - friends, companions, two people who care for each other very much, regardless of what has gone before. To be exactly what I want in my life - a grown up man who can handle his shit.

Shut up!

Had a lovely night/day with the Filmmaker last night/today.

(SIDE NOTE: I’m really enjoying how many of my blogs are starting with that statement.)

Oh, and by the way:

Dear Filmmaker,

If you’re reading this blog, please don’t freak out. This blog is the unadulterated, unfiltered things going on in my head. I hope you understand that and just take it at face value. I’m happy to discuss any of this with you, should you get past this point. You’re awesome. Luv.

Okay, back to the blog. Which, by the way, I had written and decided it was too long and too complicated and too much rehashing of stuff I’ve already said.

So anyway, cutting to the chase.

As I lay in his arms, supposedly falling asleep, I just couldn’t. And I know I’ve had trouble falling asleep at his place, which I’ve always put off as his snoring keeping me awake. (I apparently snore also, so…) And I thought I’d been getting used to it because I have been sleeping better, once I fall asleep. But I still have trouble falling asleep.

As I tossed and turned last night, trying not to wake him, I found myself getting more and more frustrated. I was very tired. I had worked hard all day and had done a bunch of work at his place that night. We both dozed off on the couch watching Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. So I should be fine falling asleep.

But at 2:45 AM, I was still staring at the ceiling. And suddenly, I realized why.

When I’m at home, I fall asleep to the TV -- or lately, to Netflix and “Torchwood” or “Doctor Who” or “Firefly” or anything else in my instant queue. I always thought it was because my last few apartments have been noisy and the sound of the TV helps me tune out the exterior noise.

But last night, I realized it wasn’t the external noise keeping me awake, it was the internal noise.

Now, it wasn’t the usual clowns yammering away at me. This was a bit more disturbing because it was more like something out of the Screwtape Letters, where a senior devil is teaching a junior devil how to subtlely seduce their subject over to the dark side. It’s not by being big and loud, like my clowns usually are. It’s about being quiet and sneaky, not letting the subject know you’re even doing it.

So in my head, the Screwtapes were whispering things that didn’t seem to be terribly wrong at first. Just going over the evening -- in finite detail -- every single moment -- every single word. He said that? Why did he say that? No, that’s fine. He didn’t mean anything. And he didn’t spoon with you. Hm. That must mean something, right? Although he doesn’t always spoon so it shouldn’t be a surprise. But maybe it means something because he doesn’t always do it. What did I do to make him not want to do that? Was there anything else I had done during the evening? Probably not. But maybe we should go back and look at it all again… and again… and again… because somewhere in there, we’ll figure out what we did wrong because there must have been something done that was wrong because…

And on and on and on and on.

Nothing big and loud. Nothing obvious and screaming. Just a slow, steady, quiet whisper, trying to lead me down a well-worn path created by my family and most of the men in my life - somewhere, somehow, some way, I had fucked things up and he would leave. I would say good-bye to him today at the end of our time together and I would never, ever see him again. Because I had fucked it up. I had done something wrong. But if I could figure it out before I left, I could maybe stop it.

At 2:45 AM, I wanted to just scream out “SHUT UP!” but I thought that the Filmmaker might find it a bit disturbing to have the woman who’s sleeping next to him screaming out to something that’s not there.

But in my head, I did scream. I demanded that the whispers stop. I figuratively put my fingers in my ears and refused to listen. And instead of getting stuck in the exploration of my faults, I took a deep breath and focused on what had really happened that evening.

He suggested I come over and stay the night so we could make an appointment we had in the early afternoon. I could have come over any time in the morning but he suggested coming over and staying the night. He wrapped me up in his arms when I got there. Cuddled up on the couch with me for a while as we talked about… nothing, really. His legs over mine, our fingers intertwined. Lovely dinner. His embracing me as we snuggled up later to watch Jon Stewart. The casual intimacy that has developed and become easy. And even at 2:45, I knew if I snuggled up to him, he would instinctively snuggle back.

I did nothing wrong. I did nothing to make him run away. I did nothing to warrant the ridiculous examination that was keeping me awake.

I did nothing wrong.

Wow.

How is that possible?

All my life, I’ve been wrong. About everything. About everyone. I’m always wrong, I will always do something stupid and drive him away. Because the other men I’ve lost my heart to have done exactly that - run away.

But now, I’m with someone who wants to be with me. Who wants me to be pushy and let him know I care. Who wants to be right there, thisclose, right beside me. And who doesn’t expect perfection. Who just enjoys being with me, no matter what.

And I did nothing wrong. Because there is no way to do something wrong. As long as I stay open and honest with him and trust I can talk to him, there will be no wrong.

And when he does leave (because I’m not convinced he won’t eventually), it won’t be because I did something wrong. And he won’t just disappear. He’s a grown-up and I know he’ll be honest and adult when/if he decides he’s done. And I hope he’ll always be in my life, no matter where this current version of us goes. He’s taught me so much already, I hope to learn more as we move through our lives.

And when I woke up, before him, for a change, I lay in bed, listening to him breathe, watching him sleep, and enjoying the internal silence that had fallen. The whispers tried to start up again but I just turned my focus back to the evening before and the feeling of his hand on my hip as we were curled up on the couch and the look in his eyes as he climbed into bed with me at the end of the night. The whispers faded because they realized there was nothing they could say.

