Angels and Demons

My sister Nagela (I actually meant to write "Angela," but the typo is strangely fitting) and her fiancé Chester today sat me down for a talking-to. They do this with the best of intentions, each of them with their third beer in hand with many more to follow. The line of questions and comments was as follows:

"So you've been supporting Bernard all this time?"

"And you're going to keep supporting him when he comes up here with no job?"

"So why is it that he has no job and no money?"

"So this is his second DUI?"

"Do you know what happens when he gets a third?"

"And you're okay with that?"

"You need to make better decisions for yourself and your son."

"You have an opportunity here with Lucas' dad's life insurance to really turn your life around and do something good for you and your son."

"How do you feel about Ron's death? You know your sister Angela is here to talk with you. I haven't seen you talk to her about how it makes you feel. How does it make you feel?"

"You should get a financial advisor."

"You should work hard and get a good job so you don't even have to touch that money."

"You could find a good man up here, who works hard, who would provide for you and Lucas, who doesn't get himself into this kind of trouble."

"A real man provides for his family."

"If Bernard works the way you say he does, you're hardly ever gonna see him anyway."

"What about your meetings and sponsors and stuff actually helps you?"

"Are you going to find a place by the time Bernard gets up here?"

"You've been with him what, five months? And you think that's love? Do you know how many times we've heard this before?"

"Do you see how fast it's moving?"

There was more, but my stomach hurts. I'm pretty sure I undercooked the chicken that I put into the enchiladas before I rushed off to the meeting to meet with my sponsor and this cool old timer named Rufus. Total book-thumper, guru-type. The first meeting I saw him at up here, he gave me my now-sponsor's number and made me text her and ask her to be my sponsor right in front of him. I'm glad I listened. I have hope this time around that I'll actually get through all 12 steps. I didn't before and didn't make it. Didn't stay sober. Smoked weed over my resentment against Bernard.

Now, I'm on the 4th step again, on day 13 sober. I've never gone through the steps so quickly. But I'm doing it with the desperation of a drowning woman grabbing onto a life-preserver.

As far as all this other stuff, I have faith that God will work it out as I draw close to Him and begin to perform His work. That's how it works.

Done with the Executive Chef - So Can I REALLY Be Done with Men for Awhile?

A lot of people tell me they're worried about me. My sponsor in alcohol recovery doesn't; she doesn't buy into the drama. She's also a mindfulness practitioner, highly spiritual, and extremely intelligent, having almost completed a Master's degree in Psychology with an emphasis on Borderline Personality Disorder.

Other people though, they get scared I'll actually kill myself. I'll tell you right now; that's never gonna happen. I've had periods where I've legitimately wanted to cease to exist more than anything on Earth, but God didn't take me, presumably because I have a six year-old son left to half-raise. His dad is dying of congestive heart failure, so pretty soon that responsibility will fall fully on me.

But yeah, I need to stay away from guys. It's the common theme of the past over-four years since I left my husband of ten years (my son's dad). (We were together ten years and only married for the last three of those, but fuck technicalities.)

(And actually, we're still married. He does have life insurance, so I'm glad I never pushed the divorce through...)

Anyway, I just got out of yet another relationship, this time with my boss. Did I really fall in love wth him? I don't know. Am I capable of loving anyone, even myself? I don't know. Did I take his power away because he was a colossal dick at work and I had to neutralize him somehow? Damn right.

But did he try to cheat on me twice to my knowledge, stay a night in jail for a DUI, drink heavily every night, sneak around outside of work and not tell me where he was going or what he was doing, and make up stories and lies that he couldn't even keep straight? Yeah. Did he want to live in my apartment rent-and-bill-free so he could support his drinking and his smoking weed? Yeah. Did he offer my six year-old son a beer as well as provide a TERRIBLE human example to a kid who's like a sponge and started imitating him, cussing, while also telling me, "Mom, I don't like Bernard. Break up with him. I don't trust him"? Fuck, yes.

So I finally did it. I had tried a few times before; back in October when I found out about the cheating attempts through text messages on his phone between him and one of the waitresses at work, and he was pissed at me for going through his phone but he had all ready been lying to me (and it takes one to know one), I said, "You know, if you're gonna try to cheat on someone you should probably lock your phone." We had a big fight which culminated in our first "I love you"s and we didn't break up - in fact I thought it brought us closer.

But then recently he has been exhibiting the same behavior - lying about where he is outside of work (we work together but don't have the same schedule) - and I found out he had locked his phone, because one night when he was drunk he was trying to get into it, and couldn't remember his own damn password. That, and he and his buddies were talking about the other day that he hung out with them, "But don't tell Adora!" Bernard said. He didn't know I heard.

So I was just finally done.

Okay, lesson learned this time? Who fucking knows. I had been keeping the piercing fetish guy updated throughout my relationship, so when he found out about my breakup, he wanted to come over last night. I forget the fictitious name I gave him but you can check the column on the left. Vicente or something, I don't fucking know.

Before he came over, when he asked if he could, I said, "Sure, but I'm not fucking you, and no needles."

Goddamnit. We did fuck.

