Want/Need/Have

The Filmmaker confronted me a while ago about the fact that he felt that I maybe wanted more from this relationship (with a little “r”) than he was ready to give. We talked honestly and openly about where we were and what my expectations were, etc. And I had to tell him honestly - I don’t know what my expectations are. I really like where we are and what we are. And, yes, of course I’d like it to turn into something “more” - whatever that means. But for right now, this is exactly where I want to be.

And it’s been great ever since then. Maybe some of the pressure is off and maybe he just needed to be heard.

But since then, I have been thinking about what I want and why I’m with him.

Yes, of course there are things I’d like for him to do. I’d love to talk to him more when I don’t see him. I’d love to call him and just talk on the phone for a while. I’d love to get little text messages from him when I have something important going on. There’s a ton of little things that I’d love for him to do.

Because I’ve had those things done for me in the past and they made me feel great. The Poet, especially, was good at those “things”. If I had an art show, he’d text me as I was driving there, wishing me luck. That usually turned into me calling him eventually, after numerous texts, and talking to him for a long time. He’d call me once or twice a week and we’d talk for hours about deeply personal things. I cried on his shoulder more than once and he fought crying on mine more than once. We had long nights of wine and poetry and him reading to me, which was one of my favorite things about him.

And those are the things that made me think there was something more there. Because it felt like what I wanted - someone to care, someone to participate, someone to make me feel special.

But he sneaked away eventually, leaving me feeling not terribly special.

And now, there’s the Filmmaker. And a part of me wants him to do all those terribly special things. And for a long time, I thought it meant that he didn’t care because he didn’t do those things. He doesn’t call. He doesn’t text. He responds quickly when I do. And I wanted those things, especially after we talked and I really started thinking about it.

But then I realized something. I’ve had those things with CB and the Poet and others. And in the end, I was never really sure how they felt. I was never really sure if they really, truly cared. Because in the end, they simply disappeared. From being thisclose to vanishing on the horizon.

And though he doesn’t do the things the other did, the Filmmaker does his own thing. He brought me cupcakes to Drink and Draw after we went out on Halloween for the first time. I didn’t think he would even show up, but he did. And with cupcakes. There was that one beautiful, incredible, heart-stopping night (same night as the cupcakes, in fact) with the impromptu party invite on the 35th floor penthouse with the full moon. And that’s when I fell. Total rom-com night. And he fought to get me Sweden at a white elephant Christmas party. And now Sweden hangs proudly in my kitchen (not gonna explain it, just know it was funny and amazing and awesome). And he got a nightlight for his bathroom because I’m terrified of the dark. And he puts whipped cream in my coffee.

And he’s here. And we don’t get deep in conversation about who we are and where we come from, because I think we both know all of that about each other. We were friends first, so there’s a lot that doesn’t need to be said. And because I think we both don’t really need to say it anymore.

And he’s here. And he winks at me, which makes me giggle. And he sings to me, which I love. And he makes me breakfast every time I stay over. And there’s never a question about me staying over. And he lent me sweatpants when I forgot my jeans at home.

And he’s here. And the way he holds me sometimes when we’re falling asleep says more than any four hour conversation on the phone could say. And the way his eyes light up as we climb into bed and settle in for the night means more than a million text messages could mean.

And he’s here. And that’s more important than anything else.

And I’m not spending hours wondering how he feels or if he likes me or if he’s going to be around next week or what he’s thinking or feeling or… on and on and on. Because he’s here.

And for the longest time, I thought I needed all the other stuff plus what he gives me. Because that’s what I thought it should be. But I’ve had the other stuff. And it left me empty.

And whenever this goes, whatever it turns into, I know right now, this is exactly what I want and what I need. All the other stuff means nothing because it’s not him. I want what he has and what he gives. That’s all I need… for right now…

Figuring It Out

I’ve actually written a blog or two over the past couple of days, filled with tales of struggle and battle and learning and healing and a bunch of other bullshit.

Yeah, you all know it’s a struggle and a battle after going through sixteen years and a lifetime of emotional abuse.

But, for now, I need to let go of all of that for a while and just focus on the good. Because all the struggle and battle have led me here, to this moment, when it is good. And without having gone through the darkest of the dark and fought to build a life that I can be proud of and embrace, then the good wouldn’t be as good and maybe I wouldn’t be able to really feel the joy that I feel. To feel that great joy one has to be able to feel that great pain. And I guess the best that we can hope for is that the joy will finally one day outweigh the pain.

