The Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 5

I'm watching Californication right now and thinking about my own "status" as a fictional character. I know I'd have a wider readership if I posted as myself. But tear the covers off? I'm just not ready.

I'm also reading Writing the Memoir by Judith Barrington. Why do I think my stories are worth telling? Well, they're shocking - at least to me. I find myself telling them to people one at a time. One person at a time, that is. Which stories I tell depend on the person and the amount of time I have, and where and why I'm telling them (the stories) in the first place.

I met some chick the other night who was brought to my fiancé's by her boyfriend Noah. Noah was supposed to record a song - my fiancé is an audio engineer and has a recording/mixing studio in his room. Noah brought his guitar, his girlfriend Megan, and a bunch of beer. I don't drink, and I was trying to work, myself, but because he brought her, I ended up having to entertain her while the two of them smoked weed outside.

Megan offered me a beer and I found myself telling her why I don't drink, or smoke, for that matter. Sometimes I just say, "No, I'm not drinking tonight" - but for some reason, this time, I took it upon myself to describe my entire downward spiral, post-separation/intra-bedlam. Those two phases are mutually inclusive, but, I don't know if I would cite either as the cause of the other. That's...more complicated, and to be saved for another post.

Which brings me back to Californication: this guy who has one successful novel can afford a house in L.A., and, women throw themselves at him, every episode, including women who don't even recognize him as the writer of said novel. Hank Moody "exudes" sexuality. I wish I could relate to the former of those descriptors, but alas, it's the latter that's apropos. Even now, as secure in my relationship as I am, hardly a day goes by that I don't get that second-take out there - that, you know, "I'm just turning back to look for an extra second here to see if you're at all interested, because you kinda look like you could be," and I, carefully, have to not smile too blatantly, for too long. Mine is, "Shit, I see you looking at me, again, so I better look away now before you get the wrong idea...even though I like it."

Unfortunately, though, no amount of blatant "exuding" on my part has been able, tonight, to get my fiancé to detach himself from his hours-long stretching routine to come "do" me. He's OC with plenty of other D's; he spent two days cleaning his room, putting every little thing in their perfect little places, and now it's been a full day of stretching. Stretching. I wish I was stretching in writing this.

I hope getting married isn't so close to suicide as being a "permanent solution" to a "temporary problem." The solution is the part that sounds good, of course, which is why people kill themselves, or, get married. I guess it isn't funny, but those were seeming to be the two alternatives back in January when I set out to try and nab this one last guy, or, maybe just be shit out of luck and, maybe just not "do this" any more.

Well, Californication's over. I'm turning in. He's still stretching, and I'm pretty damn annoyed, but there's a bit of karmic comedy in it all. I guess I want feel wanted all the time in every way that I want. I'm a little selfish that way. What I should be is grateful. This is better than the alternatives. Either one - being dead or being alone. He does love me more than anyone I've ever been with, besides my son - and that's a pretty nice feeling.

The Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 3

Wow, I am a selfish biatch.

And I'm clearly an addict.

Here's my morning:

I text Jason at 10 am. (It was hard to even wait that long, but I didn't want to seem desperate.) I check my phone every five minutes for two hours. Then I text him again. He texts me back, and I can finally smile. Then more waiting, impatiently, on edge. Feeling worthless. Irritable. Discontent.

Meanwhile, I'm only half-present for my son.

That's pretty much how my whole day went. I half-played with my son, took Melia to the doctor and the pharmacy, took my son to a playground and to the airpark, but never was my attention fully on him, or her. All I could think about, all day was, "When's he gonna text me again? Come on!"

We did text a little throughout the day, but it was sporadic, and it was mostly him saying he was busy...he was as at work (duh), then he was writing music (which he does), then his grandpa was in the hospital, and then he didn't feel well. I called to talk to him, but he didn't answer. It was right after he had texted me, too. Then in a text message I offered for him to come over so he wouldn't be alone, but he didn't want to. He just wanted to go to bed.

But of course, that was me being selfish, under the guise of being of service.

Really, come on, Adora.

Meanwhile, I texted 3 other guys today. Two were in response, one was initiated by me. All 3 platonic, but still...why do I need attention from men in order to feel okay?

I also called 3 women, so I didn't just focus on guys. But with the 3 women I talked to, two of them didn't have time to talk, and the third one just wanted to talk about her own problems, so we did, and I offered her solutions that I pretend work for me.