So what's next? Today I'm going to church, going to go see my son, and tomorrow I have to go back to work at the restaurant, although I don't have to work with Bernard until Tuesday. I informed the restauranteur of the break-up; he was worried I was going to quit and desperately texted me, "You can't quit! I choose you over Bernard! Please don't quit!" Because, again, Executive Chef Bernard is a colossal dick (even though he has a tiny one) and no one can actually stand him. I wanted to see through all of that into his precious human heart - and I did, briefly. Mostly I was swept away by his culinary skills - but you know what? 

I've lost my appetite.

The Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 8

I usually take two tacks with relationships, lately - all, or nothing. With Jason, because breaking up with him wasn't working, back in February and March, I decided to ask him to marry me in May.

I know, that makes so much sense.

It doesn't, of course - I wasn't offered any tools or given any examples growing up to teach me to foster a healthy relationship with someone. But you know the saying, "Wherever I go, there I am"? If I don't work on myself, no relationship I have will ever be a success. Namely, if I don't work on myself when I'm with myself, I certainly won't be able to do it when I'm with someone else...and will therefore be quite capable of making two lives quite miserable.

The other day I became very angry with Jason for singing and playing music in his room when I was trying to write. I didn't let him know how I felt. Instead, I stomped outside to the backyard - and saw his bong next to the wicker bench. I wanted to go break it, but, because he went off his bipolar/OCD/anxiety/sleep meds and has decided instead to get a legal medical marijuana card, I decided not to break the bong, begrudgingly. But, since I can't handle being around a bong, I went back inside to the living room to write...where it was loud again. As the music was grating my nerves, I got an email from Ronnie, my ex-husband, telling me that I'm a disappointment to our son because I don't call Lyle every day at five like I'm supposed to, and Lyle is sad every day waiting for my call. Instead of admitting my mistake and telling Ronnie I'll make the commitment to call our son, I got even more angry, and when Jason came to ask me what's wrong very kindly and compassionately, I exploded. I got up, I threw my phone onto the floor, the contents breaking apart and scattering into the hallway, and I stormed out of the house without so much as a word, still wearing my pajamas, driving 30 miles back to my aunt's house a few towns away.

Um, yeah. Psycho...

I do the very best I can to justify my actions, to any one. Even to you, dear readers. In part 7, I justified my leaving Jason's house, and my plan to leave the relationship, without giving you all the deets.

The truth is, I'm a liar, and a rager. Growing up, my dad lied so often that it was a problem, and both of my parents' significant others flew off the handle in violent rages. I didn't learn the best communication skills, to say the least. I don't blame them, mind you. They were obviously fucked up by their parents, and them by theirs, and so on and so forth, back to the chicken or the egg or homo erectus or Adam and Eve or whatever you choose to believe. (Book nudge: The Four Agreements by don Miguel Ruiz includes some great stuff about how our parents and society fuck us up as individuals.)

But maybe I just don't know how fucked up I really am until I try to live with someone else. Say I'm dating you, and I fall in love with you because you're special, and you feel the same way about me. We've both dated quite a bit - one of us was even married before - and we can safely say that we've never felt this way about any one before. Then, we spend a large of time together. Finally, we start to argue, and we realize we're actually both pretty messed up. "You're crazy!" I'll scream at you, hypocritically. Or, "I can't be with you, because I'm just too crazy. It's over!" And I run like hell, without hardly giving you a chance to say anything in the matter.

So I'm flighty, to boot. I really need to re-read my own "7 Ways to Avoid Getting Into a Bad Relationship" that I wrote just yesterday. "Love"...I've written about it plenty, from various perspectives. Sometimes I really sound like I know what I'm talking about, and other times I really have no freaking clue. I hold no Ph.D. in the subject. Hell, I ain't got no GED in the subject, neither. I'm like, in pre-school. And like a child, I want, want, want. If I really could just follow my own advice and "master love" the way Miguel Ruiz prescribes in The Mastery of Love, I wouldn't even be writing right now. Maybe I should read that book again, too.

Anyway...I guess what I'm saying is, the chapter on Jason isn't actually closed after all. I've embarrassed myself plenty over the past month oscillating from this-guy-sucks to he-can-be-my-boy-toy to I've-never-loved-someone-so-much to yay-happy-day-I'm-engaged to get-me-the-hell-out-of-this-shit-NOW. I know...crazy.

If you were in my shoes, dear reader, what would you do? Keep in mind, that, most importantly, you have an almost five year-old son who needs your love more than anyone.

Well, what I did was, I apologized to Jason for my freak-out, told him everything that was bothering me about our relationship, and I told him that if we're going to continue to consider marriage, before we even set a date - we need to undergo pre-marital counseling. And include Lyle. I got therapy with my son Lyle last year when Ronnie went to jail and rehab from May to August. It worked well for us.

All I want, in the entire world, is to be a good mom. It's more important to me than a relationship with any guy, and Jason knows this. If he's willing to let me put Lyle first, no matter what, maybe there's a chance for us after all. But he's going to have to support me when I need space to work on myself and on my relationship with my son, and, again, undergo therapy too, both individually and combined (and then we can call Captain Planet). And I need to follow #7 in my list: taking special consideration when dealing with mental and emotional disorders. Shit, I need to follow all 7 on the list. That's why I wrote it; because those are things I need to remember.

The Memoir Outline: 1-3

1

Family outing to the Oceanside pier. In preparation, Ronnie drinks.

