There aren't any.
My therapist said last week that she thought that I should be trying harder to remember the happy things.
She was wrong.
And it's not that there weren't happy things. It's just that there are two deep and terrible ways in which she was so, so wrong.
First, knowing that I had the happy things but do not have them now does not make me feel in any way better. It intensifies and deepens the sense of loss, beyond all measure. Stacy, who lost her husband, too, understands that perfectly.
But the other thing is that there are no memories that are free of bad things. Ironically, Michael said this to me about his childhood, too... I'd forgotten that until just now.
What am I supposed to think about? The trip to Chincoteague, in which we had to drive around endlessly because there was nowhere that we could figure out that he could eat? And then, we went to Baltimore to see my dying mother, and he got furiously angry because I wasn't paying attention to him? Was that the trip that we got stuck in the elevator, because I begged him to come up to the apartment with me, because I couldn't bear to be alone? And then we got stuck in the elevator, and he was furious with me, and the only thing that saved any of it was that there was someone else there, so he had to be civil?
Or maybe our wedding day, when I had to coax him out of the house, take him to McDonald's to eat something so that he would be able to go on with the rest of the day?
Or the trips to Maine, when he spent the whole time sulking and bitching about how things were? (in all fairness, the last one... the last good trip... that was ok. But it was the beginning of the end.
Should I remember his gratitude when he was so ill, in the beginning? Or him blaming me because he couldn't remember the things that had happened? How wonderful and supportive I was? Until I couldn't be, when everything became my fault? How can I remember the good things when I find the shards of writing on my computer, and they are all about how miserable I was? And they date back a decade, to before we were ever married, ever living together.
Yes, it was my fault, too. I walked into it. I should have known. I should have walked away, although I still don't know how I could have. Although I suppose, in a way, I did at the end. And it is tragic. And yes, he was a lovely, charming, loving man, who tried extraordinarily hard... except when he didn't. Except when he was bitter and cruel and childish and petty and suspicious and jealous of everyone who wasn't me, and controlling, and unsympathetic... and ill. The knife at the end, the knife that twists it all around and makes it impossible to see clearly.
There will never be a way to understand him, to understand the reasons why I did this, why he did this, or anything.
I just want to forget. I want it all to be over. I want a new life, and I want the old one whitewashed away. I don't think that's wrong.
This week, I've been slipping his ring on my finger, and saying the things that I would say to him. And then I feel heavy and sick and weighed down with it all. I am not going to do that any more. I am putting all the rings away, and I am forgetting.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Love
It's hard not to be cynical, when you look back.
It's hard to believe that love exists. Love between partners, that is. Love between parent and child, between friend; that's a different thing.
Back a million years ago, on a usenet board that I used to frequent, people talked about unconditional love and debated whether such a thing existed. Everyone was pretty firm in agreeing that there are always boundaries in love, and that there should be. That there is some limit to love. And I guess that I agree with that, really. But it seems to me that my limits have always come when I've been pushed right over the edge, and that everyone else who has loved me had meant it in a much more finite way.
My first husband, who loved me, but not enough to change anything about the way that he wanted to live. Not enough to talk to me. Not enough to try to keep me, if it meant moving at all out of his comfort zone.
The man I loved more than anyone, who left me without explanation because... I don't know. There is no because, since I never knew the answer. Except that ultimately, whatever the reason, he didn't care enough to tell me the truth. Or even to be decent enough to tell me the truth.
Michael. Who loved me more than anyone, and who I loved with all my heart, even if not perhaps in the way he wanted. And in all fairness, he tried. But he never took the idea of suicide off the table, never. And you can't live if dying is always an option, just over the next hill. He said that he would not do this, for me. But he did. And tried to rip my heart out in every way that he could along the way. I blame him least of all in a way, because so much was about illness. I will never be able to separate the threads of illness versus... whatever the alternative is. But still. Never off the table.
And the man who says he loves me now. The least of all of them. Because those are just words that he says as part of the image that he has of me, the game that he wants to play because it suits him. I know it's a lie, and sometimes I think that even he knows it. And I'm willing to pretend to believe the lie, because that little bit of warmth staves off some darkness. He will walk away, probably sooner rather than later, when it becomes inconvenient enough for him. And I won't be sorry.
It's hard not to think that the whole idea of love isn't a pretty fantasy that we create for ourselves. It's hard not to believe that I would be a thousand times better off if I could figure out know not to wish and long for someone.
It's very hard, on a night like this, not to be completely bitter.
It's hard to believe that love exists. Love between partners, that is. Love between parent and child, between friend; that's a different thing.
Back a million years ago, on a usenet board that I used to frequent, people talked about unconditional love and debated whether such a thing existed. Everyone was pretty firm in agreeing that there are always boundaries in love, and that there should be. That there is some limit to love. And I guess that I agree with that, really. But it seems to me that my limits have always come when I've been pushed right over the edge, and that everyone else who has loved me had meant it in a much more finite way.
My first husband, who loved me, but not enough to change anything about the way that he wanted to live. Not enough to talk to me. Not enough to try to keep me, if it meant moving at all out of his comfort zone.
The man I loved more than anyone, who left me without explanation because... I don't know. There is no because, since I never knew the answer. Except that ultimately, whatever the reason, he didn't care enough to tell me the truth. Or even to be decent enough to tell me the truth.
Michael. Who loved me more than anyone, and who I loved with all my heart, even if not perhaps in the way he wanted. And in all fairness, he tried. But he never took the idea of suicide off the table, never. And you can't live if dying is always an option, just over the next hill. He said that he would not do this, for me. But he did. And tried to rip my heart out in every way that he could along the way. I blame him least of all in a way, because so much was about illness. I will never be able to separate the threads of illness versus... whatever the alternative is. But still. Never off the table.
And the man who says he loves me now. The least of all of them. Because those are just words that he says as part of the image that he has of me, the game that he wants to play because it suits him. I know it's a lie, and sometimes I think that even he knows it. And I'm willing to pretend to believe the lie, because that little bit of warmth staves off some darkness. He will walk away, probably sooner rather than later, when it becomes inconvenient enough for him. And I won't be sorry.
It's hard not to think that the whole idea of love isn't a pretty fantasy that we create for ourselves. It's hard not to believe that I would be a thousand times better off if I could figure out know not to wish and long for someone.
It's very hard, on a night like this, not to be completely bitter.
Friday, November 2, 2012
May you be sound
I found a lovely comment on an old post today. I have no idea how long it's been there; apparently I didn't have this set right to notify me when comments appear. Because mostly I figure that I'm musing to the cosmos, or something.
Anyway, it said, among other things, that what you say in Turkish when someone dies is basically, "may you be sound." I like that. I am trying to be sound. I am trying to be whole. I am not so sure that it's working, some days... because some days, it still seems so hard to even breathe.
Today was like that in patches. I woke up very early and anxious and lay in bed for hours listening to podcasts and just worrying about all the things that I haven't done. Then I fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed of some bizarre vision of the island and the ocean and fear and surreal people.
I set out to really get some things done today. It's late afternoon now, and I haven't exactly gotten a lot checked off my list. But I did a few things, and some odds and ends.