I’m not saying I won’t have other nights where the whispers will be loud and proud. But finally understanding that the Screwtapes are hiding in the shadows left by the clowns, maybe it’s finally time for me to begin shutting down those sounds and letting go of the lessons I’ve been erroneously taught. I know it’s time for me to focus on the lessons I’m learning through the Filmmaker and embracing the fact that lessons don’t always have to be a bad thing. Lessons can teach me how to be stronger, to be better, to just live in the moment. To stop focusing on what was and what it was and how it was and just feeling and living and being in that second, that moment, and feeling the touch of someone who loves instead of touching the feeling left by someone who didn’t.

"Mastermind" redux

So, in 2010, I made a short film called "Mastermind" that premiered at Comic-Con that summer.

I have now taken the 40 minute film and have launched it as a web series. It is one of my favorite directing gigs ever.

Check it out. Spread the word. Graphic novel to follow soon...

http://youtu.be/0qW03e9W96k

Thanks!

Finding normal

Is this what normal feels like?

After a highly dysfunctional lifetime with my family and two difficult marriages, I suddenly find myself in normal… I don’t know what to do with that.

I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the Filmmaker to turn into some raging, crazy, angry person, for my life to just blow up in my face, because that’s what I’ve been taught.

I haven’t been taught to accept normal.

And normal feels pretty damn good right now.

Normal in that I have two jobs that I enjoy, particularly teaching fine art to children at Mission Renaissance. Love this job. Love it, love it, love it. I’ve always wanted to be a teacher and now I’ve been a teacher for almost five years. Wow. Five years. The other pay-the-rent job is kinda dull but at least I can work at home in my pajamas.

Normal is getting myself back into directing, something I love more than I can express and something I lost for a while. But I’m back now, working on projects I love with people I love.

Normal is looking forward to going back to school in a few weeks and tackling more classes towards my art degree. Despite turning 50 in less than four months, I feel 25 again and really want to get my degree.

The hardest normal for me to accept is my relationship with the Filmmaker. And even that is finding its own normal.

Falling asleep wrapped up with him is a really lovely normal. Waking up to him the same way is almost pretty fantastic.

Spending time at his place, working on my stuff in one room while he’s working on his stuff in another room, is a wonderful normal. To belong there, to be comfortable, to be accepted into his life is a beautiful normal. Makes me less crazy when I have to go home because I know I’ll be back, I know that this isn’t the last time I’ll walk through those doors, sit on that couch, be with him. That’s a huge step towards normal for me.

My favorite normal is just sitting on the couch with him, whether it’s watching Jon Stewart or curled up next to him, listening to him play the ukulele and singing along, or just sitting together, hands intertwined, the casual intimacy between us while we quietly talk about what we’ve been doing, what we’re going to be doing. That comfort, that settled feeling, that sense of normal.

And it might be ridiculous to those of you who have had normal all your life but for someone like me, who hasn’t, normal is disorienting, is disjointed, is cause for alarm. Because my normal doesn’t feel like this. My normal is fucked up and screwed up and hurtful and painful and wrong.

But slowly, with help from my two amazing sidekick best friends, I’m learning to accept normal and I’m learning that I can let go of my expectations of disaster and pain and awful. That normal is normal and is what I should expect. And this blissful normal is what I should expect for the rest of my life.

So here’s to normal, here’s to simple, here’s to uncomplicated. Long may it reign.

Of course, then what would I have to write about? ☺

Oh, that's what I wanted...

Okay, let’s try this again…

Started this entry earlier in the evening but it went wildly awry so let’s see if I can wrangle it in.

I realize why this whole thing with the Filmmaker is making me just slightly insane.

It makes me miss being in a Relationship. That’s Relationship with a capital R.

We’re currently in a relationship with a lower case r. Or maybe somewhere in between - a superscript R maybe?

What’s the difference?

A relationship with a capital R implies commitment, it implies consistency, it implies the idea that that person will always be there for you. They’re the one you go to when you have problems, the one you turn to when things break down, the one who you can plan with six months, a year, two years out without wondering if that’s going to freak them out.

A lower case R implies casualness, impulsivity, spontaneity. It implies that maybe that person will be there, if you really, really need them to be. If your car breaks down, they will probably rescue you but they may not be exactly the person to go to when your life breaks down. You plan maybe as far out as six days if it’s something really important. But the lower case relationship always feels like it’s on the edge of not existing, so it’s exciting and breathless and a bit scary.

A superscript R is where I am right now.

And it makes me miss the capital R relationship.

I realized this in the middle of the day yesterday. I had gone over to the Filmmaker’s Thursday night to meet him and go out to this thing at a comic book shop (yes, we’re both geeks, get over it). And then we were going out on Friday night as well. And we didn’t really discuss the fact that I’d probably be at his place from Thursday night through this morning (Saturday morning) but I packed enough stuff just in case.

And yesterday, I suddenly missed the capital R relationship.

We got up lazily, letting the morning wake us up. He had a quick, tiny shoot to do in the morning for a web series he does and he asked me to help. Then he spent most of the day upstairs in his office, working on plugging this little bit into the episode so he could meet a deadline. I spent the day on the couch, drawing illustrations for a children’s book I’m doing and then reading “High Fidelity” by Nick Hornsby.