Instead of going to the pier with us as planned, Ronnie has me drop him off at the Headhunter Saloon. I take Lyle down the pier for a milkshake and fries. Sunset, pelicans, surfers. We race and I pretend to lose. He wants to take off his shoes, but I daren’t let him. Too many fishermen. And splinters.

We go back to pick Ronnie up. He’s standing outside the saloon in a circle of people, smoking. He doesn’t want to come with me. I get money out of the ATM and give it to him and tell him to take a cab home.

I take Lyle to Chuck E. Cheese and wait for Ronnie’s call. They’re open late. I play games with Lyle. 20 minutes, Ronnie calls. They kicked me out of the bar, he says. I need you to come get me, they’re calling the cops, he says. I say too bad, and I hang up on him. Lyle and I play some more. He calls a few more times. I don’t answer. He calls again. I answer and I tell him we’re on our way.

I pick him up and take him to Weinerschnitzel to get some food in him. At the drive-through window he says, please don’t be mad, but I kissed two women at the bar.

2

Ronnie’s drunk. He’s banging against Lyle’s bedroom door. Lyle and I are inside. I’m holding Lyle close to me and reading him a book on the other side of the room. Ronnie kicks the door in and breaks the door frame. Get away from us, I scream. I’m calling 9-1-1, I say. He takes my phone. I pick up Lyle and get by Ronnie but he grabs my arm and pushes me and gets in front of us and blocks the front door. You’re not going anywhere, he says. He puts a hole in the wall with his fist. He walks towards us. I take Lyle into my and Ronnie’s bedroom. We’re both crying. Ronnie is banging on our bedroom door.

Ronnie stops banging and yelling. I sing and rock Lyle to sleep. Lyle falls asleep. I open the bedroom door and Ronnie is passed out on the floor in the hallway.

3

Ronnie and I are fighting. He’s drunk. We’re going to the courthouse tomorrow morning to get a divorce, he says.

I get my phone and my keys and my purse.

Fine, I say. Actually, fuck you, I’m leaving right now, I say. I fucking hate you and I hope I never see you again, I say. I go over to pick up Lyle out of his high chair. Lyle’s crying. Ronnie gets to him first and grabs Lyle and picks him up. I try to pry Ronnie’s arms loose. He won’t let go of Lyle. I stomp on Ronnie’s foot. He doesn’t let go. Lyle is crying. I’m crying. Ronnie is yelling. Thank you for the worst ten years of my life, Ronnie says. You’re not taking Lyle, he says. You’re insane, he says. If you’re leaving, then leave, he says.

I leave Ronnie and Lyle.

I go to my car. I’m crying in the drivers’ seat. I turn the ignition and put it in reverse and I start backing up, then I put it in drive and start driving down the apartments’ parking lot.

I pull out on Mission Rd. I don’t know where to go. I’ve been texting my co-worker Evan a lot lately, complaining about Ronnie. At work last week he said I should leave Ronnie.

I text Evan while crying and driving. I did it, I say. I left Ronnie, but I don’t know what to do, I say. Come over here, he says. I say, I can’t, that’s too scary. Then let’s get to the scary part, he says. I say okay.

I drive over to Evan's mom and stepdad’s house where Evan lives. He meets me on the steps in front of the house. It’s the first time I’ve seen him not in his uniform and cap. He’s wearing a button-up plaid, long-sleeved shirt and jeans, and his hair is flat against his forehead.

I park and walk up to him, slowly. He kisses me. He lifts me up. He carries me into his house as we kiss. He takes me to the living room and he starts taking off his clothes. I take off mine. We have sex on the recliner. Then the couch. Then the floor.

When we’re done, we get dressed and he cooks salmon, collard greens and mashed potatoes. He pours me a glass of wine, and him a glass. After I drink my glass, I try to put the cork back in the top of the bottle. I don't usually drink wine. Evan laughs. Usually when two people open a bottle of wine, he says, they drink the whole thing. I laugh and pour myself another glass. I don’t like to drink much, he says. It hurts my stomach, he says. I finish off the wine. We eat the food and talk.

We go upstairs to his bedroom and we have more sex.

The Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 6

"Aspiring memoirist" doesn't do a damn bit of good without any actual effort on my part. And I don't have a job right now, so what the hell am I doing? I've been scattered. Trying to start a business doing way too many things. Performing, voice lessons, tutoring, photography, editing/proofreading, publicity...and not making a cent yet.

I was just laying here on my fiancé's bed in his bedroom at his parents' house while he plays Ben Folds on his keyboard, and tears came to my eyes. "This is what I've come to...I don't recognize my life any more."

The life I recognized was with my dysfunctional family growing up, and my fervent educational pursuits as my escape. Then I recognized being in love with an alcoholic, who made me laugh and kept me up all night long, telling me stories, but with whom I also fought belligerently. Then, I recognized being a mother. All that other crap that came before...blech. But that last thing...that was what life was worth living for.

I wasn't a bad one, either. I use to take my son out every day to mommy-and-me classes, the ones where you sit around a circle with a bunch of other mothers (and a few fathers) with their babies and toddlers to sing songs for half an hour until you took your kid(s) out to the playground for a couple more hours. Those were the days of glory, where in my memory the sun shines bright like the mythical gate of some holy place and bounces off the glittering sand that I would scoop into buckets for my little guy to pour out all over the toys in the sandbox. Real-life toddler heaven, it was. Of course, home was hell. But, as they say...better the Devil you know. (Not really...I'm not being sarcastic or cynical at all in this post.)

