Balancing act

(Sorry, didn't realize my comments were turned off so you can feel free to comment now...)


Today for the first time since my diagnosis three weeks ago, I'm feeling normal.

The past three weeks have been a roller coaster of emotions. 

The first week, I was numb. I won't even say I put my game face on because I couldn't even find a face. Just putting one foot in front of the other was almost impossible. And to every difficult person I encountered, I wanted to scream, "Don't fuck with me! I have breast cancer!" To every difficult parent I had to deal with, I wanted to say, "I'm sorry your child is a brat and you don't know how to handle them but right now, I don't give a fuck because I have breast cancer." Guy at the bus stop who insisted on talking to me, despite the earbuds in my ears and my intense focus on "Doctor Who" on my iPhone,  "I really don't give a fuck which bus you ride and why, I have breast cancer!" Etc.

I moved through the world, telling close friends, avoiding putting anything on Facebook because it would only be about my diagnosis and I wasn't sure I wanted the world to know yet because I still hadn't wrapped my own brain around it.

Luckily, my friends led me through the numbness, taking me by the hand, whispering gently, giving me space and giving me normal while I sorted this out.

The second week is a blank. I have no idea what happened.  Had a lot going on, including WonderCon, a comic book convention I was really looking forward to. And I got to spend time with the Filmmaker and his beautiful, amazing children. And I did an art show that was a two night event, the last night of which the Filmmaker joined me. 

But I'll be damned if I can really remember any of it. I remember feeling angry because my body was stretched beyond its limits. And it pissed me off that my body, which has always been able to manage through days without sleep for production and which has rarely let me down, now let me down constantly as it tries to do battle with itself. 

And I was angry at school because , well, because I set the bar very high and the expectations of my teachers is extremely high, even with this diagnosis. They have cut me a lot of slack but I still have to deliver. And I didn't want to. I wanted to just be average, to just be normal and not have this ridiculous high jump to hurdle while going through this.

And I was angry with my best friend because she was busy. Now, understand, she spent plenty of time on the phone and by email with me but that didn't matter. I was angry that she was out of town on business and that I couldn't reach her. There were other people who I talked to and who helped me out but there's no reasoning with irrationality. I wanted her and she wasn't there. 

And I was angry with the Filmmaker. For no other reason that he is so close to what I want but not ready to be what I want. And he may never be. And that made me angry because I wanted to call him every day and cry and say, come over and hold me and tell me that everything will be all right. But I couldn't let myself because I couldn't let myself be that vulnerable with him. I couldn't let myself admit that I want him and need him and wish... And it made me angry that I let myself get into this place again - almost but not quite. When right now, 
I don't know if I can let myself be in an almost place.

And I was angry at the world. Because. Who else am I gonna be angry with? 

This week, I hurt. I let myself hurt. I let myself cry. Today, looking in the mirror at the studio, making sure I didn't have paint on my face, I pushed my hair out of my face and thought that I have to find a better hair color to cover my gray when I realized, in a few months, I may lose my hair, depending on my treatment. And that brought me to my knees, in the bathroom, in the middle of teaching.

I hurt for all the things I could lose. I hurt for all the pain I've already gone through in my life. I hurt for the fact that, despite the friends and the Filmmaker, I am still basically alone. There is no one at my side day-to-day for this. And my friends are amazing and supportive and incredible. But it still comes down to just me and that hurts.

I hurt for wanting more than almost.

It hurts that I'll be 50 in a week and I'm essentially still alone. This is not where I'm supposed to be. Where's the husband and the family and the house and the life? Where's the success?

Hit bottom. Gave up. Almost decided that I needed to stop seeing the Filmmaker (a weekly occurrence due to the clowns in my head).  Thought about quitting school. Wanted to just hide and stop everything. 

Woke up this morning, still feeling the hurt and pain. Didn't want to teach, which is rare for me because I love teaching art and I love my kids. But I went because I need the money and I need the joy I get from teaching.

And I began to feel normal again. Just for a moment. Hugs from the kids. Working with my program director, who's awesome. 

And when the Filmmaker came in to drop his daughter off for class, I forgot about the clowns and the hurt and the fear and all of that. He hugged me and all I could think of is that I'm so glad he's here. And teaching his very talented daughter is one of my favorite things to do.

I don't know if it's all the outpouring of energy from people this week or just that I'm dealing better or what. But tonight, right now, this second, I can get through this. I've gotten through so many other things in my life, this is just one more thing.

And maybe these past seven years where I've learned to live with myself and figured out who I am and what I am all led up to this. Because despite having a great support group, I do have to do this myself. No one else is going to be there every night. No one else is going to be there every day. It's just me. And it's been just me for almost seven years. And it's been hard but it's taught me how to do this.