And suddenly, I felt like we were in a capital R relationship.

We’ve gotten to the comfortable point where we don’t have to fill every minute with conversation. We fall asleep on the couch while watching Jon Stewart. There was the unspoken assumption that I would simply be at his place while he worked since we had plans so close together.

But we’re not there yet. Superscript R, not a full capital R.

And I realized that part of the reason I kind of freak out when we’re not together is that, at times, this feels like a capital R relationship.

And I miss that.

I miss being married. I miss being with that person, every day, all the time. I miss calling him to see what he wants for dinner and what we’re doing for the evening. I miss knowing that I will fall asleep with him every single night and wake up to him every single morning. I miss the just having him there, being there, being together always.

And I’m not saying I want to marry the Filmmaker. I don’t know that I ever want to get married again. Or even live with somebody again.

But I miss having that someone be there all the time.

Because my favorite thing is curling up with him at night, once we settle into bed, my head on his shoulder, his arm pulling me in thisclose, tangled up with one another. I love that when I roll over a bit, he now automatically cuddles up behind me, wrapped around me this time.

And I love waking up in the morning, when he slowly opens his eyes and realizes I’m awake and opens his arms up and pulls me in again, retangling, reconnecting, our bodies fitting together so well and so instinctively now that it’s effortless.

And during the night, when we’re twisted together and he’s almost asleep, his unconscious will pulls me unexpectedly closer, with just enough awareness that it takes my breath away.

And in those moments, all I can think is that I wish I were here every night, tangled up with him every night, and waking to his embrace every morning.

And I miss the capital R.

I miss knowing that he’ll be there (or someone will be there) when I get home. I miss the sharing of space and the sharing of a life. I miss that casual intimacy that comes from the capital R.

And as I lazed on his couch yesterday, drawing, napping, reading, occasionally going up to check on his progress and see if he needed anything, I realized we’re just shy of the capital R. We’re superscript. I was so comfortable there, feeling no rush to be anywhere else. I was not only welcome there, I was expected to be there. When he said he had a shoot and asked me to help, there was no assumption that I would go home during the long period between the shoot and when we were going out. Plenty of time for me to go home, for him to work, for him to pick me up, for us to just be lower case r.

But there was no expectation that I would leave between Thursday afternoon and Saturday morning. No discussion about whether or not I’d stay that long, no decision for me to leave, no feeling that I wasn’t supposed to be there, that I was in the way.

And I yearned for that capital R.

And I don’t know if I want that capital R with the Filmmaker. It certainly feels like that’s where we’re going but I’m trying not to expect that. Because this relationship is enough lower case r that it could all end tomorrow.

But that sense of belonging in his condo, that sense of expectation that I would simply be there felt so good and so right and so comfortable, it made me ache to be in a place where that was every single day. To be with someone with that casual expectation of being with them always, all the time, every single freakin’ day.

And I missed it so very much.

Because as bad as my marriage was towards the end, he was always there. And we fell asleep every night, spooned up, him being wrapped around me. And maybe at some time, maybe earlier in the marriage before we hurt each other irreparably, maybe it felt like it does with the Filmmaker - safe, warm, loved, effortless. Maybe his arms didn’t always feel like a cage.

And maybe that’s why it takes us so long to leave any relationship, because we live for that sense of belonging to someone, that sense of place with someone. Because if we leave them, how will we ever find that again? How can we ever occupy a space with someone again? So we stay and we live within that expectation of being there while at the same time, clawing to get out.

And that’s what makes me afraid of the capital R relationship. I don’t want to let that capital R take over my life, the way I’ve allowed it to before. Part of me wants to keep the Filmmaker a lower case r because then I can keep him out of areas of my life where I’m afraid to let him in. I can keep a distance and keep him at arm’s length emotionally and not invite him into the places I invited others before, others like the Poet, who I tried to share with and only ended up with empty spaces inside once they’ve gone.

And part of me wants to keep that distance because when this one ends -- and in my mind, it will end because others who I’ve invited in and who have gotten not even this close have always left -- this one’s gonna hurt like a mofo because he’s moved into the places I’ve tried to keep him out of. And if I let him in any more, I’m not sure I will be able to keep him a lower case r.

And I wonder if he feels this pull, this draw, this looming capital R. And does that freak him out a little bit, because sometimes I think he works very hard to keep us at the lower case level so he won’t have to commit, he won’t have to be there every day, for his own reasons, as deep and as complicated as my own reasons are probably.

But I miss it. And sometimes, as much as I hate to admit it, it makes me miss him, my ex, because he was always there, whether I wanted him to be or not.

But for now, I’ll have to settle for those moments of capital R, those glimpses of what could be, if either or both of us would let it. And live for those capital R moments, when he holds me, when he’s next to me, just being, just living, just existing. And push away the desire for the capital and just embrace the superscript.

Resolutions

Jane at Midlifebloggers.com had a challenge today for those of us who blog. The challenge was to deconstruct at least one of our resolutions for this year.

So here we go…

Last year, my resolution was to work on having a peaceful heart. That meant not letting the crazy get to me, to try to rebuild my shattered, busted-ass broken heart and try to make it healthy enough, after years of abuse, to maybe be able to let someone else in.