And I listed some eBay things. For the first time since Michael died. And it was hard.
This is the business that I built, that I worked at all the time for years, back in the real heyday of eBay. And then I basically gave it to Michael, so that he would have a focus, something to do. Because he wanted to. Because it made sense. Except that in a way, it never did. It gave him something to do, but it also gave him something to obsess over. And that's what he did, obsessed over better way to do things, to organize, to photograph... everything except actually listing things and selling things.
Part of that, in all fairness, is that the market has changed over the 12 years that I've done this. But more than that... it's funny; I look at these photographs and listings, and I realize that he never really had the eye for this. Strange in someone who was so good at things like this in general, and great at writing stories and funny listings and so on. But the photographs are glaring and not beautiful. The listings... there are things that catch your eye, but not things that draw you in. He didn't love the charms, and it shows. That sounds like a stupid thing to say, but it's a thing. It helps if you love what you do. But he didn't. He just did it.... if there was a part that he loved, it perhaps was the organizing and the obsessing.
But as he got sicker and sicker, both physically and mentally, the obsessions got crazier and deeper. The buying of things and more things... oh, just so much. I don't even want to think it out.
So now, I need to do something to reconstruct my business, I guess... I could let it go, I suppose, but I have thousands of charms, and what would I do with them? But it hurt today to put together the listings. So much memory. So much memory of Michael, and that combination of sadness and anger that tears me apart every time.
And so I sit here in my quiet house, and try to figure out what to do. How to be sound. How to keep putting my feet ahead of each other. How to stop with my own obsessions... love and death and my inability to stagger out from under the weight of it all. The weight of the past and the present combined.
Some days I think that I can do this, that things are starting to seem lighter and more possible. And then some days, I can't breathe, all over again.
Anyway, it said, among other things, that what you say in Turkish when someone dies is basically, "may you be sound." I like that. I am trying to be sound. I am trying to be whole. I am not so sure that it's working, some days... because some days, it still seems so hard to even breathe.
Today was like that in patches. I woke up very early and anxious and lay in bed for hours listening to podcasts and just worrying about all the things that I haven't done. Then I fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed of some bizarre vision of the island and the ocean and fear and surreal people.
I set out to really get some things done today. It's late afternoon now, and I haven't exactly gotten a lot checked off my list. But I did a few things, and some odds and ends.
And I listed some eBay things. For the first time since Michael died. And it was hard.
This is the business that I built, that I worked at all the time for years, back in the real heyday of eBay. And then I basically gave it to Michael, so that he would have a focus, something to do. Because he wanted to. Because it made sense. Except that in a way, it never did. It gave him something to do, but it also gave him something to obsess over. And that's what he did, obsessed over better way to do things, to organize, to photograph... everything except actually listing things and selling things.
Part of that, in all fairness, is that the market has changed over the 12 years that I've done this. But more than that... it's funny; I look at these photographs and listings, and I realize that he never really had the eye for this. Strange in someone who was so good at things like this in general, and great at writing stories and funny listings and so on. But the photographs are glaring and not beautiful. The listings... there are things that catch your eye, but not things that draw you in. He didn't love the charms, and it shows. That sounds like a stupid thing to say, but it's a thing. It helps if you love what you do. But he didn't. He just did it.... if there was a part that he loved, it perhaps was the organizing and the obsessing.
But as he got sicker and sicker, both physically and mentally, the obsessions got crazier and deeper. The buying of things and more things... oh, just so much. I don't even want to think it out.
So now, I need to do something to reconstruct my business, I guess... I could let it go, I suppose, but I have thousands of charms, and what would I do with them? But it hurt today to put together the listings. So much memory. So much memory of Michael, and that combination of sadness and anger that tears me apart every time.
And so I sit here in my quiet house, and try to figure out what to do. How to be sound. How to keep putting my feet ahead of each other. How to stop with my own obsessions... love and death and my inability to stagger out from under the weight of it all. The weight of the past and the present combined.
Some days I think that I can do this, that things are starting to seem lighter and more possible. And then some days, I can't breathe, all over again.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Clouds
I saw Cloud Atlas tonight. It probably wasn't the right movie to see at this moment. Themes of love and death and the continuity of personas over time... it's not something that I can take comfort from or even be enchanted by the magic of it all. Although it was an amazing movie.
Throughout the movie I had one panic attack after another... just the mini-things that I've been having with some regularity, feeling like I have to leap up, to get free. Feeling like I can't breathe. The trouble is that I feel trapped in my own body as much as anything else, and I see no way of freeing myself of that. It's hideous.
I thought I'd gotten past that, but I think that too much caffeine today plus a bunch of other things tipped that biochemical balance over. I'm pretty sure that chemistry is the catalyst for these things, because the worst times have always been related to other stuff. But it doesn't matter that much, except that maybe I can prevent them. I hadn't been feeling so much this way since I started meditating and yoga... and deep breathing was the thing that kept me from screaming tonight.
But it's all larger than that. Love and death and despair, and my anger with pretty much all the men of my life... and myself, too. That I keep hooking myself into things that bring me heartbreak, tying myself into love, or what passes for it, and then the bonds smother me and close me in. I'm torn, all the time, between wanting arms around me and wanting to be free, to breathe, to not want those things at all.
I don't know how to find any peace with this. I feel like a victim of the legacies of Michael's family and mine... trapped in the cycle of damage that all the previous generations created. And at the same time, the one complete and perfect thing is my son. The one thing that I haven't screwed up... although that's more of a tribute to him than to me.
Phillip Larkin was so right and so wrong, all at once.
I don't have any idea where to go from here. All the paths that I can see from here, including the one on which I have my feet firmly planted, feel wrong and alien.
Throughout the movie I had one panic attack after another... just the mini-things that I've been having with some regularity, feeling like I have to leap up, to get free. Feeling like I can't breathe. The trouble is that I feel trapped in my own body as much as anything else, and I see no way of freeing myself of that. It's hideous.
I thought I'd gotten past that, but I think that too much caffeine today plus a bunch of other things tipped that biochemical balance over. I'm pretty sure that chemistry is the catalyst for these things, because the worst times have always been related to other stuff. But it doesn't matter that much, except that maybe I can prevent them. I hadn't been feeling so much this way since I started meditating and yoga... and deep breathing was the thing that kept me from screaming tonight.
But it's all larger than that. Love and death and despair, and my anger with pretty much all the men of my life... and myself, too. That I keep hooking myself into things that bring me heartbreak, tying myself into love, or what passes for it, and then the bonds smother me and close me in. I'm torn, all the time, between wanting arms around me and wanting to be free, to breathe, to not want those things at all.
I don't know how to find any peace with this. I feel like a victim of the legacies of Michael's family and mine... trapped in the cycle of damage that all the previous generations created. And at the same time, the one complete and perfect thing is my son. The one thing that I haven't screwed up... although that's more of a tribute to him than to me.
Phillip Larkin was so right and so wrong, all at once.
I don't have any idea where to go from here. All the paths that I can see from here, including the one on which I have my feet firmly planted, feel wrong and alien.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Anhedonia
I realized today that a lot of the problem is that there is nothing that look forward to anymore.