Even my aunt with whom I live has noticed something's been wrong with me. "Are you okay?" she asked me today. "You've been quiet." It's true; I told her I've been depressed. I've begun to withdraw, more and more. I'm starting to hide from people. I'm glad I'm going to be seeing a therapist twice a week now, but I'm nervous about that, too. At our first meeting she brought up damn meds.

I remember before Margaret committed suicide, she shared with me her desire to get off her anti-depressants because she just didn't like not being able to feel. She hated being numb. A week later, she was dead.

It scares me, the idea of being medicated. Why must it be? Hell, my therapist is even talking about how my son may have ADHD. Fucking a', bitch, he's four.

I'm sorry. I don't know what's happening to me. I did all my spiritual guru prayer meditation shit today, but there's still this part of me that looks at everything in existence as totally meaningless. I'm driving, looking at road signs, and saying to myself, "Fuck that sign. What's the point of that fucking sign? There's no fucking point. Fuck it." Yesterday on the way to pick up my son I fantasized about pulling into a row of palm trees lining the middle of the road.

I'm so glad I have my son. He makes me laugh. He astonishes me with his brilliance, his innocence, his unconditional love. I want to see him grow up. I don't know the future. For some reason I expect every day to be my last day here -- I don't know why I'm just feeling like it's pretty much all over, all ready -- but I'm not suicidal; I have no REAL desire to end my life.

Still, I'm having a hard time enjoying anything besides laying in bed. Writing's okay. Singing's not so bad. But even with writing and singing, I'm like, "What's the point?"

I'm so glad I have things to read. I need to read a hell of a lot more. All this isolation just coops me up with my own ridiculously drab thoughts. I need to go to more recovery meetings, too. I'm at maybe three a week. But even then, I go to meetings and I look down my nose at people. "You pathetic, lying humans," I think to myself. I think everyone's full of shit. How I became Holden Caulfield, I have no idea. That persona is so played.

My therapist thinks I haven't fully allowed myself to grieve my losses. My parents, my siblings, my husband, Margaret, my boyfriends (or at least Evan, the one I was closest to). My son for half the week. My innocence...my identity...my inner child...or some shit.

She also has noticed that I don't have any girl friends. That is weird, I have to admit. I have some female friends in recovery, but they all have the qualification of helping me stay sober and vice versa...like they're not real friends; they just serve a purpose. I don't know what the hell it's like to be someone's friend, really. I've always been a loner. I've always preferred reading and writing over interacting with actual people. I don't like it when people don't like me. I give them too much power, and yet I can't seem to stop doing that. And yet they probably don't even not like me.

I heard myself say today, as I was getting me and my son into the car at 2:00 pm to go get Melia, "That's it - he doesn't like me any more," just because Justin wasn't texting me off the hook. I laughed at myself and thought, "What if someone thought that about me? 'She didn't text me back right away; she doesn't like me any more.'" The idea was completely ridiculous. Just because I don't respond to someone's every text doesn't mean I don't like him/her. Duh.

And so then I circle back around to, "Why the hell am I being so selfish? Why do I need to be liked? Why can't I just love people, and leave it at that? Why do I feel so damn deprived?"

I don't know. I need to widen my circle. Be less judgmental. Stop thinking my shit don't stink. Or stop thinking I stink like shit. Whatever extreme, neither are real. Stuff matters. Life has meaning. There's a reason for all this. I'm not gonna be a broke-ass student working two part-time jobs forever...unless I keep dropping my classes like I did last semester and keep missing work like I've done five times in the past couple weeks.

The Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter

So, it's been determined that I am, in fact, insane, but to what extent hasn't yet been decided by my therapist.

While trudging through the Dark Night of the Soul this past month, I finally decided to go ahead and make a damn appointment. I hadn't seen my therapist in over a year. I called every day from this past Tuesday to this past Friday, trying to get the appointment. I was being persistent because I was being told that she (my therapist) would call me back, and each day I was falling deeper and deeper into a sort of depression that I'd forgotten could exist, and she wasn't calling me back. Thankfully, she did, finally, and was even able to have a phone session with me on Saturday. The session consisted of me talking for an hour, catching her up on the past year, and her talking for 15 minutes, suggesting a couple things for me to do, as well as setting up another appointment for Wednesday (yesterday). And yesterday she set up appointments for Mondays and Wednesdays, based on my apparently tragic condition, so she can see me twice a week and try to figure out what the hell is going on that makes me want to do absolutely nothing.