And I achieved that. I worked very hard in 2011 to keep focused on my peaceful heart and it’s brought me a very special someone who, through just being his wonderful, easy self, is helping me unlearn the lessons from my past.

And I think that’s my resolution for 2012 - unlearn the lessons from my past.

And there are so many lessons to unlearn.

The biggest lesson to unlearn is that I am always wrong. Between my family and my ex-husband, I’ve had it almost literally beaten into me that no matter what decision I make, it’s bad, it’s wrong and there will be punishment to follow, mostly emotional punishment but punishment nonetheless, usually in the form of being ignored or dismissed or treated like I don’t exist.

And I need to learn that I am not always wrong. Occasionally, yes. But always?

And I need to work past that idea of being wrong so that I don’t double and triple and quadruple guess myself when I want to do something as simple as text the man I’m dating to see if he wants to see me.

And I need to learn to trust my instincts again in my personal life. After spending years being told my decisions are wrong, my instincts in my personal life have gotten buried. I don’t know if what I feel is right because what I feel has been wrong before. And I’ve learned my lessons well - I don’t make good decisions.

And that simple lesson - that every decision I make is wrong - leads to so many other issues and emotional grenades in my life. It creates a huge tsunami of fear when it comes to everything I do personally (professionally, I have no fear), especially in this brand new relationship with the Filmmaker. Because if every decision I make is wrong, then there’s no way that this can last, that it’s just a matter of time before I make a wrong decision and he will vanish from my life.

And that simple lesson makes me afraid to participate in this relationship. It leaves me terrified about doing the simplest thing because, in the end, it will mean he will be gone, just simply vanish because I made the wrong decision.

But in reflecting on this idea that all my decisions are wrong, there is one decision that was not.

And that was the decision to leave him. Leave my husband of almost 15 years after finally realizing how deep the emotional abuse went, after finally realizing that if I stayed with him, I’d be dead.

That decision I made in a split second, totally instigated by my deepest, most primal instinct, is the one decision I know, without a doubt, was the best and most not-wrong decision I have ever made in my life. Because if I hadn’t made that decision, I wouldn’t be here today. I’d be dead, either at my own hand or possibly at his. That I do know, without a doubt, without hesitation.

So my challenge for 2012 is to unlearn that lesson, unlearn that I am always wrong. To learn that my instinct is strong and right and powerful. To learn that, even if a decision is wrong, it’s not catastrophic. And if a single wrong decision about something as silly as a text message is going to drive the Filmmaker away, well, then, he really isn’t the right guy for me to be with right now.

Not sure how to do this and not sure what it means but I’m going to work very hard to not let the echoes of my past not just interfere in my present, but pull me out of my present and drag me, kicking and screaming, back into my past.

And then maybe my peaceful heart and my restored instinct will let me move on to whatever the next stage is as I approach 50 and ponder the next thirty years of my life.

Please, sir, may I...

Just when I think I’ve dealt with one thing, another stupid thing crops up.

I survived the Filmmaker being gone for more than ten days for the holidays without freaking out too much, which is a huge step for me. Like most men, he’s not very communicative when we’re not together and I’m learning that that’s acceptable. With others in my life, particularly CB and The Poet, no communication means that they’re done, our friendship is over and they’ve left me behind. But not every guy has that idea so I’m learning to let that one go.

And I was proud of how uncrazy I was throughout most of the time he was gone. And he had his kids for a good portion of the time he was on holiday so I didn’t want to bother him because he has precious little time with his children.

And he got back late Monday night and contacted me first thing Tuesday to come over. We had a really great, passionate reunion, spent a really good day together and everything was lovely.

And then today, I lost it.

Over a simple thing.

Over wanting to text him to see if he wanted to get together.

Totally froze me.

Because I’m not allowed to ask. Not by him.

No, wait, that’s wrong. My past has told me I’m not allowed to ask.
In fact, on Tuesday when I saw him, I told him to let me know when he wanted to get together again, as he’s been kind of driving that part of our relationship. And he simply said, you, too.

You, too.

As simple as it sounds, it kind of made me stop.

I’m not allowed to reach out because “I’m too much” and I scare guys away. That’s the tape playing in my head. Can’t tell him you want to see him because… well, the chickenshit men who came before couldn’t handle it.

But he can because he wants to be with me. Wow. That’s a change.

So I woke up this morning, realized I had nothing on my schedule for tonight. And I thought, I’ll text him and see what he’s up to. He gave me permission to do just that.

And then I froze.

And I couldn’t figure out why.

Just a simple text. A handful of words - “what do you have on your schedule tonight” to a man I’m sleeping with regularly and who grabbed me and held me so hard yesterday that I wasn’t sure he was going to let me know, who showed me in that moment how much he cares about me and how much he missed me.

And I couldn’t text him.

Because…

Because…

Because…

Because the echoes of my past have not left my head. Because I still have the residual of being told that every decision I made was wrong. Because I still am terrified that something I do is going to be wrong and I’m going to be punished for it. Because I have been taught well. Because I have been brainwashed well. Because I believed all the bullshit I was fed for more than 16 years.

I stared at my phone for a very long time, wondering what would happen if I sent a simple, silly text asking the man I’m involved with what he was doing for the evening because I wanted to see him. Baaaddd. Stupid. Don’t do it, he won’t like it.

