Peter and I were both drawn to Ryan for some reason, so we invited him out to dinner with us. Peter's an ex-gay Catholic; he hasn't "been with anyone" in seven years. "I believe God created a man and a woman to be together," he always says. I feel bad for him. It basically means he's screwed - unfortunately, not literally - because he's hopelessly attracted to men. Especially "manly" ones, like Ryan.
It was one of those horseshoe-shaped booths, so there was plenty of room. But we were a recovering-alcoholic sandwich: I was the fresh, hot meat pressed in between two slices of aged whitebread. Ryan could feel my body temperature rise as he was sitting next to me. He put his hand on my leg, and said, "Whoa, Peter, you gotta feel this...". Ryan rubbed my leg up and down, getting closer to my crotch, and Peter watched with excitement. I was hot, and getting hotter.
Bruce called me on my phone right at that moment. I didn't answer, of course. It had been a strange week-and-a-half ever since he came up to talk to me on the steps at school on the way to the parking lot.
Bruce was a literature and writing major (like me, before I stopped double-majoring), and he was my age, an older college student - he'd served in the army and entered college after two tours in Iraq. He was Hmong, Mormon. He loved Dante Alighieri, John Milton, death metal, Asian martial arts flicks and his Mitsubishi Eclipse. His dad's first wife and son were killed in a mine field as they escaped China, and then his dad met his mom after settling down in a Hmong community in Merced. He has 9 brothers and sisters. I wasn't sure if that was because they were Hmong, or because they were Mormon.
It was the last week of January 2013 and the semester had just started. It was the first time we'd spoken - I didn't recognize him at first. He told me we were in the same American Lit class the semester before. He made me laugh when I told him I was a VPA major ("What is that?" he asked. "Visual...Pterodactyl...Alligator?") so I offered him a ride to his car, since he had parked at the shopping center across the street. He asked for my number, we exchanged, and I called him on my way home and we set up a coffee date for the next day.
The next day he told me he had had a crush on me the whole prior semester: "You were the only person in the entire class who, when you talked, didn't use the word 'like'. I was very impressed." I started spending a lot of time with him over the next few days, spending the night and whatnot. He was really into me. Thought I was beautiful, smart, funny, and melted when I sang to him inside Panera Bread. I had him show me how to hold the arcade gun when we played Time Crisis 4 after seeing a cheesy vampire movie at the theater, and I think that's where he really fell in love, hard.
But I soon noticed that Bruce was very immature. He was willing to not fuck me, so that was nice, but he had a really annoying attitude. He kind of acted like a little boy most of the time, and was very judgmental and high-and-mighty, like his shit didn't stink. It just really got on my nerves, and no matter how much he liked me, I really just couldn't stand the guy. Plus I could tell how tiny his penis was when he dry-humped me from the spooning position. So I just wasn't all that into him.
After I ignored his call at Denny's it gave me a chance to vent to Peter and Ryan about him and talk about how I wanted to get rid of him but didn't know how. I'm not sure if that was what prompted Ryan to suggest he and I go to a hotel room and him carrying me out of the restaurant over his shoulder to his car (and Peter asking if he could come watch, though we declined), or if the latter were completely unrelated to Bruce's phone call.
And it didn't work, anyway. I told Bruce on the phone the next day, but he 'forgave' me, since we hadn't "defined the relationship". So, I found some other guy to make my boyfriend (#22) - since obviously the one-night stand didn't do the trick (I'd wanted Ryan for the boyfriend thing, but he wasn't interested).
"For it is by dying that one awakens to eternal life." A blog by Adora Fallbrook, nom de plume for a 39 year-old mom & widow-now-remarried; rape, abuse and trauma survivor; recovering alcoholic, drug and sex/love addict; spiritual seeker; diagnosed with borderline personality and generalized anxiety disorders; and overall person-trying-to-be-a-better-person (but failing plenty of the time). "Pain is the touchstone..."
Showing posts with label #21. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #21. Show all posts
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
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.
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Note to My Beloved Readers:
You're very important to me; more than you will ever know. Through writing about my life, I'm trying to become a better mother. That is, in fact, my penultimate goal. If I succeed, I hope to inspire fellow sufferers of abuse and mental illness like me to survive and thrive (and if I don't succeed, I'm still useful as an example of what NOT to do). So, please, join me! Subscribe by email. Read about my fall from grace, my digging myself out of the trenches of demoralization, and my uphill trudge, battling the demons on the road to restoration, redemption, and happy destiny. We are not alone, you and I. And if you believe it - God's will is where your feet are. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to email me at adorafallbrook@gmail.com. Thank you, and so much love - Adora Fallbrook (nom de plume).