These days, my son is four - five in August - and I only see him on weekends, sometimes only every other weekend. Any time his dad asks if he can keep him again "this" weekend, I act like I'm hurt, or sad, or pissed, or I react in some way that hides the fact that deep down I'm relieved as hell to be left to my own selfish, albeit failing pursuits. When I do get my son - when I'm not offered an "out" - I try my best to act like a mother for a couple of days until I "get" to drop him back off with the guy I never thought would be a fitter parent than I. But so it is.

So, yeah. I don't recognize my life. Somehow I'm actually worse a mother than my own was. She didn't pay much attention to us, but she was there, physically. Behind a closed door most of the time, but she was just a knock away.

No, what I've become is my father. Like his, my dedication is to an other on whom I place monumental significance, an other who isn't the parent of my child but who satisfies my need for "love" in a way only a "significant other" can. And I don't have to do all that much to take care of him, except be with him...all the time.

I stood by him during his pyschotic break last week after he'd decided to stop taking all his bipolar/anxiety/OCD/sleep/etc. meds (that's what all the stretching was, a couple posts ago, a precursor to absolute unrecognizable madness that I can't even begin to describe at the moment). Sure, he "loves" me more than anyone has since my husband, #1, and #20 (the other two boyfriends who at least said they loved me). But, I remember when I left my husband, and, when it didn't work with #1, I "knew" that "love just doesn't conquer all" (and that's why I settled with #20 for awhile, because I didn't love him, at all - but my son did, and that's the only reason it lasted as long as it did, until I just couldn't do it any more).

I'm not sure why I've put myself in this position again. I put "loves" in quotations marks, knowing full well that the true word that belongs in its place is "needs". I'm with someone who would completely lose it if I left him. (Hey, that's a song..."As long as he needs me...I know where I must be...I'll hang on steadfastly...as long as he needs me." It's from the musical Oliver! and so says Wikipedia, "It is a love ballad expressing Nancy's love for her criminal boyfriend Bill Sikes, despite his mistreatment of her.")

As a matter of fact, Jason's mental breakdown came on the heels of me packing up because I wanted to go home, just for a night or two, to get away from his all-night manic cleaning episodes. There was shit all over his room, and he was up day and night bringing more shit into it from all over the house, obsessively. Yes, it was part of his disorder gone haywire, and somewhat beyond his control (although, did I mention he's decided to stop seeing his psychiatrist, and just smoke weed from now on?). A good fiancée would stand by her man in his time of need, I guess. But not I. I had tried to get away at least three other times over the course of the week, but he begged me to stay each time. So I did, reluctantly. And so here I still am...miserable.

I just want to get back to my life. I want to open my mail. I want to clean my own room. I want to take care of my cats, instead of just buying bags of catfood and dropping them off for my aunt, with whom I (used to) live. Not only that, I want to pet my cats. And I want to have space, alone time. I want to write my memoir. This blog is just a gathering of ideas. I want to write the real thing. This isn't it. This blog is like a little girl's diary, really. It's just...there's been so much wreckage in the present that it's been hard to just write about the wreckage of the past. It started with Margaret's suicide. Then I dated again - damnit - and that's the irony - this blog was supposed to prevent me from creating any more present wreckage. At least, that was the idea, if you go back and read my first post. I keep acting like getting engaged to be married is the ultimate redemption. I find Jesus, get baptized, start dating a guy in church, have a slip and kiss someone else, so ooh, I know, I'll ask the guy I'm dating to marry me, that'll fix everything - game, set, match!

It's all wrong. I feel like a prisoner. Getting engaged to someone just so he'll "know" you aren't going to leave him and he'll therefore hopefully "let" you leave his house, without freaking the fuck out, is clearly - how shall I put it? - fucking dumb.

I should have been writing throughout the course of our relationship so I could have gotten honest with myself. I was on a roll before this one. I over-analyzed the shit out of the last guy I dated (#29).

(And sorry, I just have to take a moment to laugh about Jesus being #28. A lot of good that did me, lol.)

(Oh! PS, #29 just got married, actually. I saw it on facebook. I wouldn't have been happy with that one, either, so I'm glad it was someone else and not me.)

"Love" - I've made such a joke of the word that I can't even take it seriously any more. And yet I say "I love you so much" every day to...what's the fake name I assigned #30? Oh, Jason, I think. But when I say "I love you" to him, what I mean is, "I don't want you to freak out if I don't say it back, so I'm going to say it back and act like I believe it, so that maybe you believe it, too."

But then...when I'm away from him - when I do GET to go home - first, I feel utter bliss. But then I feel so alone that I can hardly bear it. Even with my son with me at my house, I feel empty. Like something's missing.

I guess that's that "need" again. It's apropos to say that Jason and I "need" each other.

But my son needs me, too, and that one doesn't belong in quotation marks. I'm sorry, but I need to get my shit together. Watching Californication has changed my life. I just finished Season 3. Hank Moody is a better father than I am mother, a better writer than I, too, and, he fucks a shitload of women...which makes me not feel so bad. But it's not cool what he does, and he's has frequent downfalls. His daughter is currently pissed at him, in the episodes I'm watching, for sleeping with her 16 year-old almost-step-sister. But he didn't know she was 16, and he's got a good lawyer that he's fucking, so it'll probably all turn out fine (sarcasm).