Because…

Because I needed permission to do this. Which he gave me. Which is ridiculous.

But I agonized foolishly over this for about an hour. Seriously. An hour. Over a simple text message to the man I’m crazy about, who is crazy about me, because my abusive ex taught me to question every feeling, every thought, every decision and find them wanting.

I’m so afraid that I’m going to do something wrong and upset this beautiful, delicate balance that we have. The echoes bouncing around in my head shatter the seven years of confidence I have built up and make me go back to where I was when I finally left him - broken, afraid, terrified, destroyed, lacking the ability to make the simplest decision. He taught me well.

But I pushed past the echoes and picked up my phone. It was so hard to just type in, hey, you, how’s your day going? And then to type in, “what’re you doing tonight?”. And then waiting in terror for… I don’t know what. Something horrible. Something terrible. Something that told me I finally screwed this up, that I finally made the Filmmaker hit his limit.

And guess what?

Nothing happened. Or at least nothing catastrophic. He had to work with his production partner on their web series tonight. That’s it. Nothing more.

I battled back the clowns who were screaming that he was lying, that he was disguising the fact he didn’t want to see me, all the echoes and the recriminations from my past rising up to drown out everything.

And I shut them down and just replied simply, great, have fun.

Because, above the noise and the chatter and the clowns, I could feel his arms around me. I could see his face smiling down at me. I could remember how he held me after the passion yesterday, cradling me in his arms, holding my hand against his face, letting me know with every touch, with every caress that this is exactly where he wanted to be and that I am who he wants to be with.

And I hung on to that, marveling at how ridiculous I allowed myself to be over a stupid text message.

But that’s what years of abuse do to you. They make you question, they make you uncertain, they make you so broken that it takes years to put yourself back together.

And with each silly little triumph, like sending a text message, I build myself back together. The echoes get softer and the clowns die off, one by one.

And as this relationship grows -- or ends -- there will be lessons that will continue to be learned, but hopefully lessons that are less and less difficult and lessons that will be filled with growth first and pain last.

And so, I go to bed tonight, alone and a bit lonely, knowing he’s only across town from me. But also knowing that very soon, I will be back in his arms again. And that’s a huge thing -- a man who isn’t afraid of me, a man who can take the full impact of me. That’s a very, very new thing…

I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want

Less than 60 days.

That’s how long I’ve been seeing the Filmmaker.

Wild how much can change in 60 days.

(SIDE NOTE: The Filmmaker wants to read this blog. Heart-stopping fear that he might actually do it cuz THAT won’t freak him out…)

And, of course, the clowns has been battling hard to circle their little clown cars and tear this thing apart.

Because I don’t know what this thing is yet. We spend about half the week together, very spontaneous, not a lot of planning. Comfortable, easy, simple.

And the clowns hate that.

They want to hang signs and define things because that makes it easier to say it’s not what it’s supposed to be. But if there is no “what it’s supposed to be”, how can they tear things apart?

But they’ve been trying. Kicking their little squeaky shoes against my heart, trying to break in and break things up.

And they’re really pissed because he is doing almost exactly what I want someone in my life to do. He continually surprises me, almost like he’s reading my mind. He does a million simple, considerate, thoughtful things constantly, which just blows my mind.

But the one thing the clowns have managed to sneak through is the word “almost”.

And that one single word gives me pause.

Almost.

What’s not quite there that makes me whisper “almost”? And is it really something that’s not there or is it my clown-brain trying to find something wrong so I can run back to my solitary life and go, “See? I tried. It didn’t work. Nobody will ever love me again and I’ll die in the snow.” (Not gonna explain “die in the snow” - way too long and probably not that interesting to you all.)

Almost.

And it makes me wonder, will there ever not be an “almost”?

I don’t know how to do this.

Sixteen years of emotional abuse and seven years alone have left me unprepared to be in a relationship of any sort.

I’ve spent the past seven years pondering what I would want in a relationship with someone. And here I am, with someone who is smart, funny (oh, my god, funny), kind, adorable, who treats me well, who thinks I’m beautiful, and yet, I sit here, wondering if it’s going well, wondering if it’s going to still be there after he gets back from his holiday trip home.

And thinking, almost.

We’re in that limbo between casual and serious. Spending so much time together. Lots of spontaneity. Comfortable enough to fall asleep on the couch watching Jon Stewart. Yet very little thought of making plans beyond the next day or two. Kind of touching on things we’re both doing in the future but not yet ready to say, hey, we’re gonna do this together.

Almost.

Maybe he’s just as scared of being something more at this point. He’s dated a lot. I mean, a lot. Of course, compared to me, the Pope has dated a lot. But I think he likes his life as it is, loose, easy, simple. Spends time with his kids without the complication of having a girlfriend involved in that. Having someone like me who’s there consistently but not committed.

Almost.

And part of me is also enjoying this loose, crazy, spontaneous way we are. The thrill when he does text me and say, hey, what’re you doing? And that he’s the one reaching out to me, not me constantly badgering him.

Almost.

And when we’re wrapped up in each other, his arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer if I shift the slightest bit away from him, those are the moments when there is no almost. Those are the moments of just pure honesty. There is no thought, there is no interference, there are no clowns. There’s his breath on my neck and my leg twisted up with his, his arms around my back, and there is nothing else. And the casual intimacy in the morning, when he makes breakfast and texts me from downstairs that breakfast is ready, and we just sit and talk and be, there is no almost. There just is.