And lately, that’s where I’m getting to. Still learning, still painful, still a struggle. But the joy is so beautiful and so wondrous that it’s worth all the struggle to get through to this moment. And when I fell asleep wrapped up tightly in his arms on Valentine’s night, that’s when I let go a little bit more. And that’s when I realized that I still have a lot of work to do to get to the point where there isn’t two days of drama in my own head leading up to one really lovely, beautiful night.

He’s not the one doing something wrong, it’s my own baggage and crap dragging along behind me that are getting in the way. And maybe that my expectations have been set to a certain point and I am anticipating him living up to those expectations. And he’s helping me learn how to let go of these very destructive expectations by simply not living down to them. He’s teaching me, slowly but surely, that I don’t need to figure things out beforehand. That I don’t need to plan 35 different ways to say something or to approach him or anything like that. I can be simple and easy and honest and he responds to that.

And I know he’s afraid and carries his own baggage along with him. And I can see it in his eyes sometimes and I can feel it in his tentativeness around me sometimes. There are moments between us that are so filled with what’s unsaid and what we’re afraid to say that it’s almost palpable. And when we do just let go and just be with each other, it’s so simple and beautiful and effortless that it’s helping me learn to just be with him -- a very difficult thing for me to do.

 And in the late night hours, when we finally fall asleep and he won’t let me out of his embrace even in that slumber, I just want to exist in that moment forever. I have never felt so secure and so safe and so wanted than I do in those quiet, peaceful, intimate moments.

And it’s not about true love or being with him forever or anything like that. It’s about existing only in that time, in that moment and just being able to be vulnerable and let my walls down and not getting my teeth kicked in when that happens.

 And I hope that if this relationship ends -- or when this relationship is over -- that the lessons I learned will carry on to the next one and make that one even easier and let me leave piles of Samsonite behind.

 And for now, I’ll go back to Melissa Etheridge, because she always seems to have the right words. “'Cause I wanna stay here in this moment/Can I quietly slip into you/You and I can stay here in this moment/Let the world fade away, I just want to stay with you”

You may now return to your regularly scheduled life…

The curse of the day of the heart

Valentine’s Day.

Fuck.

So much pressure.

I have gone around and around about Valentine’s Day this year because, officially, I’m dating someone, which means I should have plans.

But I don’t.

After our discussion around his birthday, I kind of knew that the Filmmaker wouldn’t ask me out for Valentine’s. After all, it’s a day of professing love and bestowing affection and all kinds of complicated things when you’re in a relationship that’s “casual” and not a relationship with a capital R. We’re in that middle ground limbo of relationship hell - together, but not really; adore each other but not really love; intimate but not there yet.

And I essentially accepted that I would be spending Valentine’s with Z, my best friend, the way it has been for years. Her boyfriend doesn’t really believe in Valentine’s so it’s usually her and me.

But as she and I talked last night about whether we were actually going to have our standing date, I talked myself into being pissed off that the Filmmaker hadn’t asked me out for that special day. And everything’s up in the air because Z’s boyfriend occasionally breaks his loathing of Valentine’s and will actually take her out. So we were discussing how we were both in limbo, despite having men in our lives.

And when we hung up, despite my having accepted that the Filmmaker would not be my date on the 14th, I left myself get caught up in the worst of the worst thing I do - expectations.

Way back when I was seeing a therapist, one of the things she talked to me about was my expectation of people and situations and how those expectations led me often into difficult situations because I think/expect things to go one way and when they don’t, I get very upset and pissed off. Even though the other person has no idea what my expectations are, I think they should know and they should be able to read my mind.

Well, I walked down that well-worn path last night and got myself into a real old-fashioned tizzy.

Fuck him. He should know that this day means something and he should know that I know it doesn’t mean what he thinks I think it means and he should just grow a pair and be a man and quit hiding behind the inevitable “I’m a dick” conversation that’ll come up and fuck him and I should just stop seeing him if he can’t get his head out of his ass long enough to see how this is stupid and mean and fuck him… you get the drift.

I even spent the entire morning working out my break-up speech. Oh, it’s a good one. Full of “I’m calling bullshit” and “you keep pushing me away” and all kinds of Lifetime movie moments that maybe I’ll put into the new script I’m writing. I honed it to perfection and patted myself on the back for being a grown up and taking charge of this and not letting myself be made to feel invisible and bad and…

Oh, but wait…

We never discussed going out on the 14th. We had a long discussion about being “casual”, which means things like Valentine’s will probably go unacknowledged because casual relationships don’t go there.