And when the Filmmaker hugged me this morning, all I could think is that I'm so glad he's here, whether it's for one more month, one more year or ten more years, he makes me happy and he makes my heart skip a beat when he smiles at me. And for now, I'll take the almost because he's given me such rom-com moments that it gives me hope that there is a more, whether or not it's with him.

And while I wait to meet with the oncologist/surgeon, I will embrace the short period of "normal" before I get on with the business of breast cancer. And hope that whatevr's on the other side of it, I will continue to live the life I've created and find something more over there.

Fear

Today, I am overwhelmed with fear.

I will lose everything. I will survive this but what will be left? 

  I'm a straight A student with a 4.0 GPA. That'll be one of the first things to go.  I'll finish my classes but realistically, a 4.0 will be impossible to maintain.

Financially, I'm not sure how to make it. I'm barely paying my bills and I lose any work at all, I will lose everything, quite literally. I can't pay my rent right now without my student loans and there is nothing left when I get paid after I pay my few other bills. I don't know how I'm gonna do this.

Ironically, my art will probably grow and become something else. That's one good thing.

And the Filmmaker. So much to lose there. Or is there? He said he'd be here and I believe him. But what will we be? And what are we now? Will there be anything left of the glimmer of something or will this always be peripheral until I get through this and he can leave with some dignity and grace? I don't know if we were ever gonna be anything but this, but now I'll never know. And today, I want to push him away because that would just be easier.

And who will I be on the other side? I'm tired already of the "you'll get through this and be stronger" platitudes. I know that's what you're supposed to say but I'm growing to loathe that phrase. I've been so broken by so many things and I always get up and I always get through and I'm always alone on the other side of it. And I just don't know if I can get through being broken again and end up starting again, starting alone, finding my way yet again.

And I know I have friends and I know I have support. And I know they'll be there. But right now, there is just such a feeling of separateness, disconnect. I wish... I don't know what I wish. I wish there was a relationship with a capital R right now. I wish I didn't feel so very alone. I wish to be weak and sad and heartbroken. I wish...

For today, I'll put my head down and my game face on and just go through the motions. And I'll weep for what I'm gonna lose and I'll weep for what I've already lost. 

And tomorrow, I'll get up and start all over again. And I'll maybe feel more optimistic and be all sunshine and puppies and regret I ever felt any of this today. The platitudes will ring true and the loneliness will be less and I'll be fine with the relationship with the little r and life will go on...

Do you think I'm sexy?

Sensual - relating to or consisting in the gratification of the senses or indulgence of appetites

I never appreciated sensuality until I left my marriage. My ex had no appreciation for anything sensual or sexual. In the entire 16 years we were together, I think once I wore beautiful sexy lingerie, only to have him ask me why I bothered. Yep. Sexy.

Even something as simple as perfume, which I love and which makes me feel very sexy, was a constant source of criticism from him. There was a rule that I had to apply any perfume an hour before we went anywhere because he didn't want me getting in the car with fresh perfume. And then inevitable cut down about which perfume I chose to wear.

So needless to say, our sex life was about as sexual and sensual as an episode of "The Golden Girls". Tab A into slot B. An occasional variance but pretty much the same thing all the time. And, yes, I did spend a lot of time going over my to do list in my head while waiting for him to... Well... Ya know.

So discovering the wonder of fishnets and high heels was a revelation. And seeing normal men react to this sensual side of me just blew me away. Yeah, I'm an enlightened, educated, smart woman but I do love it when a man gives me that look from head to toe and makes that appreciative noise in his throat that usually will cause a withering look from his significant other.

And one of the best things about the Filmmaker is his appreciation and affection for all things sensual. He is passionate and sexy and has a healthy appetite for everything that stimulates the senses. And he appreciates that he is the beneficiary of Z's advice to me that life is too short not to wear sexy underwear. 

And then there's sex.

I went almost seven years without having sex. Yup. Almost seven years. I would say I missed it but since my sexual experience is very limited and the last few years of my marriage were so lackluster in that department, I didn't think I was missing much.

But in the past five months, I've had probably more sex than I did in the entire last five years of my marriage. And it definitely is not pedestrian in any sense of the word.

And I'm very insecure about my body in the last few years because I'm not a size six and I'm going to be 50 in a few weeks and I spend half my time covered in paint.

But the Filmmaker makes me feel beautiful and amazing and sexy and sensual and all of those things I never knew I could be.

And now, with this diagnosis, one of my biggest fears is that I'm not going to feel that way again. Right now, my left breast is decorated with a smattering of bruises left over from the biopsy. And knowing that in the coming weeks, I'm going to have surgery and end up with scars as well makes me terrified that I'm going to lose that sense of sensuality I've grown to appreciate as a part of me.

Madame H, my resident sexual advisor, took me out for coffee last night and I talked to her about this a bit. And the thing she said was that sensuality comes from the inside. And that no matter what my outside looks like, I have the capacity to hold on to that sensuality. I just have to know that it lives in my heart, not on my breast.