But eventually, the almost sneaks back in when I leave and when I’m home and he’s not here.

And this holiday has been particularly interesting for me because he’s been gone since before Christmas. And he’s gone until after the first. Ten very long days.

And the clowns start whispering “almost”. And they want me to think about what’s missing, what’s not quite there, what’s “almost”.

And, like any relationship, it’s way too easy to find what makes it almost. And the clowns fool me for a second into thinking about what I want and that maybe this isn’t exactly what I want.

So let’s explore this.

What I want, what I really, really want.

A man who treats me like I’m the most beautiful, sexy, intelligent woman on earth. Um, check.

A man who is smart and curious and fascinated by the world around him. Um, check. He does the New York Times crossword and listens to KCRW and NPR and has an amazing library of eclectic books.

A man who knows how to laugh and how to embrace joy. Quadruple check. He plays ukulele and sings to me. He lives for funny, whether it’s movies or TV, anything that makes him laugh.

A man who is just easy, who is healthy, who is a grown up. Check.

A man who sees my broken, busted, chrome-plated heart and who knows how to handle it, without fanfare, without making a big deal about it, who can just cradle it in his hands and make me feel comforted. Not enough checks in the world for this one.

Of course, he’s not perfect. Nobody is. There are things about him that give me pause, just as I’m sure there are things about me that must give him pause. I am not easy. Sixteen years of abuse leave a lot of scars, no matter how well one learns how to deal with them and no matter how much they heal. Scars are scars and those scars are what can get in the way.

The scars that make me want to define this and know what it is so I know how to deal with it. The scars that make me want to hear from him every minute that we’re apart because I’m terrified of silence. Silence equals abandonment. Silence means we’re done. Silence means I’ve done something wrong and driven him away. Silence is not my friend.

Almost.

And maybe almost is what I need. Something undefined. Something lazy and easy and loose. Something simple and beautiful and organic. Something that doesn’t fit in a box.

Something that forces me to trust. Trust in the feelings buried deep in my heart. Trust in that moment when he pulls me closer in his sleep, not letting me go. Trust that silence just means absolutely nothing. Trust that, when he gets back home, he’ll come to me and there will be laughter and passion and comfort, and the clowns will vanish, taking their “almost” with them.

Trust that I can do this. Trust that this is healthy and normal and honest. Trust that he won’t just fade away like the other chickenshit men in my life who couldn’t allow themselves to be with me. Trust that he can handle the full impact of me.

Maybe I can… almost.

If Ever I Could Love

I wear my heart on my sleeve and my emotions in my eyes.

But I’ve spent almost my whole life having my emotions negated and dismissed, to the point where I no longer felt. That’s the thing about emotional abuse. No one sees it, no one understands it. They don’t know what it’s like when every time you say something, it’s cut down and you’re told you’re wrong. Everything you feel is wrong. Everything you think is wrong. Everything you do is wrong. Every decision, every comment, every single fucking thing is wrong.

Emotions were not allowed growing up. My mother didn’t want to disrupt anything or have anything disrupted. I was told over and over and over and over again that I’m too emotional, that I’m hurt too easily, that I shouldn’t feel the way I feel because it wasn’t acceptable. So don’t feel and you won’t rock the boat.

My ex continually chastised me for feeling. Anything and everything. I was not allowed to feel. Ever. At all. If I was angry, he was more angry and would scream at me until I wasn’t angry anymore. If I was depressed, he would badger me until I wasn’t depressed anymore. If I was happy, he would undercut it until I wasn’t happy anymore. I learned to be numb. I was really, really good at being numb.

And with both my family and my marriage, I learned to do emotional algebra. Okay, if he comes home and he is tense, then I can expect one of three possible outcomes if I don’t make the right thing for dinner. So to eliminate one of those possible outcomes, I can do one of three other things. 3X multiplied by 4Y equals a whole lot of time trying to figure out the right answer.

And there never was one.

So for more than forty years of my life, I was taught anything and everything I felt was wrong. And I got very good at that lesson.

And with the Poet and the others before him walking away from those few chosen moments where I let my heart out and my emotions out, my feelings of love and affection have been added to the emotional algebraic equation.

So what does this have to do with anything?

The Filmmaker and I were at his place, watching “The New Girl”. It’s kind of amusing because there are elements of this show that parallel where we are in our budding relationship. The episode was about Jess (Zooey Deschanel) dating Justin Long’s character. They’ve been dating for a month. The Filmmaker and I have been dating just over a month. Justin Long’s character bursts out “I love you” in the middle of something. Jess is stunned and just says, “Thank you.” The episode explores the issue of when is it acceptable to say I love you.

And I’d love to say that we both looked deeply into each other’s eyes and professed our profound love for each other after less than two months. After all, it’s been so rom-com so far, why not this?

But this is real life.

And in real life, “love” is not an easy word.

Which got me to thinking.

Do I love the Filmmaker? Of course, it’s way too early to even ponder that idea. I adore him, I am crazy about him, he makes me feel amazing. Tonight, he gave me Sweden. (Very long story but fills my heart)

But love?