Any way, Hank is a fictional construct. But...watching him fuck so many women and and still pick his daughter up from school and out for ice cream makes me feel like a total shitbag. I haven't even fucked that many guys - many of the guys on my list, atleast #20 and forward, are guys with whom I was legitimately trying to get into the relationship to end all relationships.

But it's still fucking lame, putting relationships with men above being a mother to my now four-and-a-half year old boy. This past weekend my son told Jason he hated him, and told me that Daddy loves him more than I do, because Daddy takes more responsibility for him. Those were pretty much his exact words. I hate to say that the kid is right. After four rehabs, his dad is finally doing really well. I'm the fuck-up now. I'm sober, sure, but that hardly means shit any more. I'm not going to go drink or use, because that would make this whole thing so much worse, and there's no need for that. But I wish I could. And why wouldn't he hate Jason? I give Jason way more attention than I give to my son. Goddamnit.

I'm still holding onto the hope that I can get my act together. I started the outline for my memoir. I still don't know if I should write it as a novel, or, "truly". I feel like I'd be completely damning myself in every circle of which I am a part if I write it as a true story. But maybe that's what I deserve.

But I'm not thinking of that yet. What I'm doing now is, I'm just writing facts. I'm writing a summary of things I've done and putting them into little chapters to be expanded upon later. Not how I felt, or what I thought. (For the record, I know that's a sentence fragment, I just don't care. And know that's a comma splice. Again, I don't care.)

In my outline, there are no motives. No self-justifications or rationalizations or painting pictures of people that make me look like the victim (because I'm pretty sure I've done a shitload of that). There's no answer to "why". What is, just is.

Jason was saying, as we were watching the show together, "Poor Hank. He just gets shit on, all the time."

"No. I don't agree with that," I said. "He does it to himself. He can't just fuck everything that has a vagina and a pulse and not expect his daughter and her mom to just be cool with it. It's not about him, in the end. It's about them."

"No, it is about him," Jason argued. Jason doesn't know how much I identify with Hank. I was crying today at Albertson's and Jason asked me what was wrong. "If I told you, it would probably end our relationship."

"I'll never stop loving you, sweetheart. Nothing's that bad," he said.

I still couldn't tell him. I couldn't say, "Do you know you're number 29 (not counting Jesus) in a long line of guys I've been with in some capacity since I left my husband? Do you know I don't even truly know if I love you or if I'm just with you to numb my pain? I don't even know if I'm capable of loving anything. I don't even love myself."

Cheating on him and breaking up with him in the beginning didn't work. So I'm not going there again. But I'm in fucking deep, here. We go to the same church; the pastor announced our engagement to the whole congregation a few weeks ago, at both the 9 am and 10:45 am services.

So now what?

"I believe in you, baby," he just said to me. He knows I'm writing, but he doesn't really know what about. I did tell him I'm writing my memoir. I told him earlier, at Albertson's, that he may not love me so much when I'm done.

The truth will set you free, they say. We'll see.

The Satellite Communications Engineer, part 3

Last night was our second date. He was perfectly respectful. He provided me with a fulfilling dinner. We had deep, analytical conversations. He played a couple of his compositions for me on his smartphone out of the speakers at Best Buy. The kisses and holding hands and hugs were nice. He dropped me back off at my car at 9 o'clock. We talked about what our strategies would be to not have sex, and he even set some boundaries. I talked about my recovery, and he fully listened. We were attracted to each other. There shouldn't be any reason for me to not see him again, except...

I was crawling out of my skin. I felt inadequate, insecure, out of place. I felt like I was from another planet, wearing a bad disguise, afraid of getting found out and being deported from Normulus back to Terra Weirda. I didn't feel the connection that I thought we'd had before. I tried to manufacture it, but it didn't work. I tried to look deep into his eyes, but all I saw was myself trying to look deep into his eyes for something I couldn't see. I tried to speak, but all I could say were things I thought I should say. I tried to listen, but all I could hear were my own thoughts, going, "Okay, nod, smile, look really interested, and hurry, come up with something honest and meaningful to say to relate to what he's saying when he's done." I'd try to impress him, but then I'd recant and say that what I'd just said wasn't entirely true, that I was exaggerating, trying to impress him.



If I have to try so hard, am I really "being myself"? Hell no! And who the hell am I? I still don't know. That's the problem from the very beginning. Being a serial relationshipper means I have absolutely no identity (I did record at a music studio this weekend, and I sang in church, but I was a horrible mother to my son because I was obsessing about this guy and freaking out about where it may or may not go and what I should or shouldn't do, I hardly contacted my friends as much as I normally do to ask how they're doing, I ceased writing my inventory of my past relationships in order to write about this relationship, I stopped thinking about and feeling the loss of my mentor Margaret, I didn't get any chores done, I lost a ton of sleep, and I just felt completely derailed, in general).

But it's not his fault, even. I had assigned him the same "magical" qualities I always assign men when I want them to want me and I want to want them (although I probably gave him more of 'em than any of the past guys combined, and the following list doesn't even cover 'em): "intelligent", "healthy", "sane", "normal", "musically inclined", "mathematically inclined", "physically active", "family man", "driven", "kind", "vulnerable", "honest", "handsome", "traveler", "Christian", "gardener", "affectionate", "composer", "fearless", "performer", "successful", "engineer". And my motives were all wrong. Damnit, successful guys always foster in me that Ooh,-he-could-take-care-of-me bobble-headed fantasy. No matter who he is, that's my motive. Oh, fuck, it's so messed up.