It's not that I don't enjoy some things when they happen. For a while anyway. Some small things... lying warm and peaceful in bed, a beautiful fall day, my son, moments when the music sweeps me away and I dance. But there is nothing that I look forward to. It's like my heart stopped when Michael died. I stopped believing in a future.
And I say that, and it sounds all melodramatic and like love in the grave or something like that. But it's not like that. I think I just had too much. Michael used to say that if he even let all the pain out, it would kill him. (The truth of that, I think, is that not letting it out did in the end kill him.) But I understand a little better now what he meant. I'm not so numb as I was for a while, but that's worse, and I feel like I have to hold myself encased in armor to keep all the painful things at bay.
I've been watching The West Wing again. And I can't help remembering now and then how much we enjoyed it the first time. It was earlier on, when Michael was still more well, and things were on the whole better, and we loved it so much, were so caught up in it. It's hard not to flash back to those times.
I sit here by myself. I can't focus, I'm not working well, and I have no idea how I'm going to get done all the things that I need to do. My hip hurts all the time when I move, and I wonder sometimes if I need to accept that this will never be any better. I wonder if I'll ever feel like a normal person again, and I wonder if I'll ever feel less desperate for something more than this.
Tomorrow night I'll have a few precious hours with someone who will make me feel better when he's here, and I'll take those few hours, because that's the only time all week that I'll feel like a real person. Even though this path is nothing but wrong.
I need this to be different. I need to feel different. I need it all to turn around, and I need for that to happen now, soon, because I can't bear a lot more of this. It's like skating on the surface all the time, and every now and again you fall through, into something that is sometimes white-hot, but mostly icy cold and razor sharp and painful beyond words.
It's not that I don't enjoy some things when they happen. For a while anyway. Some small things... lying warm and peaceful in bed, a beautiful fall day, my son, moments when the music sweeps me away and I dance. But there is nothing that I look forward to. It's like my heart stopped when Michael died. I stopped believing in a future.
And I say that, and it sounds all melodramatic and like love in the grave or something like that. But it's not like that. I think I just had too much. Michael used to say that if he even let all the pain out, it would kill him. (The truth of that, I think, is that not letting it out did in the end kill him.) But I understand a little better now what he meant. I'm not so numb as I was for a while, but that's worse, and I feel like I have to hold myself encased in armor to keep all the painful things at bay.
I've been watching The West Wing again. And I can't help remembering now and then how much we enjoyed it the first time. It was earlier on, when Michael was still more well, and things were on the whole better, and we loved it so much, were so caught up in it. It's hard not to flash back to those times.
I sit here by myself. I can't focus, I'm not working well, and I have no idea how I'm going to get done all the things that I need to do. My hip hurts all the time when I move, and I wonder sometimes if I need to accept that this will never be any better. I wonder if I'll ever feel like a normal person again, and I wonder if I'll ever feel less desperate for something more than this.
Tomorrow night I'll have a few precious hours with someone who will make me feel better when he's here, and I'll take those few hours, because that's the only time all week that I'll feel like a real person. Even though this path is nothing but wrong.
I need this to be different. I need to feel different. I need it all to turn around, and I need for that to happen now, soon, because I can't bear a lot more of this. It's like skating on the surface all the time, and every now and again you fall through, into something that is sometimes white-hot, but mostly icy cold and razor sharp and painful beyond words.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Another year
Happy birthday to me.
One year later.
Michael is dead.
Jonathan is in college.
Caitlin is in college and really out of my problem radar.
I am 50 lbs. lighter.
My life is so different from what it was a year ago that I cannot recognize it.
The people are different.
Even the cats are different.
I don't even know how to begin to make sense of what has happened to me. I sat in a committee meeting today, and talked to other professors, and it was like a different species. I stopped my career a decade ago, and they went on. And I have no idea how to be those people.
I don't know where my life is going, what is happening. I get sucked into this longing to be with someone else and fear that I will never again have that. And I get so, so afraid about that, and it's the fear that is the worst thing. I went around and around on this today. I almost went out tonight just to see if I could find someone to take home. Because I feel like no one sees me; that I am more confident and attractive than I have ever been in my life. But I am... old? And no one sees me, and no one will want to make the rest of his life with me.
And I don't want to be alone. That's the truth.
But I need to learn how to be alone. Not as a step to not being alone, but because it's the right thing to do. Because it's the path to happiness. But I can't seem to find my way to that. It's like a stepping stone in my head... like a way to get to what I really want. As if doing that is grabbing the ring, and then I can have what I really want.
I hate it. I hate feeling that way. I just want to be happy. The kind of happy that I feel when I'm with the man who I should stay the hell away from. The man who cannot give me what I want. The man who is probably going to bring nothing but trouble to either one of us. But when I'm with him, I feel like a real person again. And that is all wrong.
One year later.
Michael is dead.
Jonathan is in college.
Caitlin is in college and really out of my problem radar.
I am 50 lbs. lighter.
My life is so different from what it was a year ago that I cannot recognize it.
The people are different.
Even the cats are different.
I don't even know how to begin to make sense of what has happened to me. I sat in a committee meeting today, and talked to other professors, and it was like a different species. I stopped my career a decade ago, and they went on. And I have no idea how to be those people.
I don't know where my life is going, what is happening. I get sucked into this longing to be with someone else and fear that I will never again have that. And I get so, so afraid about that, and it's the fear that is the worst thing. I went around and around on this today. I almost went out tonight just to see if I could find someone to take home. Because I feel like no one sees me; that I am more confident and attractive than I have ever been in my life. But I am... old? And no one sees me, and no one will want to make the rest of his life with me.
And I don't want to be alone. That's the truth.
But I need to learn how to be alone. Not as a step to not being alone, but because it's the right thing to do. Because it's the path to happiness. But I can't seem to find my way to that. It's like a stepping stone in my head... like a way to get to what I really want. As if doing that is grabbing the ring, and then I can have what I really want.
I hate it. I hate feeling that way. I just want to be happy. The kind of happy that I feel when I'm with the man who I should stay the hell away from. The man who cannot give me what I want. The man who is probably going to bring nothing but trouble to either one of us. But when I'm with him, I feel like a real person again. And that is all wrong.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Spiderweb connections
The trouble is that the only person who really cares about your life is you, and people to whom you are intimately tied... partners, parents, children at little bit.
I miss that connection.
I don't mind my own company. Sometimes I quite like it. I have things to do, if I would just do them. I have a sex life of sorts, and someone who gives me affection, though not nearly often enough. But I want to come home and share the crappy things that happened in my day. The car key that didn't work and freaked me the hell out. The fact that I saw knitting guy at the store, the shawl he was making, and that I thought about asking him about piano. What happened in classes. The econ review that's upcoming. My annoyance with my honors students. And please, someone, kick my ass about the tax stuff, and what are we going to do about the apartment roof?
No one wants to hear that. I mean, it's not like they wouldn't listen, but it's minutiae, things that don't matter, the spider-silk connections of day-to-day life. My son has his own life, my lover doesn't care, not really, my friends have lives of their own. That sounds pathetic, and that's not what I mean, not the narrative that I'm telling. It's just true, and it's the thing that I lack, the thing that is making me the most crazy, and the thing that I don't know how to replace.