With spending my whole life having had my emotions discounted and dismissed and destroyed, can I ever really feel or understand love again? Did I ever understand it in the first place? Have I ever really, truly felt love? Can I ever really, truly feel that again?

There’s a Keith Urban song I’ve quoted before titled “If Ever I Could Love” and the way that the song builds feels like what being in love is. It feels me with optimism and joy and the hope that, yes, if ever I could love…

And at this point, I’m not sure I can trust the feelings I have. Is this love? Is this just passion? Is it something more than just responding to someone who treats me well and who is just simply easy to be with?

And can I ever let myself go enough to really, truly love someone again? Not saying that it’ll be the Filmmaker but how will I know?

I’ve worked very hard over the past six years to rebuild myself and to learn to trust myself and my feelings and my emotions. I’ve learned to sort out a lot of things about how I feel and have stopped (for the most part) checking in with my two best friends to see if what I’m feeling is appropriate or accurate or acceptable. I’ve learned to trust myself in other aspects of my life. But love…

I want to love. I’ve thought I’ve been in love. The Poet especially. But maybe it was wanting to be in love moreso than actually being in love. He felt like what I wanted but yet wasn’t willing to be what I wanted.

And now, moving into my first real relationship since my divorce, I’m wondering if ever I could love. If things keep going the way they have been with the Filmmaker, would I ever really be able to trust that my feelings are valid and that I could love him? Or anyone else?

The idea of saying “I love you” scares the shit out of me. Because it has never ended well. “I love you” became empty and shallow and painful. “I love you” became something to be deflected, not something to be accepted. “I love you” is big and scary and words that I’m not sure I ever want to say to someone ever again.

Because if I love you, I will lose you. If I say it, it will lose all meaning. If I love you, you will hurt me, beyond all reason, beyond all words. You will hurt me and break me and destroy me. Because love has always been used as a weapon. Love has always been wielded with lethal force and left me slashed and bashed and shattered. Love has never been what the movies make it out to be - full and beautiful and amazing and heavenly. Love has led me to hell and left me there over and over and over again. Why should I ever want to do that again?

“If Ever I Could Love…”

But I want to love. I want to say to someone “I love you” and mean it with all my heart and my soul, without hesitation, without fear, without carrying the weight of all that has come before. Just simply say to someone “I love you”. And hopefully hear it come back, filled with everything I could wish for.

I want to be able to love without coloring it with the past. I want to be able to love without fearing that my emotions are wrong and bad and unacceptable. I want to be able to love unconditionally.

But I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do that again.

My shattered heart is in hiding right now, afraid to peek out at this lovely man standing in front of me. And it’s tentatively reached out to see how he feels. And it wants to run out and scream the word “love” from the rooftops because, well, isn’t that what I should be doing? Immediately proclaiming my love for him?

I don’t know if I know what love feels like anymore. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to feel it without fear of retribution, pain, sorrow. Because that’s what love means for me.

All I can do right now is hope that this time with the Filmmaker will help me move a step or two closer to love. Whether it’s with him or with someone else. Without even trying, he has shown me so much in the short time we’ve been together and maybe he can help me not fear the idea of giving myself over to someone, even if it’s not forever, even if it’s just for right now. Maybe he can show me that feeling this way doesn’t have to result in hurt and sorrow. But even now, I’m preparing myself for this to end because it just simply can’t feel this good and keep going.

So…

“If Ever I Could Love”…

Becomes more of a question than an answer…

Never mind... :)

The beauty of the Filmmaker is that he continues to surprise me in every single way.

Today, I had a long talk with myself after last night’s ramblings and had a series of epiphanies about why I feel so neglected and abandoned after not hearing from him for - gasp - almost 48 hours and how my own lack of self-esteem makes me crave that feeling that someone thinks I’m important to them…. And all kinds of other stuff.

And I decided today to let go a little more. I’ve been holding the hurt and the anger and the fear and so many other things so tightly for so long now that it’s become habit. And if I don’t let go and try to break the cycle, I’m going to be stuck in that cycle forever.

Luckily, the universe has provided me with this beautiful, effortless, amazing man who startles me constantly by doing exactly what I want/need/desire. And it’s helping the crazy go away because I’m actually in a healthy, easy relationship that is grown up and comfortable. And yet wildly, insanely passionate.

And his simplicity with our relationship is helping me realize that I don’t need him to validate me or make me feel important or worthy or whatever the fuck I think I need to have someone make me feel. I need to find that within myself, because it’s something he sees and is reflecting back at me, making me not need to seek it from him. Okay, did you follow that?

Anyway, I’m glad when the crazy results in some sanity. And I am so glad that he’s along for the ride, for whatever length it turns out to be.

And I’m glad he’s falling slowly at my side, looking for the updraft to take us away…

Falling...

I did it. I fell.

I promised myself I wouldn’t, that I would just be, just enjoy, just go with it. Don’t fall, I whispered to my heart. Don’t do it. Just wait because we don’t know what this is yet. So wait… just wait…

But my heart is not patient. It is like a six-year-old child who just wants what she wants, everything else be damned. And yesterday morning, she grabbed her makeshift parachute and leapt off the cliff, screaming “whoo-hoo” all the way down.