I've heard about people seeing the world in shades of gray. About not wanting to get out of bed in the morning, or do anything, or go anywhere, or talk to anyone. I missed four days of work and my world was the color of feces. I just didn't want to be in it any more. No matter where I was, it just wasn't where I wanted to be. Nothing in the world was good - not even being with my son, which is the thing that's saved me so many times before. I even freaking got baptized. But it only got worse.

Today's finally sort of a little okay. I'm missing work again (my boss is sick, so there isn't anything for me to do there any way since they took all my responsibilities away saying that I'm over-qualified and that now I need to train my boss so he knows how to do his own damn job since I'm going to be graduating from school at some point and will move onto bigger and "better" - not 20 hrs/week $10/hour - things). My work situation has contributed to my depression a lot, for sure. They just made me stop doing all the things I do because I'm so much better at doing them than my boss is, and instead of letting me do them, they want me to show him how to do them, because don'tcha know, I'm a "temporary" employee, and since they can't afford to really actually hire me, they're gonna keep paying me less than this guy who I'm training. Yeah, it's depressing, all right.

Of course, you know that's not the only thing getting me down. Ahh...what we're all here for...relationships. This blog began as a relationship inventory. Relationships just haven't gone too well for me, understatedly -- namely, relationships with my parents and their significant others, relationships with my other family members, work relationships, relationships with "friends", the relationship with my husband, relationships with all the men I've somehow managed not to be successful at not getting involved with...these have all driven me completely insane, apparently (and well, again, the therapist and my doctor are going to decide the level of my insanity).

When I last posted, I had gotten back into a relationship with the boyfriend I'd left my husband for (the boyfriend with whom I'd broken up over and over in order to be with other men who'd wanted to be with me, before going back to him over and over when it didn't work out with those men - for two years - until he took off to Canada in September for three months and I finally had to face these demons without him).

I like to rewind and recap: So this boyfriend's name is Evan (#1) (and not his real name, of course). Those other men I just talked about are #2 through #26 (DAMN). After Evan left to Canada in September, I went and dated and had sex with a guy I'd pined over for like a year, who, afterwards, told me he had herpes (#27). I considered that a good enough rock bottom to want to really be done with men (and what choice did I have, I thought, if I might have contracted an STD?). I told my friend Margaret about it and she started taking me to meetings for sex and love addicts. Margaret's boyfriend was cheating on her, she thought, and he didn't want to be with her any more; she was so torn up that she decided she might be a love addict and thought 12-step programs would help her. They didn't (she didn't really try, IMO). After Margaret committed suicide (I had completed 42 successful days of "no men" and was going for 90), I ran into a guy who'd composed music for a video about suicide. When I talked to him about my experience with Margaret, he asked for my number, asked me out on a date, and we had sex even though I didn't want to. He was #29 (I'm counting Jesus as #28).

So, I went back to "Day 0". I've still been going to meetings, but I just haven't been able to get back to the whole "no men" thing. I haven't been able to put even one day together without some kind of pursuit of them (or at least without responding to them favorably). Margaret's death flipped me completely upside down; she was the one who was helping me with this "guy stuff"...or maybe I should say her death just put me back where I was. It was helping me to write about it...but once she died, I didn't even have the desire to do that any more, and it's been hard to get back to this inventory stuff.

I managed to stop seeing the suicide video/satellite communications engineer guy, but then Evan came back from Canada in December and asked me to the movies. I accepted, because that's what I do. But after a couple weeks I remembered, again, that I don't like him that much, and, more importantly, I don't like how unmanageable my life gets in my "relationship addiction", so, I operated via the standardly oft-repeated modus, and I had sex with the suicide video guy again, just so that I could get out of the relationship with Evan again...because gee, don'tcha know, I can't just be all, "Oh, yeah, sorry, dude, I forgot, I'm too fucked up for all this, and I don't want to be with you - my bad."

That was on January 1, go figure. Way to start the New Year, eh? I totally avoided writing about it, too, until now. But I do feel a bit better, doing so.

Oh, but - there's more.