I have to change the story. I have to change what I'm doing and how I'm thinking about it. I have to put actions in here to make this different and better.
I miss that connection.
I don't mind my own company. Sometimes I quite like it. I have things to do, if I would just do them. I have a sex life of sorts, and someone who gives me affection, though not nearly often enough. But I want to come home and share the crappy things that happened in my day. The car key that didn't work and freaked me the hell out. The fact that I saw knitting guy at the store, the shawl he was making, and that I thought about asking him about piano. What happened in classes. The econ review that's upcoming. My annoyance with my honors students. And please, someone, kick my ass about the tax stuff, and what are we going to do about the apartment roof?
No one wants to hear that. I mean, it's not like they wouldn't listen, but it's minutiae, things that don't matter, the spider-silk connections of day-to-day life. My son has his own life, my lover doesn't care, not really, my friends have lives of their own. That sounds pathetic, and that's not what I mean, not the narrative that I'm telling. It's just true, and it's the thing that I lack, the thing that is making me the most crazy, and the thing that I don't know how to replace.
I have to change the story. I have to change what I'm doing and how I'm thinking about it. I have to put actions in here to make this different and better.
Monday, September 10, 2012
six months
If I keep running really fast, I won't notice all the crap behind me.
I miss you. And I don't.
I miss you. And I don't.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
You are not going to make your truth mine
It's not going to happen.
You tried to destroy me along with you, but it is not going to happen.
I loved you. I will always love you. But I am not going to let you take me with you. I wouldn't do it when you were alive, and I am not going to do it now.
You tried to destroy me along with you, but it is not going to happen.
I loved you. I will always love you. But I am not going to let you take me with you. I wouldn't do it when you were alive, and I am not going to do it now.
Gloss right the hell over
Don't get me wrong. People have been incredibly awesomely great to me.
And I know that it's partly that people don't get it, and that they don't know what to say. But still.
It gets on my last nerve when I say, it's quiet around here, and people say, "oh, you'll find things to fill the time!" Or, "join some groups!" Or anything that comes in a cheery perky let's-move-on tone.
It's not easy like that. You don't just fill in the spaces where people used to be. You don't just retool your life in 30 seconds. And you can't just join clubs and get out there and fill time. Because there aren't those clubs, there aren't those things that just piece in like that. It's not an instant restart, and even if it was, it wouldn't be simple like that.
I don't mind the awkwardness, the fact that you don't have any solutions for me. I know that there aren't any quick solutions. I don't want them. (Well, sure, if you had them, I'd take it.) I just want you not to trivialize the kind of pain that I'm in every single day by acting like it doesn't exist, that every night isn't incredibly, awfully hard. I want you to see that and acknowledge that, even if it's uncomfortable for you.
And I know that it's partly that people don't get it, and that they don't know what to say. But still.
It gets on my last nerve when I say, it's quiet around here, and people say, "oh, you'll find things to fill the time!" Or, "join some groups!" Or anything that comes in a cheery perky let's-move-on tone.
It's not easy like that. You don't just fill in the spaces where people used to be. You don't just retool your life in 30 seconds. And you can't just join clubs and get out there and fill time. Because there aren't those clubs, there aren't those things that just piece in like that. It's not an instant restart, and even if it was, it wouldn't be simple like that.
I don't mind the awkwardness, the fact that you don't have any solutions for me. I know that there aren't any quick solutions. I don't want them. (Well, sure, if you had them, I'd take it.) I just want you not to trivialize the kind of pain that I'm in every single day by acting like it doesn't exist, that every night isn't incredibly, awfully hard. I want you to see that and acknowledge that, even if it's uncomfortable for you.
Just because you're not suicidal...
...doesn't mean that you don't want to die.
I said to my therapist yesterday that I have never been less suicidal in my life, and that's absolutely true. But ugh, I just want to die. And anyone who's had episodes of suicidal ideation knows exactly what I mean. I just want all this to STOP. I want to be done. I want to get off this ride.
I want a different life. One with someone in it, really. Yeah, I had to write that, even though I wish I didn't feel that way. Because when I imagine a happy life, it always contains a partner. I can't imagine a happy life that's about being alone. Maybe someday I will be able to. But I'm not there right now.
Yesterday, after therapy and after it became clear that I wasn't going to hear from Joe, I took myself shopping, and then I went to a movie. All of that because it was different from coming home and being alone. And it was, and it was better, really. But today, I'm alone again, and I'm not motivated to do anything, although I'm really trying to be. I run through my head, where could I go? What could I do? And it all goes to the same place, to finding someone to be with.
I want to unhinge this. This link that says happy=company. Male company. At some point, it can't be all that. But I feel time slipping away so fast, and like it's a race, a race to find someone to be with before it's too late, and that is all so stupid, such a recipe for disaster and bad choices that I know that I have to find a different way.
I don't know why this all links in my head this way. Why I crave someone's touch, why I feel invisible and without meaning when I'm alone. I hate myself for being this way. I want it to be different, and I have to figure out how to get to that different road.
I said to my therapist yesterday that I have never been less suicidal in my life, and that's absolutely true. But ugh, I just want to die. And anyone who's had episodes of suicidal ideation knows exactly what I mean. I just want all this to STOP. I want to be done. I want to get off this ride.
I want a different life. One with someone in it, really. Yeah, I had to write that, even though I wish I didn't feel that way. Because when I imagine a happy life, it always contains a partner. I can't imagine a happy life that's about being alone. Maybe someday I will be able to. But I'm not there right now.
Yesterday, after therapy and after it became clear that I wasn't going to hear from Joe, I took myself shopping, and then I went to a movie. All of that because it was different from coming home and being alone. And it was, and it was better, really. But today, I'm alone again, and I'm not motivated to do anything, although I'm really trying to be. I run through my head, where could I go? What could I do? And it all goes to the same place, to finding someone to be with.
I want to unhinge this. This link that says happy=company. Male company. At some point, it can't be all that. But I feel time slipping away so fast, and like it's a race, a race to find someone to be with before it's too late, and that is all so stupid, such a recipe for disaster and bad choices that I know that I have to find a different way.
I don't know why this all links in my head this way. Why I crave someone's touch, why I feel invisible and without meaning when I'm alone. I hate myself for being this way. I want it to be different, and I have to figure out how to get to that different road.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Upstream
I can't stand this.
It has been such a bad day.
I just want Michael to tell me that everything will be all right. Because he would always tell me that, and I would always believe it, even when I didn't.
I don't think that anything will be all right ever again. It's just one thing after another, and when I start to feel like things are under control, then the next thing hits. I can't stand it. I don't want to do it any more.
It has been such a bad day.
I just want Michael to tell me that everything will be all right. Because he would always tell me that, and I would always believe it, even when I didn't.