But I would be lying if I said I wasn't terrified that after the surgery and when my hair falls out from radiation, that this beautiful, sensual man is going to look at me and not want me anymore. I could handle it if I were just a natural evolution of the relationship. After all, that happens. 

But it's not just about this relationship. It about any relationship after this. Despite the fact that, as far as I know right now, the surgery should be minimally invasive and leave very little scarring, will a man find me attractive if I have scars there? Compound that with my age and my weight and the baggage of abuse and I'm can just see the dating profile I could post.

SWF - 50's (I hear stampeding feet already), voluptuous (aka overweight), breast cancer survivor (ugly scarred up boobs) with a history of abuse. Oh, and funny and smart and artistic. Yeah, they'll be lining up.

I've just finally gotten to the point where I wanted to be out there, wanted to be with someone again. Finally risked putting my heart on the line and jump into this relationship with the Filmmaker, which terrifies me on a regular basis because I really have no idea what I'm doing and am convinced I'm gonna fuck it up somehow. But after he's gone, for whatever reason, will someone else want me again? Will someone see me as beautiful and sexy and sensual with not only "natural" imperfections but the scars from surgery and the always-present fear there could be more?

I could go without sex, I'll be honest. Though I wouldn't give up any of it from the last few months. But what I would miss more is the afterwards. The spooning, the cuddling, the way the Filmmaker wraps around me, both consciously as we fall asleep, and unconsciously, in the middle of the night, when he's asleep but still manages to find me and hold me. The loss of that would be more heartbreaking than anything else.

But it's not the Filmmaker's responsibility to make me feel beautiful and sexy and sensual. It's something I have to really embrace and hold on to as I go through this journey and make sure I don't ever let myself lose how great I feel in high heels and sexy underwear. Because one thing I have learned through the past few years is that, ultimately, I am responsible for how I feel. Period. And I have to hold on to that as I go.

And hopefully on the other side of this, I will still see myself as desirable, no matter who's in my life.

Don't know if I can do this...

I was diagnosed today with breast cancer.

I have no quippy blog to post, nothing funny and clever to say.

Luckily, it’s the most common kind of breast cancer, Invasive Ductal Carcinoma. It’s highly treatable and it should be all right in the long run.

It started about a month ago. I was talking on the phone to my heterosexual life partner, Z, and for some reason, put my hand under my left armpit. There was a lump there. I had an appointment at the free clinic a few days away so I thought I’d bring it up to my doctor when I got there.

She checked it out and did a breast exam.

And she found another lump - this time on my right breast. Very tiny. I couldn’t even feel it.

She immediately gave me paperwork to schedule a mammogram and told me to schedule it immediately. And then set up an appointment for a month later.

This week on Tuesday, I went for the mammogram. Didn’t think much of it. Wasn’t too concerned. There’s no history of cancer of any kind in my family and my mother has had a lump or two herself.

Took the bus - two hours to where the mammogram place was. Figured I’d be in and out. After all, there’s no history in my family. I should be fine.

They did all the regular mammography films that they usually do. I was then sent for an ultrasound.

And that’s where it got scary.

The ultrasound tech started at the lump under my left arm and then started to follow something from there to the side of my left breast. As far as I knew, there was nothing there. But on the screen, I could see a dark area she was following with the ultrasound. She focused on the side of my left breast for a while, printed or sent some images and then said she wanted to go and confer with the doctor. She came back and had me go for another mammogram film at a different angle. Again focused on my left breast. Went back for more ultrasound.

About then, I started to panic. I could tell there was something wrong.

Finally, a doctor came in. And that’s when the world shifted.

They had found two more lumps, on the left side. Nothing was showing up on the right side, where my doctor had palpated something. But they were concerned about the two on the left side.

So I went from one lump to four lumps. Fuck.

She told me they were going to do a biopsy. I thought she meant I’d have to schedule another appointment and come back. But instead, they did the biopsy immediately.

Holy fuck.

I texted my two best friends in a panic, saying I was getting a biopsy. They were amazing and texted right back for me to breathe, be calm, all kinds of wonderful reassurance. I was still freaked out but felt better.

Then the doctor prepped me for the biopsy. She explained what she was going to do - they were going to numb the side of my breast and then use this big-ass needle to pull some cells from the one lump in my breast. She numbed the area and then put in the needle. The first sample was fine, didn’t hurt. But the second sample felt like she stabbed me in the heart. And I have a very high pain threshold and I had to hold back the tears. Then I started to shake. The doctor even acknowledged the pain and apologized. They were avoiding one of the lumps because it’s right on the chest wall and she was afraid that one would be very painful.

After she finished, I realized there was no way I could take a two hour bus ride home. I was shaking, I was in terrible pain and I was freaked out completely. I tried to think of who could come over and pick me up in the middle of the day without having to take off work.