I had called #23 (refer to the inventory to the right, somewhere) back in November when Margaret died, and we started talking again. His story is, when his wife left him six years ago, he wanted to kill himself, but instead of pulling the trigger of the gun that he was holding to his head on the pier, he checked into a psych ward and then a rehab and got sober. I hadn't talked to him since April, besides a few tens of obsessive emails I'd sent him after I stopped dating him (and I had stopped dating him because I got painful withdrawals from being away from him, and I figured it would be better to just end it and let go completely than to keep enduring those withdrawals...they sucked a lot of ass and hurt really, really badly). When I called him in November I used him like a therapist and spilled my guts, and would do so about every couple weeks, until a couple Thursdays ago, when I asked if I could see him in person, because I was depressed and needed a friend.

When I spent the night with him, I told him that I didn't want to have sex. He actually respected me. I think that's the first time that's ever happened with a male. (That statement belongs in bold.) So, the following week I went and spent the night with him again (this was last Friday, the day before I finally talked to my therapist on the phone, which I did from his apartment). And this time he was sick, so, we didn't even hug. We just talked. He just...totally...cared...about me...both times. It was shocking.

My obsession for him was lifted back in May, so these days he really is more of a friend. And he just showed me what a friend actually looks like. But I have developed a new obsession.

Of course, we'll call this one #30. He's the real reason I got rid of the other two guys (the Pizza Delivery Boyfriend and the Satellite Communications Engineer), in one fell swoop, 22 days ago, by the way. It wasn't just me not liking those other guys, or actually finally trying to change for real now. Nope - along came Jason.

I've "known" him since July, when I started singing at the church he works at as the sound engineer. I added him on facebook on Dec 29, he said hi in a facebook message, we messaged each other for hours, and he suggested we "jam" because he's also a musician (he sings w/piano). The jam invitation, over these past few weeks, turned into daily texting, which turned into sexting, which turned into us hanging out, which turned into us having sex, which turned into him becoming my boyfriend a few days ago (on Jan 19).

Okay, I can't write about this any more for now. I'm glad I've gotten this much out so far, though. I hope to get back into writing again, even though my classes have started - I have three of them. And two jobs. And meetings. And a four year-old. And a boyfriend. And now...therapy that I'm paying for and will probably end up taking some kind of medication because of -- oh, but, well, I guess I shouldn't say that I'll be taking meds because of the therapy, but because of whatever "disorders" my therapist and my doctor decide I have. General anxiety disorder has been mentioned. The depression may be situational, she says, but she's not sure yet, so we're gonna keep meeting twice a week to figure this all out.

But I'm really depressed about it the whole damn thing, if you want to know the truth (sorry, I do love Salinger's Holden).

More About the Pizza Delivery Boyfriend and the Satellite Communications Engineer

The first of the new year is a time, I've noticed, for many writers, myself no exception, to ponder especially deeply about what it is they're writing about, and why they're writing. Ray Rhamey postulates at his writing blog, Flogging the Quill, "The start of the new year is often a time folks resolve to do things, sometimes differently, sometimes new, in the coming year. At the least, it's a time to reflect on where you are now and where you want to go." After my last post, I'd like to say that where I've been and where I'd like to go don't really matter - since the only Time there is is Now - but then I'd have absolutely no reason to write, whatsoever. I know I need to get off the existential soapbox and get back to writing stories. My stories are about relationships, "love", sex, and while not always true with a "capital T", they come from my own experiences and my own perspective. And writing about them is what's happening now, for me. 

I do want to make sure I watch my grammar - I think. At The Huffington Post's "Grammarly" blog, the Grammarly Editor shared 7 Grammar Mistakes we're all probably making, based on the errors found in the 300,000+ novels written this past November during National Novel Writing Month. But, from what I can tell, I don't have an issue with any of these: missing commas, run-on sentences, comma splices, comma misuse, and missing articles. But these, I'm not so sure about: definite vs indefinite article use (meticulous use of "a/an" vs "the") and redundant articles (repeating the article when unnecessary: "I want a car, a plane, a boat, a train"). I do know I use a lot of sentence fragments. Sometimes I just like to write the way I speak. I'd never use a sentence fragment in a formal paper. 

If you'd really like to see someone break the rules, read Goat by Brad Land. An author, "Matt," offers a "ruthless review" of the memoir...but it's on website called "Ruthless Reviews", so there ya go - it's their shtick. I was particularly fond of Goat. I appreciate breaking writing rules - as long as one knows he or she is breaking them. And when I break them, I do know, at least, for the most part - but I'm always worried about whether the reader knows that I know. But Brad Land gave me the permission say 'never mind - fuck you'. And I like that. Or do I? Okay - I still don't know.