I don't think that anything will be all right ever again. It's just one thing after another, and when I start to feel like things are under control, then the next thing hits. I can't stand it. I don't want to do it any more.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Alone
Honestly, I'm not sure how much good it does me to write. Sometimes I think that this just makes me dwell on things. Other times... I feel so desperate for something, some kind of observation, maybe, of all of this that there seems to be nothing else to do. As if typing words on this screen makes me real in a way that nothing else does. I am here. I am still here.
Last week was mostly an exercise in excruciating. The aloneness seemed to drain everything, and I felt all the time this sensation of being an actor on a stage with no audience. I think that's almost the hardest thing, the feeling that my life, unwitnessed, has no meaning at all. That I walk through things as if someone were looking at me, and when I lose that feeling, it's like Dumbo without his magic feather, and I fall.
I fell hard. Friday I was nothing but shattered.
Today... better, a bit, more grounded. Happier in my skin. But still.
So much memory. And I sit here alone, listening to music, trying to work, and it's all surreal. A year ago... Jonathan, Caitlin, Michael. Today, me and the cats. Jonathan happy at college, Caitlin... not my problem, Michael dead. Michael, dead. Sometimes that still seems the height of unreal, like when I sat at Tim's last weekend with that pounding in my head. Michael is dead, and I am still walking around, I am still coasting through my days, I am still alive, I am still sane. But Michael is dead.
There is no reality to this life.
I can see, for crystalline sugar-sweet moments, how I might have a life that goes on. But in between, I think that there's still a reckoning. Still something that has to happen, still a point where I fall completely apart, when I really admit in a way that I cannot feel right now that I am not all right, that I may never be anything like I was, ever again.
Last week was mostly an exercise in excruciating. The aloneness seemed to drain everything, and I felt all the time this sensation of being an actor on a stage with no audience. I think that's almost the hardest thing, the feeling that my life, unwitnessed, has no meaning at all. That I walk through things as if someone were looking at me, and when I lose that feeling, it's like Dumbo without his magic feather, and I fall.
I fell hard. Friday I was nothing but shattered.
Today... better, a bit, more grounded. Happier in my skin. But still.
So much memory. And I sit here alone, listening to music, trying to work, and it's all surreal. A year ago... Jonathan, Caitlin, Michael. Today, me and the cats. Jonathan happy at college, Caitlin... not my problem, Michael dead. Michael, dead. Sometimes that still seems the height of unreal, like when I sat at Tim's last weekend with that pounding in my head. Michael is dead, and I am still walking around, I am still coasting through my days, I am still alive, I am still sane. But Michael is dead.
There is no reality to this life.
I can see, for crystalline sugar-sweet moments, how I might have a life that goes on. But in between, I think that there's still a reckoning. Still something that has to happen, still a point where I fall completely apart, when I really admit in a way that I cannot feel right now that I am not all right, that I may never be anything like I was, ever again.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
another day
I don't know where I'm supposed to go from here.
My son is at school, safe and happy.
My niece is at school, doing whatever she's doing. And whatever that is, it is not my problem or responsibility any more. Maybe one day she'll grow up a little, but I have to step back from all of that until (if?) that happens.
My husband is dead.
And I am sitting here by myself.
In the mornings, I love being alone. At night, I hate it.
Everything seems like an effort that I can't make. I could finish this sweater, and I'd be happier knitting... but I'd have to figure out how to pick up the button band. And find the right needles. Or remember where I left off on the tank top. Or find something to string the beads for the new project. Or wind yarn. All of those things seem like something that I can't do. I'm just marking time until I can go to bed.
Nights are bad.
This is when I miss Michael the most, when the memories close in, when my own aloneness closes in, and all I'm doing is marking time.
I should be doing things to occupy myself... I managed this last night pretty well, tonight, not so much.
I don't know how to turn this around, make this different. I should be working... I forgot all about the fact that I should be working on this test bank and so forth. Maybe that can be the weekend. I want to pick up a book and some junk food and turn my head off. But I can't even do that any more. I've worked so hard to get this little bit of weight off, and I can't sabotage that.
But all the time, I think about being with someone else. I don't want that. I don't want to want it.
My son is at school, safe and happy.
My niece is at school, doing whatever she's doing. And whatever that is, it is not my problem or responsibility any more. Maybe one day she'll grow up a little, but I have to step back from all of that until (if?) that happens.
My husband is dead.
And I am sitting here by myself.
In the mornings, I love being alone. At night, I hate it.
Everything seems like an effort that I can't make. I could finish this sweater, and I'd be happier knitting... but I'd have to figure out how to pick up the button band. And find the right needles. Or remember where I left off on the tank top. Or find something to string the beads for the new project. Or wind yarn. All of those things seem like something that I can't do. I'm just marking time until I can go to bed.
Nights are bad.
This is when I miss Michael the most, when the memories close in, when my own aloneness closes in, and all I'm doing is marking time.
I should be doing things to occupy myself... I managed this last night pretty well, tonight, not so much.
I don't know how to turn this around, make this different. I should be working... I forgot all about the fact that I should be working on this test bank and so forth. Maybe that can be the weekend. I want to pick up a book and some junk food and turn my head off. But I can't even do that any more. I've worked so hard to get this little bit of weight off, and I can't sabotage that.
But all the time, I think about being with someone else. I don't want that. I don't want to want it.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Letters to Michael, 2
I can't believe that you left me with this, all of this giant mess that I have no idea how to deal with, and just life in general, and after tomorrow, I'll be alone. Alone rattling around in this house that is too big for me to deal with, trying to reconstruct my life.
And I know it's not constructive, but I blame you, on nights like this, when all the alone seems like too much. It's hard not to sift through the rubble of the last years, of the last decade, to look at the shattered pieces in my hands and wonder where it all went wrong.
There aren't any answers to that. Not even fault, in a way, except maybe for the fact that you could never step back from that cliff, never stop dipping your toes into that dark channel, and so as everything got harder and harder, it was the only thing that you could focus on.
Of course I should have seen. But to what point?
So many days I can walk on by, keep passing the open windows... but it's been harder lately. So much of the time, all I can feel is the sad and alone. And the bitter anger that does no one any good. At the end of it, all that's left is missing you.
And I know it's not constructive, but I blame you, on nights like this, when all the alone seems like too much. It's hard not to sift through the rubble of the last years, of the last decade, to look at the shattered pieces in my hands and wonder where it all went wrong.
There aren't any answers to that. Not even fault, in a way, except maybe for the fact that you could never step back from that cliff, never stop dipping your toes into that dark channel, and so as everything got harder and harder, it was the only thing that you could focus on.
Of course I should have seen. But to what point?
So many days I can walk on by, keep passing the open windows... but it's been harder lately. So much of the time, all I can feel is the sad and alone. And the bitter anger that does no one any good. At the end of it, all that's left is missing you.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Weirdness
I sat at Tim's last night, and yeah, I'd had too much smoke and drink and not enough food, and I was more than a little out of it, unwise. But in addition to the claustrophobic, paranoid feelings, which stay with me a bit today, all I could think is, "Michael is dead. Michael is dead, and I just got out of bed the next day and went on, and I have kept doing this."
And I have. As with every other thing in my life, I've picked up and gone on, without missing a beat. Sure, there are things that I haven't done. But at the end of the day, Michael is dead, and I am here, and life has gone on, and how has this happened?