And another motive: Thursday, the day I met him when he first asked me out, was, not just in correlation but in causation, the first day I didn't have the searing chest pain that had, for the prior week on a (sometimes twice or thrice) daily basis, prompted me to scream uncontrollably and cry to the point of exhaustion over Margaret's suicide. Dating James was a way out of that pain; when the opportunity presented itself, my depression gave way to excitement, joy, thrill, happiness, and gratitude. I had no willpower to decline. I couldn't foresee that I would actually miss the pain, that yesterday, when it came back, after I'd heard from her lawyer that she'd put me in her Will and that I needed to go in for a reading of it tomorrow (today...in about an hour), there was something comfortable about it. It felt right. The pain of loss felt normal. What doesn't feel normal is dating someone so I don't have to feel it. That feels wrong.

Margaret's fiancé died over a couple years back. Within a month, she was with Crawford, and within another month they were living together, and within two years he broke her heart, and she killed herself. She told me, one of the nights we spent talking about our dismal experiences with men, "I just don't want you to be 53 and having to go through something like this. Please, please learn from my mistakes. Promise me." Her "mistakes" are resounding with me now, saying, "Stop dating...it's too soon...". The sex and love addiction book says that "wherever and whenever we are vulnerable, we will be tested". I've failed the test, damnit.




But...okay...stepping back here...I want to acknowledge that this is what my Catholic "ex-gay" best friend Peter calls a "Cadillac" problem (I don't know why I had to add the descriptors; he's just an interesting guy). One reason I hang out with people with much worse problems than mine (other than to fulfill my *ahem* purely angelic desire to be of service to them) is to get out of this deplorable self-centeredness and be grateful for the good in my life. There was this guy, Cecil, in the substance recovery meeting I went to yesterday, who has been living in his car for the past couple of years...former vet, now coming up on 3 months sober...who got a job. But, he didn't have enough gas to make it back "home" where he's used to parking his car. So one of the ex-cons who sells newspapers at an intersection threw him a few bones and said, "I'm supposed to give 10 percent of this to a charity, but I ain't gonna give it to nobody I can't see. I can see you need it, man." And Cecil was overflowing with gratitude as he shared about all this with us, his Bible clutched in his hand. It made me beam, and it put me right-sized.



Because I do have so much good in my life (my son, my church, my blues band, my recovery meetings, my sponsors, my sponsees, my friends, my family, my reading, my writing, my singing, my cats, my place to live, my jobs, my God), I do wonder, why does it matter so much whether I have a man in my life or not? Why does that have to be my focus? Why can't I just forget about the whole damn thing and just go help people?

I guess it's because this aspect of my life makes me feel so...lost...and it's driving me absolutely crazy. I do try to help others, but I don't have a lot to give just yet. I feel like I need to find myself -- and pull it all together before I'm just completely gone (like Margaret...although I would never do what she did; I'm an optimist, as it turns out). Right now, I'm scattered in pieces that I've left with every man I've been with along the road. I heal more and more as I go back to gather those pieces (even if, here and there, I still drop some). Through writing, however shabbily, I absorb the pieces of my self back into, what I hope someday will be, a whole.

"Being whole means being healthy, feeling content, fulfilled, and proud of one's accomplishments.  It means being confident that you can handle whatever challenges might come your way.  It means that you know that you are worthy of happiness; worthy of respect.  It means you have the motivation and ability to follow your dreams.  It means you are proud of who you see looking back at you in the mirror.  It means you will be proud at the end of your days as you look back at a life well-lived." http://www.onbeingwhole.com/

Here's a quote I really like: "I'm not a bad person trying to get good. I'm a sick person trying to get well."

My Mom, Her Boyfriend Harry, and My Son

The "what-I-don't-know-can't-hurt-me" approach to life is designed to help one "not feel pain" when reality - current or past - is (or seems) too painful to face. But whatever the ostrich is hiding from is sure to eat the ostrich nonetheless. It's time to take my head out of my - sand - and shine a light into that dark and scary cave of childhood.

Synopsis: A dragon keeps a damsel in distress hidden away where he tortures her nearly to death. Her children respond to her screams of terror with curdling screams of their own. The dragon stomps out of its cloister, heaves over to the eldest (the boy), grabs him by the neck, and violently flings him across the cave against the wall where he slides down into a motionless lump on the floor. The monstrous fire-breather then leaps upon the older girl, its weight atop her, stopping her gasps with its tight grasp around her neck, too, until her body ceases to quiver. The dragon doesn't see the youngest girl hiding in a dark corner, peeing her pants. It snorts and retreats to continue its torture of the damsel. The children awake dizzily and retreat into their fantasy worlds - the boy, Stephen King; the girls, Walt Disney.

The long-awaited knight in shining armor never arrived, but that didn't stop me from continuing to fantasize about being rescued by an older man into adulthood. At age ten, I started dreaming about strange grown men climbing through the window at night to whisk me away and take care of me forever. There were a few unsavory characters who entered the scene here and there, but none of them saved me: I was molested eight times from age four to age twelve, mostly by drug addicts and alcoholics (and once by my brother, when I was four, but he was seven, and I just don't think he knew any better).