However I'm writing, I still struggle a slight bit with what I'm writing about - I know what I'm writing about, and it's cool with me, but, does any body else care, and is any body even reading it? In literary agent Janet Reid's blog about writing, one of her latest posts included a question from a reader: "What the hell am I supposed to blog about?" Her answer summarily was this: Don't blog. Janet recommends facebook or twitter for aspiring writers to get their names out there. Well, I can't really do that. I can't have all my friends reading about my sex life. My friends include professors, bosses, church leaders, family, etc. So, I write under a pseudonym. It limits my audience for me to be writing memoir as it actually happens. I imagine it wouldn't matter if I were writing about childhood, or about my marriage that ended two years ago, but I'm writing about the guy I fucked yesterday (well, not today - maybe in the next post).

And why am I writing? Well, I'm not really trying to get my "name" out there; I just want my "writing" out there. I'm not interested in joining NaNoWriMo. If I were to write a novel, it wouldn't be over the course of just a month - I'm too much of a perfectionist for that. And if I do write a novel, I'll use my real name. I've considered that, actually. I've even thought of turning Adora Fallbrook into a character and writing about her in the third person, or maybe still in the first person and changing things enough so that she isn't too close to "me". I'm already doing that with my "characters", in a sense: when I write about the men I've been with, I'm not focusing so much on "who" they really "are", but on my perspective of them and the events that transpired between us. And that perspective changes all the time, so I might write something about one of them, and then my perspective changes, and so that writing is no longer "true", if it ever was, any way.

For example: I wrote about The Shakespeare Connoisseur under the assumption that he had had ulterior motives. He's an older man with money, so I called him a "sugar daddy" because he took me out to a Shakespeare play and frequently to brunch, and he had wanted to help me out with my poorly-running car. But I told him about what had happened between me and The Propane Truck Driver ("Sterling" and I had had sex and four days later he had told me he had herpes), and The Shakespeare Connoisseur, "Deniro", stopped contacting me. I therefore assumed, despite his assurances, that what he'd wanted from me wasn't just my company or to help me. I was resentful when I wrote the post about him.

But, then, I did hear from him some time later. He asked how I was doing, and I told him that I was short $1043.00 for next semester's tuition, so I was trying to decide whether or not I would continue school. Despite my fears about him, he was something of a mentor to me, and I decided to go ahead and ask him for a loan, and give him the benefit of the doubt - or ignore my prior assumption - and hope for the best. We had lunch together again, and I told him about my blog, and about my "problems" with men. He offered this as a provision for the loan: that I maintain no more than two relationships with men at any given time, and keep him abreast of my situation.

I had, prior to that, joined a group for "sex and love addicts", and it was suggested to me there to go through a "withdrawal" period and not be with any men. So that's what I was attempting to do. But, then, like a little girl from her dad, I got "permission" from Deniro to see not just one man but two. "Who will they be?" I thought. Well, that same day I was entreated by both #1, The Pizza Delivery Boyfriend and #29, The Satellite Communications Engineer/Composer, so there I had my two. I've spent most of my time with #1, with #29 waiting, asking me frequently when we might meet. And I'd planned on meeting with him today - but I have #1 in my house at the moment. And #1 watched my son for me yesterday while I took a friend to see her neurosurgeon, because she walks with a walker and doesn't drive, for 6 hours. So now my conscience is weighing heavily upon me, as it is wont to do.

Also, speaking of conscience - I hadn't the slightest inkling of it when I gave #25 my blog url. Interestingly enough, I've also given it to #1 and #29, in the interest of "honesty". I thought #25 might like to comment on my writing, and see more "in depth" the nature of what I thought to be my problem. Only, my mind somehow completely omitted the fact that I'd written about #25 in not the best light. In a terrible light, rather.

He was terribly offended, naturally. It brought the end of the relationship. I'm to mail him his check for repayment and his Ron Paul book (he was educating me in politics), and that's that.

So...back to the "why" of my writing - I had originally begun writing as a way to analyze my relationships and sex/love life, but chose a blog format so that I could share it with "the world". Of course, I'm writing from my own perspective. Perhaps, as an exercise both in creative writing and in humanitarianism, I should write from one of their perspectives soon.

Now that'll be interesting.