And of course I fell. These past couple of weeks with the Filmmaker have been right out of a romantic comedy. Showing up unexpectedly with cupcakes, late night adventures 35 floors up with a full moon, wrapped in his arms. Showing up at my door at midnight, sweeping me up in his arms, so full of passion and desire that he takes my breath away. And he bought a nightlight for his bathroom so I wouldn’t be afraid of the dark.

And I was doing so well, just really enjoying him, embracing our time together, trying not to put any expectations on this, just letting it be whatever it is.

But something shifted yesterday morning.

He came over the night before, bottle of wine in hand, and we sat and talked for a long time, the first time we’ve been able to do that. Just sit. Just talk. Just be together without craziness going on around us. And it was lovely. And the rest of the night was just as easy, just as beautiful, filled with passion and desire. And wrapped up with each other.

And as he sat on my bed in the morning, getting ready to go home and face his day and let me face mine, something shifted. Usually, we’re both kind of rushing to tackle our day in the morning, at least when he’s here because I usually have a ridiculously early college class (four days a week, ridiculously early classes). So the morning is usually nice and polite and fine but definitely both of us getting ready for our day.

But he moved slowly yesterday. And I sat on the bed next to him and snuggled into him and he wrapped me up in his arms and just held me. And then he just looked at me.

And something shifted. And I heard that six-year-old child that holds my heart leap.

And I don’t know if it shifted for him. He’s a guy. You know how they are.

But for me, this is usually when it all goes terribly wrong. If only I could learn not to leap.

But it’s too late. I’m on the way down now, rocks looming, all pointy and jagged, waiting for me to fall all the way so they can tear me up when I reach the bottom.

And I know it’s just me.

Well, actually, it’s not just me.

It’s CL, who was one of the first I fell for in my new life. Who drew me in and pushed me to leap, only to run when I did. Who told me I was “too much”. Who posted terrible, awful, scathing things about me and who tore me apart because I never understood why. He just turned and left me to the rocks as I fell.

It’s CB, who I thought was something, who I thought was going to be something very, very special. Who saved me so many times in those early years of discovery and freedom. It’s you who saw me hold out my heart to you, you who almost took it, almost leapt with me, but then left me standing there as you faded away, without a word, without a sound. Just… gone. You, who still smiles when you see me and who probably still thinks we’re friends. Or maybe not. I don’t know. Big, fucking rocks tore me to pieces over you.

It’s the Poet, who promised me we’d always be friends, who was so much of an almost, despite his trying to deny it. The Poet who looked at me that way, who held me, heart pounding, and who has also vanished into the night. Who told me he’d never hurt me, he’d never leave, he’d always be my friend, my good friend.

You all leap with me and you’re all the ones I hear as I leap, making me sorry that I do. Because this leap means the beginning of the end. It means he’ll be gone soon because I’m “too much”, I get too close, I … I’m just always wrong. I’ve been taught that lesson well -- I’m just always wrong.

And the clowns are rejoicing as I fall because, suddenly, I can hear them. I can hear them mock me and torture me as I try to figure out what I’m doing. I popped up on Facebook tonight to say hi to him and the clowns belly-laughed, because they know I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why I shouldn’t have but apparently the clowns think I shouldn’t have. Because they think he’ll find it invasive, he’ll suddenly be afraid of me, suddenly feel smothered, because that’s what I do. Drive him away. I’m good at that.

And the leap makes me stupid. It makes me become the person I hate being - wanting, needing, pining. Questioning, that’s the worst part. Asking all the things I’ve been avoiding asking, setting expectations that I’ve been avoiding setting. Wanting more than I can have right now.

And the clowns have started to pick at this, starting trying to find the seams and trying to unravel it and me. They want me to only see the bad, not see the good. They want me to build unbearable scenarios and they want me to twist everything out of true so I’ll be heartbroken long before that’s necessary.

And I hate that my history drags me to this place, drags me into the dark despite my efforts to stay in the light. I hate that my immediate place to go is into the black. I hate that I can’t just let this be something simple, something easy, that all the years of abuse make me want to figure out the end game and want me to protect myself.

And I hate that, right now, everything in my being just wants to end this and run. Because it’ll be easier if I can stop the leap midway down and not fall all the way. If I can just not let my heart go this time, if I can just hang on to it and not put it in his hands, then maybe I can survive this.

And I hate that instead of living in this moment and embracing the passion and desire and joy that he brings to me, that I’m trying to figure out how to fuck it up. Trying to figure out how to get away from it.

But what I really want to do is just fall. Just leave the corpses of those in the past behind as the air streaks past me, whistling in my ears as I close my eyes so I can’t see the rocks at the bottom. I want to just float on the wind and not think too much about how I’m going to land. I want to trust that he will be different, that I will reach out my hand to find him falling along beside me. I want to believe that he will continue to surprise me and that, instead of landing on the rocks below, we’ll get caught up on the updraft and find ourselves soaring over the ocean, finding a warm place to land where we can just stay for a moment, wrapped up in each other, finding our way without expectation. Just be, just love, just us.

So despite the fact that my heart is fighting me, I’m going to close my eyes and try to breathe and try to say goodbye to those who have left me behind, let go of that pain, let go of that fear. I’m going to listen to the wind and not think about what’s going to be. I’m going to picture his face in my mind, and feel his kiss on my lips, and hang on to that, for a moment, I could see him falling with me. And reach out, heart in hand, and hope he catches it.

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.