Sometimes I wonder if anything that I feel is real. I feel like I can't stay in my own skin today, like I can't breathe, and it's only getting worse.
And I have. As with every other thing in my life, I've picked up and gone on, without missing a beat. Sure, there are things that I haven't done. But at the end of the day, Michael is dead, and I am here, and life has gone on, and how has this happened?
Sometimes I wonder if anything that I feel is real. I feel like I can't stay in my own skin today, like I can't breathe, and it's only getting worse.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Letters to Michael
I miss you.
I loved you. It's so easy to forget that, because of the way that things were the last months. I hope you knew that. I hope that you could see me, and remember what you said about standing in the train station after your mother's death and feeling free, the weight of it all lifted from your shoulders. I hope that you remember how it was with your mother, how you said in the end that it was her or you, and that when she understood, finally understood that... that was the end.
I don't want to put it that way, because I don't want to draw those parallels. I never did. But it was the same in so many ways, the disease, the obligation, the mental illness, the grinding wearing days. Knowing that whatever you do it not enough. Trying to keep your head above water.
Except that I'm stronger that you, and I always was, and I am going to survive this.
It's not a contest that I ever wanted to win. I believed, right up to those last months, that there would be a future in which we sat on the front porch in rocking chairs and made chicken noises.
And then I stopped believing. And I started fighting, and I let you go. It's the truth. I could not have done anything different, but it still true that I let you go. And that makes me so sad, because neither of us deserved any of this. And I wish that it could have been somehow different. I remember standing with my arms around you as you sat on the side of the bed and cried. I would go back there in a heartbeat and hold you even tighter.
I never stopped loving you, even when I couldn't. I know that makes no sense, but it's still true.
So many hopes and dreams and plans that never came true. So much in the wonderful person that you were... when you could be that person.
I miss you so much. I would not go back, for either of our sakes. But I don't think that there will be a moment of my life when I don't miss you in some way.
I loved you. It's so easy to forget that, because of the way that things were the last months. I hope you knew that. I hope that you could see me, and remember what you said about standing in the train station after your mother's death and feeling free, the weight of it all lifted from your shoulders. I hope that you remember how it was with your mother, how you said in the end that it was her or you, and that when she understood, finally understood that... that was the end.
I don't want to put it that way, because I don't want to draw those parallels. I never did. But it was the same in so many ways, the disease, the obligation, the mental illness, the grinding wearing days. Knowing that whatever you do it not enough. Trying to keep your head above water.
Except that I'm stronger that you, and I always was, and I am going to survive this.
It's not a contest that I ever wanted to win. I believed, right up to those last months, that there would be a future in which we sat on the front porch in rocking chairs and made chicken noises.
And then I stopped believing. And I started fighting, and I let you go. It's the truth. I could not have done anything different, but it still true that I let you go. And that makes me so sad, because neither of us deserved any of this. And I wish that it could have been somehow different. I remember standing with my arms around you as you sat on the side of the bed and cried. I would go back there in a heartbeat and hold you even tighter.
I never stopped loving you, even when I couldn't. I know that makes no sense, but it's still true.
So many hopes and dreams and plans that never came true. So much in the wonderful person that you were... when you could be that person.
I miss you so much. I would not go back, for either of our sakes. But I don't think that there will be a moment of my life when I don't miss you in some way.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Just stop
I was doing ok today, even with everything, even with sitting around for hours in B&N waiting for things that didn't happen and beating myself up about how stupid I'm being. Read a good article about surviving trauma, thought about it a lot, positive. Even with the constant feeling of being on the edge of tears, I was still ok.
And then I started working on the Toshiba laptop, and there they were. All the history, all the bookmarks. Suicide sites. How to buy helium in balloon kits. Everything. I thought it was gone, thought I'd cleared all that out before. And there it is again.
I want to know when these things will stop hitting me. When will I stop finding landmines? When will a picture of an English landscape or someone saying a few words of Greek not pierce my heart? I am not trying to dwell. In fact, the opposite... I am trying to be present, trying not to think about these things, associate these things. But this fine edge of grief is stabbing at my heart all the time.
Michael... I miss you. I don't miss all the horrors, and I don't know if I can ever stop being angry, pointless though it is. Or heartbroken. But there is so much I miss about you, and I just miss my companion, my friend. So much past. So, so much past.
It is not the present. There is no point in thinking about how it was, because it has nothing to do with now. Now is just now. I can't live with the memories; they will kill me. But how to I move on?
There's nothing for me right now, just the motions of going through this life. Nothing that makes me happy, not that I can have right now anyway. I want something new, need it desperately. But that new thing... all I know to look for is a person, and that's the wrong thing right now. Just the wrong thing, and I know it. Too needy, too desperate. Sometimes I think that I can see how to move past that... but then it all vanishes, smoke and mirrors and more heartbreak.
And then I started working on the Toshiba laptop, and there they were. All the history, all the bookmarks. Suicide sites. How to buy helium in balloon kits. Everything. I thought it was gone, thought I'd cleared all that out before. And there it is again.
I want to know when these things will stop hitting me. When will I stop finding landmines? When will a picture of an English landscape or someone saying a few words of Greek not pierce my heart? I am not trying to dwell. In fact, the opposite... I am trying to be present, trying not to think about these things, associate these things. But this fine edge of grief is stabbing at my heart all the time.
Michael... I miss you. I don't miss all the horrors, and I don't know if I can ever stop being angry, pointless though it is. Or heartbroken. But there is so much I miss about you, and I just miss my companion, my friend. So much past. So, so much past.
It is not the present. There is no point in thinking about how it was, because it has nothing to do with now. Now is just now. I can't live with the memories; they will kill me. But how to I move on?
There's nothing for me right now, just the motions of going through this life. Nothing that makes me happy, not that I can have right now anyway. I want something new, need it desperately. But that new thing... all I know to look for is a person, and that's the wrong thing right now. Just the wrong thing, and I know it. Too needy, too desperate. Sometimes I think that I can see how to move past that... but then it all vanishes, smoke and mirrors and more heartbreak.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Too much empty time
I don't have any idea what to do with myself.
It's not that I don't have things to do. Things that I should do, things that possibly I would like to do... a lot of things that just need to be done. And it's not even that I can't concentrate, because the meds have helped.
I just don't have any interest in doing any of it. It's the first time in years that my life hasn't been so full that there were no choices at all. And for a while there, I loved that. I loved the absence of constant demands. I love the ability to get up in the morning and just be quiet. I love putting music on... putting things where I want... things staying picked up... not worrying about things being on the floor. All the practical stuff.
But I miss... something. I miss Michael, the old Michael... sort of, although in truth I miss the good things, lying in bed at night and playing Scrabble and laughing, making snacks at 2 a.m., talking about things, driving... I miss the old days in England. I miss the things that we never did once we were in the U.S., sitting next to each other on the couch and falling asleep, lying in bed and watching storms through the window. And planning a future.