Oh, and PS: I remembered another guy to add to the list. He's The Christian Airplane Mechanic. I just went over to his house a few times and we went shopping at Home Depot together once. It was at another time when I was trying not to date, and so I maintained the relationship at the platonic level. But I definitely need to include him. I can't leave any one out. I just won't give him the url. I don't want to lose any more friends. But oh well. That's being a memoirist in real time for ya.

Happy New Year!

Ramblings on the Writing Process

It has been hard for me to get back into writing after I wrote my last post. I feel like my writing was sub-par. All over the place. Incoherent. Timeline unclear, jagged, going backward and forward with awkwardly long, frantic sentences. And the content itself was a bit...jarring. Overwhelming. Sickening. I couldn't find the wherewithal to keep going.

I've noticed that my writing wavers like a stick on an old-fashioned metronome, ticking back and forth between writing for catharsis and change -- and writing just to write. On the former side, my writing suffers with my own suffering: I'm charged with emotional recall; I don't care how the words fall off my fingertips and slap themselves onto the screen, just as long as they get out of me and onto it. On the other side, however, I couldn't "care" less "about" "what" I'm writing, so long as I'm writing -- but, even more importantly, writing well. Once in a long while, the ticker slows to stop for a moment, and I, suddenly aware, am suspended, poised in the middle between "meaning" and its signposts, between "content" and the characters that I'm using to represent it. Here is where I hope to find my writing identity.

The purpose of my blog is two-fold, and I find it difficult to stay in balance. One, I'm blogging things (or facts, events) that have "happened" in my life - focusing most intently on the past two years - as a means to prevent things similar from occurring. These things are ones that make me go "Ugh". But I'd much rather the things make me go "Ugh" than the writing itself (writing itself being the second half of the purpose of this blog, of course). My last post stopped my writing process in its tracks, because, that time, both the content and its form offended me terribly. I didn't like what I wrote or how I wrote it.

Here is a brief summary of my blog's "content", or the "what" of it: After watching my relationship with my husband crumble to the ground after ten years of steady erosion and a final heave-ho, I sifted through boyfriends, one-night stands...and before I knew it, was buried under a heaping, stinking pile of men. I enlisted myself in a program for "sex and 'love' addicts", thinking that my problem may be my "powerlessness" (i.e., my seeming inability to say "no" to any man who expresses any interest in me whatsoever). The founder of this program suggests, in his book written for one who identifies as a "sex and 'love' addict", to write a "relationship inventory". This inventory's purpose is to help one identify specific actions in order to discern patterns of behavior with the goal of unearthing motives (or seeing what one "gets" from people s/he has "used"...seeing what the "pay-off" is). Then, one should be able to see how selfish, dishonest, and afraid one has been and acknowledge how one has hurt others with his/her self-seeking motives and actions/patterns. This awareness, along with a surrender to a "power greater than oneself" and a willingness to "let" the behaviors and their propelling motives "go", is supposed to get one to make restitution/amends for harm done and aid other "suffering" "sex and 'love' addicts" which will, inherently, cause one to cease acting out in the patterns of behavior that created the events that made him/her go "Ugh" in the first place. And the inventory's purpose is fulfilled. Boom. Done.

When I found out I should write about all my relationships in order to "recover", I was pretty excited. I love writing! And a former writing professor of mine is writing a blog about his experience with cancer and its treatment (he also writes about bicycling across the U.S.). He also blogs about the writing process itself. It's very inspiring. So, I decided to turn my inventory into a blog so that I could use it both as my motivation to "change" as well as, perhaps one day, material for an actual memoir that I'll publish and have people maybe even read someday!

But...my very influential professor has helped me to see that how one writes is just as important as what one is writing about (along with the books I read in his autobiography-themed lit class in college). His writing appears to be in balance between its content and its characters of representation. It's not just a bunch of emotional rambling that pays no mind to the words being used...nor is it composed of meticulously placed words on a screen without any "real" content behind them.

In contrast, my metronomablog keeps ticking between the two. Here are a few insights I had gleaned about myself last night, before I started to care about how I was writing. I'm not going to do any editing, so you can see a true example of what my content is really like when I pay no mind to characters (as opposed to the above writing, which I've spent seven full hours editing!):



1. I get "high" from a man's attention. My heart beats fast. My body gets hot. My breathing is labored. It's a surge of adrenaline. I like it.