Oh, and he has no idea what I’m thinking or feeling, so how can he be responsible for what I’m thinking and feeling?

Because… well… because… shit. I got nothing.

I finally got my brain to calm down after spending the day starting college again. The distraction gave me some clarity in this whole stupid situation.

First of all, I’ve had the “perfect” Valentine’s with my ex. Sixteen years of perfect. He did everything right. Flowers. Occasionally candy. Dinner, movie. Beautiful cards professing unending love. All the romance he thought the day should hold.

And he tore me apart the other 364 days a year.

He showed me that this one day of professing love and being “romantic” (damn, there’s a lot of quotation marks in this entry) really means absolutely nothing if it’s not backed up by love and kindness the rest of the year. Roses and dinner and Hallmark cards are empty, meaningless and hypocritical if there’s nothing in the rest of your life.

And he always made such a big deal out of being together on Valentine’s Day and making sure that we did it right. But it eventually meant nothing other than one more day I had to smile and pretend that everything was all right. In fact, I had to pretend harder because we were supposed to be happy, we were supposed to be in love. But as we got further and further from that love, it was actually painful to try to be all that. The words on the cards hurt because I knew the promises were only words on a card that thousands of other women were reading that day. And that on the 15th, it would all be back to normal, those words only echoes, empty and hollow.

So what does that mean now? With the Filmmaker?

Well, I realized I had a choice.

I could let myself be angry and upset and petulant, like maybe every other woman he’s ever been with, over something silly like this. I could make him feel bad because he’s not ready to be in a relationship that would celebrate Valentine’s Day. I could force him to be something he’s not, push him into a situation that he’s obviously either not comfortable with or not ready for. I could push and push until either he or I says, enough, and we walk away from each other. I sometimes feel like he’s trying to do that anyway, trying to get me to walk away so he doesn’t have to. So I could do that. I could be that girl, that chick who’s the pushy, whiny bitch who berates him about not being a good man.

Or…

I could accept that I knew that we weren’t going to be together tomorrow. I could accept that he’s just not ready/willing/able to go there. I know where he stands, I know how he feels so I could just accept that and let it go. I could also look at my previous life and see how little this one single day means in the course of an entire relationship. I could accept that I don’t know where he’s coming from, I don’t know what he’s thinking and he doesn’t know what I’m thinking and just leave it at that.

Because I dig him. I dig him a lot. And it’s not perfect and it’s not quite what I want in the long run. But it’s pretty groovy right now.

And eventually, I’ll say good-bye, when it’s really not working or it’s really getting difficult or it really just doesn’t feel good anymore.

But for now, I can choose to just the day go by, maybe shoot him a quick, innocuous text wishing him love on the day, so he knows he’s not in the doghouse with me but also that there’s no expectation of anything. I can choose to just enjoy his company whenever I see him because he makes me so very happy the rest of the time. I can choose to just let go of all this expectation that the day forces upon us and just know that one single day means absolutely nothing at all. And I can choose to not be a crazy, insane, demanding woman and just relax and not make him crazy at the same time.

And I can send him positive vibes tonight and tomorrow, instead of the angry, dark, negative vibes I’ve been shooting at him all day. And show him I care by showing him I don’t care. There are 364 other days we can play. One single day doesn’t matter.

That’s what I choose.

Maybe...

Maybe I can let go now of the tight grip I’ve had on the past. I keep thinking I’ve left things behind only to discover that I’ve hidden them in a pocket to pull out in secret and listen to them whisper to me, reminding me of things I’m trying to forget.

I saw a piece of my heart on Friday night. The original piece of my heart, the original OOMA (Object of My Affection). I have not seen him in a very long time, maybe a year or more. We don’t speak at all, he won’t even answer emails that are about business. It still breaks my heart into pieces that he left my life, despite promises that he would never do that. And it was hard to see him on Friday because that tight grip tightened even more, hanging on to all the hurt and all the pain and heartbreak. And I almost left because I couldn’t stand to sit across from him and pretend. And every time he laughed, my absolute favorite thing about him, it made me miss him in my life. And then he sang (we were at karaoke) and I suddenly was back almost seven years, when he saved my life after I ended my marriage.