And it's more that than anything else. It all seems pointless without someone else. I've been so lonely, and it seems for so long, since Michael got sick to begin with and everything changed. Nothing compensates for that loss of a life partner. I don't know if I will ever have that again. I don't know how to find someone like that anymore... where to even look. It's too soon, and I know it, but I can't stand the drifting loneliness, the lack of grounding. The moments with other people these days only seem to highlight it. I could make this work as is with just a little input, a little structure, but this on-again, off-again stuff with Tim is not that, and there's nothing to fill the gap, just a flirtation that is foolish for both of us and only highlights my aloneness.
I hate it, and I don't know how to get on some different path. I can do things that distract me from this, but it's a temporary thing, and they are probably not good in the long run. And it's only going to get worse when Jonathan goes to school in a couple of weeks.
What do I do next?
It's not that I don't have things to do. Things that I should do, things that possibly I would like to do... a lot of things that just need to be done. And it's not even that I can't concentrate, because the meds have helped.
I just don't have any interest in doing any of it. It's the first time in years that my life hasn't been so full that there were no choices at all. And for a while there, I loved that. I loved the absence of constant demands. I love the ability to get up in the morning and just be quiet. I love putting music on... putting things where I want... things staying picked up... not worrying about things being on the floor. All the practical stuff.
But I miss... something. I miss Michael, the old Michael... sort of, although in truth I miss the good things, lying in bed at night and playing Scrabble and laughing, making snacks at 2 a.m., talking about things, driving... I miss the old days in England. I miss the things that we never did once we were in the U.S., sitting next to each other on the couch and falling asleep, lying in bed and watching storms through the window. And planning a future.
And it's more that than anything else. It all seems pointless without someone else. I've been so lonely, and it seems for so long, since Michael got sick to begin with and everything changed. Nothing compensates for that loss of a life partner. I don't know if I will ever have that again. I don't know how to find someone like that anymore... where to even look. It's too soon, and I know it, but I can't stand the drifting loneliness, the lack of grounding. The moments with other people these days only seem to highlight it. I could make this work as is with just a little input, a little structure, but this on-again, off-again stuff with Tim is not that, and there's nothing to fill the gap, just a flirtation that is foolish for both of us and only highlights my aloneness.
I hate it, and I don't know how to get on some different path. I can do things that distract me from this, but it's a temporary thing, and they are probably not good in the long run. And it's only going to get worse when Jonathan goes to school in a couple of weeks.
What do I do next?
Thursday, August 16, 2012
My own fault
It is my fault that I've had too many drinks on an empty stomach, and that's making me sad and maudlin, and that's spurring all the rest of it.
My fault that I want to be with someone else too much. That I let myself fall into how great it feels to just enjoy someone else's company. To feel wanted, for whatever reason. To get lost in the only thing that really makes my head shut up these days. That I barely even care who that other person is, as long as I can get that distraction fix.
My fault for getting involved in an impossible friendship with someone who I want to just be quiet and make my head stop spinning. And that there's this huge physical attraction for me, but that I can't even talk to him about what his side of it might be. So I'm feeling all rejected because he doesn't want to be with me this weekend. Yes, he's on call. But he made that work before. And he didn't text me... I texted him, apparently so he could turn me down. And I don't know what the hell I expect or why I am being so butthurt. I obviously don't expect that he will always (or, I guess, ever) just drop everything or have nothing going on in his life just because I want him. (But you know what? I think I'm done with this, super attraction or not. Tonight's awkward texting, especially after the bat incident, means that the ball is in his court here, and I'm not holding my breath waiting for it to come back.)
And my fault, too, for starting to care more than a little about someone who isn't free to care about me, even though he wants to and he does. It's another road to heartbreak, for both of us, and I know it even if he doesn't. I resent that he wants to pull me down this road, and that I apparently don't have enough will to step away from it. Because that lure of attention and caring... it's the only thing that pulls me right now.
I was right to begin with when I said, no one for at least a year. I know that with absolute certainty. But I opened Pandora's box, and all this crap has flown out, and I can't shut the lid.
And everything I touch these days reminds me of Michael and how sad I am. I don't know what to do. I thought I could be alone, and I can, but it is so much better with someone else. Just to be with. My fault for feeling this way, for not just being able to sink my head into something else and move on. My fault.
My fault that I want to be with someone else too much. That I let myself fall into how great it feels to just enjoy someone else's company. To feel wanted, for whatever reason. To get lost in the only thing that really makes my head shut up these days. That I barely even care who that other person is, as long as I can get that distraction fix.
My fault for getting involved in an impossible friendship with someone who I want to just be quiet and make my head stop spinning. And that there's this huge physical attraction for me, but that I can't even talk to him about what his side of it might be. So I'm feeling all rejected because he doesn't want to be with me this weekend. Yes, he's on call. But he made that work before. And he didn't text me... I texted him, apparently so he could turn me down. And I don't know what the hell I expect or why I am being so butthurt. I obviously don't expect that he will always (or, I guess, ever) just drop everything or have nothing going on in his life just because I want him. (But you know what? I think I'm done with this, super attraction or not. Tonight's awkward texting, especially after the bat incident, means that the ball is in his court here, and I'm not holding my breath waiting for it to come back.)
And my fault, too, for starting to care more than a little about someone who isn't free to care about me, even though he wants to and he does. It's another road to heartbreak, for both of us, and I know it even if he doesn't. I resent that he wants to pull me down this road, and that I apparently don't have enough will to step away from it. Because that lure of attention and caring... it's the only thing that pulls me right now.
I was right to begin with when I said, no one for at least a year. I know that with absolute certainty. But I opened Pandora's box, and all this crap has flown out, and I can't shut the lid.
And everything I touch these days reminds me of Michael and how sad I am. I don't know what to do. I thought I could be alone, and I can, but it is so much better with someone else. Just to be with. My fault for feeling this way, for not just being able to sink my head into something else and move on. My fault.
Monday, August 13, 2012
And bitterness
It's so hard not to be bitter.
Yesterday, I did a cull of the old photo albums, from before I came here, before Jonathan was born. Back in the day when my first marriage was relatively happy (including the wedding pictures), when I was in grad school, when I was hopeful and everything seemed ahead of me.
Joe referred to this part of life as "on the back nine" today, and I feel like it's been a crappy game, and how much can you do in those last nine holes? I look at the faces in these pictures... so many people who are dead now, my mother, my best friend's parents, my uncle... others too, I'm sure. And my grad school buddies, who I thought would be my friends forever... there is exactly one of them who I know where is really, and I am in touch with none of them.
It's pointless to look at these things, and I threw most of them away. I don't think that I want to revisit much of this. I'll scan the handful of pics that I saved at some point. But I can't help but think, too, of the handful of pictures that Michael left behind. There's no one to pass those pictures on to, no one who will care. I don't even want to look at them, because like everything else, they make me angry or sad. All about tragedy, and that young boy who I wanted to save, the pure loving heart trapped inside all of the illness and crap.
I can't bear the sadness tonight. There's nothing to diffuse it.
Yesterday, I did a cull of the old photo albums, from before I came here, before Jonathan was born. Back in the day when my first marriage was relatively happy (including the wedding pictures), when I was in grad school, when I was hopeful and everything seemed ahead of me.