2. I get bored after the "high" is gone. I'm not actually interested in the hard "relationship" stuff. I tried that all ready, and it didn't work. Plus, I start to miss myself when I spend too much time with a guy. I never really got to find myself in the first place, I don't think. So I run to extremes and break it off instead of just try to slow things down.

3. I don't actually like the sex with the men all that much. Sex is just the thing I put up with after I get my "attention high". I do my best to pretend I enjoy it, so he still likes me and I can get "high" again the next time I see him, but then I don't get "high" again, or sometimes I do a couple more times, but soon enough, it goes away - and when that happens, so do I.

4. I still love the guy I ended up with after I left my husband over two years ago. I actually do enjoy sex with him, and, I still get "high" when I see him (or maybe it's not a "high" and is "real love"...who knows?). But it's hard as hell for me to accept him: he lives with his mom and stepdad and doesn't have a job and is about to have his car repossessed and his phone turned off and is more full of self-pity and devoid of motivation than anyone I know.

5. I want a guy to take care of me financially. But, when I find ones who are willing and able to do so, I don't want to be with them, after all. I fucked up by not getting my degree or starting a full-time career; I was being taken care of by my husband who received monthly money from his Indian tribe. Now I have to put my big girl pants on and go to night school and get a full-time job so I don't need a man to build a house on my grandparents' 20 acres (that's what James, the last guy, wanted to do, after knowing me for a week). No thanks, dude -- I can build my own damn house.

6. I'm so goddamn focused on the past and future that I don't actually do anything now to change my life situation. "Someday this will happen, and I'll be happy." "I can't believe all the shit I've done; I'm so disappointed in myself." You know what? Fuck that. I'll just be happy right now. 

Okay, this blog is taking a weird turn. But let's roll with it. Who fucking cares about the men I've been involved with over the past couple years? I don't even care any more. All I care about is what I'm doing right now. And right now I'm sitting merrily at my laptop, typing words - it's something I very much enjoy doing. But it's not making me any money, at the moment, which makes me revert back to insight number 5. Actually, I happen to be on a two-week unpaid forced vacation from my 20-hour-a-week 10-dollar-an-hour job.

So....it's time to get back into reading Mary Karr -- I need to finish her memoir, damnit...but every time I read it, I read like two pages and can't even keep going because I get all inspired and my fingers get itchy...which is cool, I guess. But it doesn't help me write any better if I don't keep reading actually good writing.

And as far as writing for change goes, well, guess what -- writing about the men I've been with over the past two years still hasn't stopped me from being with men. After the Propane Truck Driver, whom I considered to be my "rock bottom", there was the Satellite Communications Engineer, and now...well, you know that guy I talked about in insight number 4? The guy I wrote about me cheating on and leaving, over, and over, and over? Yep - the Pizza Delivery Boyfriend and I are back together, again.

But it's all good. At least I still have writing for the sake for writing. :)

Ugh.

"Feelings aren't Facts", and other Alternatives to Suicide

I'm a bit unnerved by what could potentially be a suicide note from an ex-boyfriend (see my last post). (Ironic how, in the post before that, I was actually wondering what someone's suicide note would look like.)

Hell, I'm a bit unnerved by a lot that's happening in my life, and that's why I'm writing a blog. I had intended to keep it secret, mostly (but leave it open for the general public, who don't know who I am). But because he had emailed me, hoping we could get back together, I figured I'd share my blog with him so he could know "the truth".

In truth, I'm not sure how closely you (or I) can get to "the truth" from reading my few blog posts, yet. The purpose of this "Relationship Inventory" is, for me, to finish it, and then find the patterns that lead to answers. Right now it's just scattered details. Facts. Feelings. It's only as true as I can get, at any given moment. And "good" or "bad" are irrelevant, for now. If I let myself feel too "bad" about these facts, I could feel like killing myself, too. But I happen to have some alternatives to suicide, and I'd like to share some such things to think about, to not feel so bad:



1) Feelings aren't facts.*

Facts are true; feelings are temporary. I don't need to kill myself because of how I feel, because the way I feel is going to change. I especially don't need to kill myself because of how someone else feels, because that person's feelings aren't facts, either, and are also going to change. Feelings are always in flux. I think relationships that last are not even based on feelings, but on facts. It's what we do that matters, in the long run - not how we feel.



2) Feelings are neither good nor bad, they just are.

