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.