I haven't written about the year my mom left our dad when I was eight, and we spent three months homeless and living on hot dogs with the aforementioned alcoholic-abusive Fiery Dragon (who was really, well, "The Carpenter on Peppermint Schnapps"...I'll call him Harry). My mother did leave him when I was fourteen and took our younger sister with her; my brother went to live with his heroin-addict best friend and I went to live with our dad and his abusive, meth-addicted girlfriend. So my reality, as a child, just wasn't all that great. But, unfortunately, it didn't stop there. After high school, I fell in love with a heroin-addict-alcoholic who wasn't really abusive until about two years into the relationship. Then, before I knew it, I was drinking and using heroin, too -- and now I was my mother. Once I saw that, I left him, after being with him for ten years. Then, I was back on my knight-in-shining-armor quest. The fairy tale really just turned out to be one long fucking nightmare.

There is of course a problem with accepting a myth-story (fake = "having a false or misleading appearance; fraudulent") solution to my problem. But it wasn't until I tried to apply that "solution", repeatedly experiencing disillusioned failure, did the reality fairy pull me from my blindness and blind me with its light (you'll get that if you read Plato's Cave Allegory from his Republic; there are no fairies in it, but it's quite apropos).

And further still, there's a problem with the problem to which I'm accepting a problematic solution. The problem itself is fake, atleast now. As an adult, I don't need to be rescued. And if I really feel like I do, well, I've got the roles all mixed up. I'm the knight in shining armor, not the abused princess or damsel in distress (unless I make myself those by continuing to chase these nasty Princess Charmers). And while I thought I'd be slaying dragons when I shone the light into the cave of my life, what I'm actually finding is a trove of treasure.

Many who come from dark childhoods are afraid to look (that is what fantasy is for). But one of my best friends just killed herself because of the torment she was feeling, not wanting to look at the upbringing that shaped her into the love addict she became (so she could change herself), and not able to cope with her Prince Charming leaving her for another woman.

I decided to brave it. I'm here to save myself, after all. So I started with my brother, because with him lies my first dark memory that tormented me long into adulthood. Surprisingly, writing about it gave me an immediate precious gift that I didn't expect.

I had my son with me a couple weeks ago, a day after writing that post (I share custody of him with his dad). I had written about my brother's dinosaur and space books, and then I realized that I had gotten my son a couple of dinosaur and space books for his fourth birthday in August! But -- having been so involved in my pursuits of Prince Charming the past few months (besides, um, the past 21 years) -- not once had I read them to him. I remembered how the things my brother used to do with me constituted my entire world, and the question, I am my son's world - what world am I giving him? came up and gently tapped me on the shoulder and begged for my attention.

So I read to him, intently. Later in the day, I was proud of myself. Because I have started writing about my childhood, I also thought: If my son grows up and writes about his past, what will he write about? It was a way for me to change myself here and now and be the kind of mother I need to be for him.

With resolve, I began to invoke in myself again The Knight in Shining Armor, for him. I do know this: he won't write about men beating his mother until she chokes on her own blood, or men choking him until he passes out. He won't write about his mother always being behind a closed door, or about her being asleep for most of the day, or drinking 100-proof Southern Comfort for breakfast. He won't write about jumping into dumpsters for cans, crushing them, and taking them with his mom's boyfriend to recycle for hot dogs, beans, cigarettes and Peppermint Schnapps. He won't write about his mom telling him that they were "going on vacation" and then leaving his dad and not seeing his dad for a whole year, or ending up in a shelter for battered and homeless women and children for a few months until his mom got back together with her abuser. He won't write about fending for himself and microwaving a couple tortillas with cheese or putting chili powder on a head of lettuce and calling it dinner. He won't write about having to wear dirty second-hand clothing and being teased every day at school for it. He won't write about only getting to see his dad every other weekend and his dad's meth addict girlfriend throwing kittens against the bedroom door and killing them. He won't write about how he got an F in Art in 5th grade for attention and asked his mom to spank him so he could see if she cared, but then have her say, "That's fine, honey, I'm sure you did your best." He won't write about having a 16 year-old girlfriend when he's 12, or a 21 year-old girlfriend when he's 16 -  at least, not if I can help it.

I let my son see his dad more than every other weekend. I have conversations with him, teach him things, and let him know how much he means to me. I have a job, a car, and I take him places. When he grows older, I'll be there when he gets awards in school. I'll be there to pick him up from soccer practice (or whatever sport he chooses, if he wants to play a sport). If he joins a choir, I'll go to his performances. I'll make sure he gets put in honors classes. If he gets an "F" in Art in fifth grade just to try and get my attention, I'll give it to him, and ground him for a week. If he gets placed in the 4th-6th grade county spelling bee as a 3rd grader, I'll take him myself instead of making him ride the bus with all the older kids and no lunch. I won't let us be homeless for a half a year and call it a camping trip. I won't move 600 miles away when he's 14 and only see him once every three years. I'll be there when he gets married, and when his wife has their first child. I won't be drunk every time he calls me on the phone, sometimes driving, and talk to him about my new alcoholic boyfriend punching me in the nose.