Every one feels. It's part of the human experience. It's normal to feel emotions, because we all do: every one feels good sometimes, and every one feels bad sometimes. Both are gonna happen, should be expected, and are okay. No one likes to feel bad, duh. But when I feel bad, I can remember that I'm not the only one who's ever felt bad. I'm not unique in that regard.

True: some things, like loss, feel worse than others (downright physically painful, in fact). But other things feel pretty great, and there're plenty of great feelings to go around. If I feel bad, it's hard to imagine that I'll feel good again. But, because I know that feelings aren't facts, and they're temporary, I know that I will feel good again, eventually.



3) Facts are neither good nor bad, they just are.

If something "is"...why do I have to feel "bad" about it? If something "is", it just "is", period.

Sanity is, in part, I think, a state of not being overrun by one's feelings; it's being "okay" with facts. Einstein's definition of insanity is "doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results". I do the same thing over and over and expect different results when I'm propelled by feelings; I forget about facts, or, I don't want to look at the facts, because some facts can generate some pretty difficult and/or painful feelings, and I don't want to feel those terrible feelings, so, I turn away from the facts in order to avoid those feelings -- and then I'm caught by surprise when those same-type facts come around to hurt my feelings in the same way they have before.

So, feeling bad is good, to an extent, because it protects me from insanity. But I don't like feeling so bad that I want to kill myself. In those cases, I ought to become aware of facts and feelings, separately. Then I can look at the facts without feeling too terribly bad about them.



4) Feelings won't kill you.

Sometimes it feels like they will, but they won't. Sometimes the feelings do seem too much to bear -- they hurt physically, there's no relief in sight, and nothing is working to relieve the pain -- so, as for me, I scream and cry at the top of my lungs until I'm completely spent, and then, I turn to God. Whatever has happened that has caused me so much grief and pain (like my friend Margaret's suicide), I have to let myself feel first (there's no rationalizing grief away in the beginning of it), but, then, I, personally, choose to view whatever happened (the fact) as God's will. If it's God's will, it's not bad (even thought it feels bad)...and actually, because it's God's will, it's good. ("God is either everything, or else He is nothing.")

Here's how I found God: When I was down in my pit of alcoholic despair two years ago, the "Big Book" suggested I find a higher power to get me out of it. It was a matter of life and death for me, the book said. I didn't want to die, so I chose to believe in a God of my own understanding, as directed. I understand now that the purpose of believing in a God -- of my own understanding -- is to help me feel good. My God is kind, loving, forgiving, all powerful, has everything completely under control, and provides me with everything I could possibly need -- I don't have to worry about a thing, and it's that simple. ("Nothing - absolutely nothing - happens in God's world by mistake.") It's better than alcohol for an alcoholic, better than drugs for a drug addict, better than sex for a sex addict, better than love for a love addict, better than food for a food addict, better than shopping for a shopaholic, better than gambling for a gambling addict, and better than being pissed off and hurt for the loved ones of these sickos.



5) Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

Not being able to accept things that "are" is one reason alcoholics etc. drink etc, and certainly the reason people kill themselves. So...



6) Acceptance is the answer to all your problems.

Some people call it "letting go and letting God" (which works for me, as I mentioned, in addition to #1-5). But say you don't want to believe in a God (I used to be of your ilk for many, many years, if this is the case, so I understand): you don't like blind faith, or men, or religion, or history, or being told what to do, or for whatever your reasons you just don't (or can't) believe. Well, since feelings "are" and facts "are", accepting them as they are doesn't require any extraordinary leap of faith. You're just accepting what "is". You can't change facts (but you can create new ones) and we all feel (although you can learn detachment as discussed in #3, and, feelings change). Facts aren't bad, feelings aren't bad -- they just are -- so, acceptance is the answer.

Again -- feelings aren't facts, and feelings won't kill you -- but you can certainly kill yourself, if you feel like it. If you do, you'll leave that fact for people to feel (the ones who have feelings for you), and they'll feel much worse than you do now. But eventually, they'll accept the fact that you couldn't accept facts or feelings, and their feelings of pain will subside, and they'll feel better. And you will, too, if only you don't use that permanent "solution" to your temporary problem.

And remember...



7) This too shall pass.



*Here I am discussing emotional feelings, not bodily feelings whereby the brain is registering pain from a physical ailment.

Copyright note: 6 can be found on page 417 of the "Big Book", 4th edition. Other sayings in quotation marks are also found in the "Big Book" but often repeated by word-of-mouth at 12-step meetings.