And I realized I had a choice in that moment. I could choose what I hang on to. I could choose to hang on to the heartbreak and disappointment and anger over his disappearing from my life. Or I could choose to hang on to the beautiful memories I have of him through so many things we did together. Shows I directed him in, one long, wonderful, crazy weekend in Vegas, him singing karaoke, his birthday with his mother but mostly how he took such great care of me when I needed it the most. So many beautiful things squeezed out by the tight fist of pain.

And while we’ll never be friends again, as far as I can see, I can let go of the pain and the past and stop dragging that around with me.

Sure, I say that today… we’ll see what tomorrow brings but…

Which leads me, in a weird way, to the Filmmaker. Or maybe everything in my life right now leads me to the Filmmaker.

No matter where this relationship leads -- whether it’s a long term thing or over tomorrow -- I have to learn to loosen that tight grip on what I expect to happen. I live in fear that what has happened to me in the past will happen again with him. And there’s more at stake this time. The others never got past the “we’re just friends” stage, whereas this is definitely not in the friends territory. And that makes me more afraid to let go of that tight grip on what I think will happen.

Like this morning. We had a lovely night last night. We’re very comfortable and very easy. Margaritas, fajitas and then back to his place, where we sat on the couch as he played his ukulele and we sang for a long time. Well, he sang. I kinda joined in a bit when I knew the song. But it’s one of my favorite things with him - him playing, talking about why he likes this song or that song, singing, and just laughing. I love to listen to him laugh because he has such a passion about life. Then we fell asleep on the couch before finally making it upstairs to bed.

But when we got up this morning, he was distracted and a bit distant, which always freaks me out because that can only mean one thing -- I’ve done something wrong and it’s over.

Yeah, right.

I spent a lot of time this morning, over-analyzing everything from last night. Yeah, it wasn’t the most successful night in some ways, but not every night is going to be. And we woke up early this morning and just laid in bed, dozing in and out, me snuggled up to him. And he made me a lovely breakfast before driving me to my art studio to teach.

Yeah, that sounds like there’s something horribly wrong.

And about mid-day, I realized how stupid I was being. Instead of hanging on to the good things during the evening before - how quickly he jumped at getting together; sitting on the couch, singing; the look in his eyes when we finally did climb into bed and I said, “I really like being right here” as he pulled me in close and how he smiled and said, “I know you do”. I let that be overwhelmed by some imaginary bullshit that I can’t even articulate at this point. I let the whispers drown out the joy.

And maybe that’s what I’ve been taught all my life - let the dark whispers drown out the delightful joys.

And so tonight, I am making the choice to just let go… again. And though I do seem to be doing a lot of letting go lately, it always seems that there are different things I need to let go of.

So for tonight, I’m going to let go of the original OOMA and all the baggage that comes with him. I’m going to let go of the dark memories of the hours I spent crying over him and wondering what I did wrong and why he just vanished out of my life. I’m going to let go of the specter of him and the others after him and the shadow they are casting over this relationship with the Filmmaker. I’m sure he will cast his own shadow in the long run and some day I’ll have to let go of that, but for now, I will pull him out of their shadows and put those things away, out of the pocket and maybe let go into the ether.

And I’ll let go of wondering -- wondering what I’m doing wrong, wondering if I should have done something to make the evening better, wondering if… just wondering.

And, in some ways, I’ll let go of the Filmmaker himself, because I do believe he is a transient encounter on the way to something else. I may be wrong and it may turn out that he’s the something else but for now, I don’t think so. But that doesn’t mean I can’t love every minute of it and live for those moments when he is but inches away and all I can see are his beautiful, joyful eyes.

And I’ll absorb the wonderful, beautiful memories he has given me over these past few months - showing up unexpectedly with cupcakes at Drink and Draw; that incredible night on the balcony with the full moon and way too much booze; his ukulele; sitting next to him, drawing, watching how intently he focuses; our first night together; the way he looks at me sometimes and makes my heart skip a beat; how he held me when I told him about my depression without trying to fix it, just being there; the hundred million little ways he isn’t like anyone before him.

And maybe, just maybe, some day I can let go of all of it and just be with someone, just exist with someone, without the past intruding, without the fear encroaching. Just live for that moment, that day, that hour, when he looks at me that way and nothing else matters.

Maybe…

You...

Saw you tonight
for the first time
that I can remember
in forever.
And I realized
how much
I miss
your stormy eyes.

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.