I was pushing my son on a swing at the park the day after. And I realized something else - I don't have even one memory of my mom ever taking me to a park. I have hardly any memories of being with my mom at all. It's no wonder that I've been so desperate to find some kind of love wherever I can. I thought of this just when, after pushing my son on the swing for 30 minutes and wanting to stop and sit down at the table and let him find a playmate to run around with, he asked me to do another "underdog" (my dad did take us to parks and used to do "underdogs" with us on the swings).

So I made myself keep pushing. Besides, I was really enjoying the conversation. My son was giving me a full synopsis of the movie The Goonies that he had just watched for the first time at his dad's house, and it absolutely tickled me (it was one of my very favorite movies growing up). But, finally, he did get tired of swinging, and he did find a playmate with whom to play with his three Godzillas and two dinosaur figures, and I could finally do what I'd been dreaming of - sit down. So I sat down and began to write about my mother never being there for me, but that prompted me to do something else - I called her. 

I know it sounds counterintuitive, but it's actually part of a weekly ritual. I call my mom once a week, at a minimum, to let her know I love her and am thinking of her. I got the idea from a woman who was speaking at a convention on spirituality. She said, "Now here's a prayer for you all; I dare you to try this: before you go to bed every night, say, 'God, please have people treat me tomorrow just the way I treated people today.' Do that for 30 days and I guarantee it'll change your life." I haven't done it for 30 days - and that was 34 days ago. But, it did change the way I treat my mom. All I want is for her to call me, to think of me, to ask me how I'm doing -- to love me. So that's what I do, every week, for her. Maybe I oughta do it every day.

Forgiveness is an exact science, really. You swallow pain and resentment and churn it into compassion and understanding before regurgitating it as patience, tolerance and love. It takes a lot of energy and practice, and can be pretty damn exhausting. But one thing she did teach me: "Two wrongs don't make a right." So no matter how difficult it is to swallow when she says has no regrets for the way she "raised" us, and forgives herself, I just let it come back up calmly as, "I forgive you, too, Mom."

And I could tell she was drunk and on pills and probably won't even remember the conversation. But if she's still alive next week, I'll just do that same thing. It's the death of the defaultus modus operandi -- instead of trying so desperately to be loved, now I love. I love my mom, I love my son, and I love myself.

Mary Karr

Day 28 of no men. I'm sitting here at a local Laundromat reading Mary Karr's The Liar's Club, recommended to me by a former writing professor of mine who's blog I'm following to see whether or not he's going to survive this bout of cancer. (We all know he will, again...but I'm on pins and needles, damnit.) His blog inspired me to start one. I'd all ready been instructed by the guy who wrote a popular sex and love addiction recovery book to make an "inventory" describing every relationship I've ever been in so I could see how the hell I made such a mess of my life. Now that I'm reading about a guy going through what sounds like living hell in a fight just to stay alive, the "hell" I thought I'd been living in doesn't seem so bad. Not that I'd want to go back there -- actually, the whole point of writing, for me, is so that I don't keep fucking men I don't even know and figure out why the hell I've been doing that for the past two years in the first place.

Of course, it was suggested I write about all my relationships: friends, family, co-workers, etc. It's a monumental task, so I'm just doing pieces at a time and letting myself write freely whatever comes to mind (and then edit like a maniac when it goes from my paper notebook to this notebook).

In Mary's "Introduction" she describes the power of narrative as cathartic and healing -- but even more than that, for me, it changes my very life in the present, every day. I'm not sucking some guy's dick in a church parking lot right now. (I couldn't have said that two months ago.) This weekend I read to my four year-old son the dinosaur book I bought him for his birthday in August, for the first time. (It's mid-November.) I haven't written much about my mom yet -- that post is drafted and will probably get published after maybe a good 'nother eight hours of editing -- but I when I was pushing my son on the swings this weekend, and my arms were getting tired, I realized that I actually have no memories of my mom ever taking me to a park. So I kept pushing him. Later, I called her, just to tell her that I love her.

I freak out every time I post because somehow I expect to tell the whole story, right then and there. I have to get over that. I guess I just want these secrets to stop making me so sick. I want to throw 'em up and run like hell.

"Run like hell!" That was my best friend Shawna's motto when I was 12. She was 15. She and I did all kinds of crazy things. Once we broke into a vacant apartment and peed on the kitchen floor, just for the hell of it. I thought of her while reading The Liar's Club's page XIV about a fan of Mary's who, as a girl, "got adept (as [Mary] had) at worming her way into other people's houses." I don't think that's what she meant, but still.

This is how you recover in a 12-step program: you go to meetings where people tell you what they were like, what happened, and what they're like now. If you want what they have (sobriety, happiness, freedom) and are willing to go to any length to get it -- then you buckle up for the ride of your life, hold on tight, and don't let go.

Step 5 is, "We admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs." Then we let it all go, and carry our message of experience, strength and hope with others so that they may recover also.

The real reason I needed to sit and read and write right here and now at the Laundromat is because there's still a part of me that wants to go to that church where that guy will be tonight (#21: The Black Jack Dealer). But there's a better part of me that wants that part of me to die.

St. Francis of Assisi said it best: "It is by dying that one awakens to eternal life."

Amen.

"Talk about it, the old wisdom says, and you get better. From narratives about childhood, [we manufacture] a self, neither cut off from [our] past nor mired in it" (Karr, XIV).

So -- let's face the music, and dance.