I texted the Filmmaker. He knew I was going in for a mammogram but I had assured him it would be nothing. There’s no history in my family so it should just be routine.

He responded immediately that he would come. I burst into tears at that. I needed some comfort and I needed some care and that was on its way.

The doctor explained to me about taking care of the biopsy site but I barely heard her. All I could think about was that they had to do a biopsy and that the amount of lumps had doubled. Scared the shit out of me.

The Filmmaker made record time and picked me up. I could tell by the look on his face that he was very concerned but uncertain of how to handle this. He asked a lot of questions, let me talk as much as I needed to. I put my hand on his leg the whole time he was driving because I just needed connection. I really wanted him to take me to his place and just sit on the couch and have him take care of me. But part of me really just wanted to go home and process and be alone. As we drove towards my place, he asked me if I needed to eat. His solution to most things -- good food or good booze.

He took me to Barney’s Beanery, a staple in Hollywood that I had never been to. By that time, I was exhausted, starving, worn out and emotionally spent. We sat in the booth and I just let him talk. I asked him about his week and let him just talk. I just needed some normalcy. Every time I flinched or frowned, he immediately stopped and asked me what I needed. I just wanted to hear him talk. Not to think about what could be.

Fully fed and feeling a bit better, he drove me home. I had been telling him how incredibly broke I was, that I wasn’t sure how I was going to get to work because I was completely out of money. He asked me if I wanted some “walking around money”, which made me smile. He’s something like somebody out of the 1940’s, which is one of the things I absolutely adore about him. He’s old-fashioned and charming and darling and he really came through for me.

But I could see a bit of panic under his smile. We’re supposed to be casual. I didn’t want to ask too much of him because of the loose nature of our relationship. But I was just glad he was there and he took care of me.

I’ve spent the past few days just holding my breath, waiting to hear about the results.

And I got the call today at noon.

Invasive ductal carcinoma.

It means the cancer is in my milk ducts or lymph nodes. Most women who are diagnosed with cancer are diagnosed with this type. The doctor said it’s highly treatable. I will hear from someone at the clinic next week who will help me figure out the paperwork to get all of my treatment covered since I have no insurance. They will also let me know what the treatment plan is. Sounds like it’s going to be surgery -- a lumpectomy -- first and then some radiation after that. Hopefully, that will get all of it and be done.

But all I can think about tonight is that I have cancer.

I have cancer.

And I don’t know if I can do this.

I have dealt with so much in my life. Highly dysfunctional family, abusive marriage, starting my life over not once but twice. Finally feeling like I have my life together - going to school and getting straight A’s, loving my teaching job which will probably evolve into running my own studio this year, and the relationship with the Filmmaker.

And now…

I have cancer.

And knowing it’s treatable and knowing it’ll probably all be good in the long run doesn’t help tonight.

Tonight, all I can think about is -- I don’t know if I can do this. I’m tired. And I’m worn out. And I’m tired of dealing and handling and being strong and all of that bullshit. And I don’t know if I can be strong again and handle again and deal some more.

I know I have an amazing support system and I have friends who will absolutely be there for me. Anna even offered to drive down from San Francisco tonight if I needed her here.

But I don’t know if I can do this.

And all I can see tonight are the things I could lose. I’m not sure how the treatment is going to affect my schoolwork and my time at school. I’m not sure how it’s going to affect my job. Although my scheduler assured me today they will work with me and take care of me.

And I’m afraid I’ll lose the Filmmaker. He’s an awesome guy and he’s very sweet. But he didn’t sign up for this. He has made it clear he wants a “casual” relationship, that he wants something that isn’t terribly serious, something that is fun and easy and comfortable.

And now, this is going to be none of that, at least for a while. And that scares the shit out of me. I’m hoping he continues to surprise me, as he always does. I kinda know he’ll be there as a friend but I hope he’s there as more.

So for tonight, I’m overwhelmed and terrified. And I’m going to weep and cry and mourn all the things that are pouring out of my heart. And I’m going to let myself think about the worst case scenario and I’m going to let myself be sad.

And then tomorrow…

I’ll get up. I’ll go and teach. I’ll see the Filmmaker briefly as he brings his daughter in for art class with me and I’ll have to figure out how to deal with him in that moment. And then I’ll come home and go to bed and get up Sunday and continue to live. And I’ll figure out time to sit down with the Filmmaker and lay it all out for him and let him decide what he wants to do.

And I’ll deal with it, whatever his answer is.

And I’ll chant with my Buddhist friends on Sunday and hope that that positive energy infuses my body and helps with the healing.

And I’ll do what I always do - put one foot in front of the other and right it out to the other side.

And I’ll have days where I can’t do it and that’s just the way it is.

And today is one of those days.

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…