Joe referred to this part of life as "on the back nine" today, and I feel like it's been a crappy game, and how much can you do in those last nine holes? I look at the faces in these pictures... so many people who are dead now, my mother, my best friend's parents, my uncle... others too, I'm sure. And my grad school buddies, who I thought would be my friends forever... there is exactly one of them who I know where is really, and I am in touch with none of them.
It's pointless to look at these things, and I threw most of them away. I don't think that I want to revisit much of this. I'll scan the handful of pics that I saved at some point. But I can't help but think, too, of the handful of pictures that Michael left behind. There's no one to pass those pictures on to, no one who will care. I don't even want to look at them, because like everything else, they make me angry or sad. All about tragedy, and that young boy who I wanted to save, the pure loving heart trapped inside all of the illness and crap.
I can't bear the sadness tonight. There's nothing to diffuse it.
Heartbreak
I think that I'm over this, that the worst of the devastating pain is past. And then things hit me, sharp and intense, and it's all fresh again, fresh as that night.
I was going through papers. I thought that I'd been through all the visa papers, but of course not. There was a whole additional folder, Michael's birth certificate... all the things we so carefully organized... everything from those days. The transfer of deed to this house to both of our names. All of the things that were bright and shiny and hopeful six years ago.
And I just want to say...
I forget sometimes how much I loved you, and how angry I am at you, and how sad. I think that I can do things that keep the core of that connection between us, like wearing your ring. And it feels right for a while, but then it's this again, the pain and the horror and the anger. I loved you. I didn't do everything right those last months, but I never stopped loving you, not really. I was just so desperate, and I couldn't breathe, and I didn't want to drown. I would give anything to make you understand these things... not to bring you back, not to go back to an impossible past, but to make you understand, to wrap you in that love, to say goodbye properly. Except that's the problem. I couldn't say goodbye to you; I couldn't stay so close and still let you go.
These games I play with other people are just that. They're the diversion from the real thing, and the real thing is this endless pain. The real thing has always been you.
I was going through papers. I thought that I'd been through all the visa papers, but of course not. There was a whole additional folder, Michael's birth certificate... all the things we so carefully organized... everything from those days. The transfer of deed to this house to both of our names. All of the things that were bright and shiny and hopeful six years ago.
And I just want to say...
I forget sometimes how much I loved you, and how angry I am at you, and how sad. I think that I can do things that keep the core of that connection between us, like wearing your ring. And it feels right for a while, but then it's this again, the pain and the horror and the anger. I loved you. I didn't do everything right those last months, but I never stopped loving you, not really. I was just so desperate, and I couldn't breathe, and I didn't want to drown. I would give anything to make you understand these things... not to bring you back, not to go back to an impossible past, but to make you understand, to wrap you in that love, to say goodbye properly. Except that's the problem. I couldn't say goodbye to you; I couldn't stay so close and still let you go.
These games I play with other people are just that. They're the diversion from the real thing, and the real thing is this endless pain. The real thing has always been you.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Adderal Day One
I just want to note this here, so I have a reminder.
And ugh, I feel like shit, although I don't think it's the drug per se; I think that it's pushing myself and doing things that I don't want to do, and the awfulness that results from anything that still has Michael's name on it, and trying to talk to people about it. I fall apart every fucking time. EVERY time.
I think that I'm over this stuff, that it's "better" now. And in a way, it is... I am feeling myself come back, if that makes sense. But with that, so much sense of loss, of me, of the time, of the good parts of Michael. All of it is heartbreaking, in the most literal sense.
I would not be who I am today without this, and except for the deep, bitter scars, who I am is not so bad. Pretty damn good. But it's a hell of a price to pay.
I want to be diverted, to do something that makes me feel crazy happy. But I don't feel like I can just call Tim, and he's my crazy happy thing. All the rest of it is just crazy.
And ugh, I feel like shit, although I don't think it's the drug per se; I think that it's pushing myself and doing things that I don't want to do, and the awfulness that results from anything that still has Michael's name on it, and trying to talk to people about it. I fall apart every fucking time. EVERY time.
I think that I'm over this stuff, that it's "better" now. And in a way, it is... I am feeling myself come back, if that makes sense. But with that, so much sense of loss, of me, of the time, of the good parts of Michael. All of it is heartbreaking, in the most literal sense.
I would not be who I am today without this, and except for the deep, bitter scars, who I am is not so bad. Pretty damn good. But it's a hell of a price to pay.
I want to be diverted, to do something that makes me feel crazy happy. But I don't feel like I can just call Tim, and he's my crazy happy thing. All the rest of it is just crazy.
Closer to free
There's this person who I am in my heart, and she is amazing and free and beautiful and confident and so many other things, And sometimes I can almost touch her. I could yesterday at the gym, when I was on the elliptical, and the music was cranked,, and I was unstoppable.
But then there are the moments when I know I'm nowhere near her. Like now, when I'm checking and rechecking email because I haven't heard from someone who really shouldn't be emailing me anyway. I am being squirrely about a friendship that I don't even care about. If it vanished tomorrow, I'd be probably a little put out, but mostly relieved. It's diversion, diversion from my head, diversion from attaching myself to Tim (or anyone else). But yet I see myself in the mire of wanting and waiting and all the things that keep me from free, keep me from being that person I can see in my head.
It's time to get the hell off the computer and go to the gym.
But then there are the moments when I know I'm nowhere near her. Like now, when I'm checking and rechecking email because I haven't heard from someone who really shouldn't be emailing me anyway. I am being squirrely about a friendship that I don't even care about. If it vanished tomorrow, I'd be probably a little put out, but mostly relieved. It's diversion, diversion from my head, diversion from attaching myself to Tim (or anyone else). But yet I see myself in the mire of wanting and waiting and all the things that keep me from free, keep me from being that person I can see in my head.
It's time to get the hell off the computer and go to the gym.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Breathing
I wake up with a guy in my bed... I talk to Impossible Guy who I like on the phone... and I think, for a moment, maybe I would like to have a relationship again. A real relationship, not one with someone who is impossible for one reason or another. Someone to wake up with and go to bed with, someone to plan with, someone to share with.
And then something happens, and I remember things like panicking because I left my phone at home, and I couldn't be contacted. Rushing home from the little fair that my niece and I went to last summer because Michael was freaking out about something. Always worrying that something was in the way, on the floor, somewhere he might step and trip. Being worried all the time about his displeasure.
Until I stopped worrying about it. And he thought I'd changed, and maybe I had, but really, I'd just reached the end of my rope. The fine thing strands of fiber, and I couldn't do it any more, simply couldn't. I'd give so much to be able to wrap my arms around him again and really explain it, instead of the stupid shouting. But he couldn't understand, wouldn't understand, whatever. I wish that he had not been so sad. I wish that he could have understood. I wish that he could know how much I loved him, still love him, will always love him.
But I think about it, and I can't breathe. I think about anyone living with me, and I can't breathe. I think about having to be accountable to anyone, and I can't breathe.
I might want someone else, might want that desperately, might hate the idea of alone forever. But it would take a hell of a lot to be able to make any different choice. I think I've only hit the tip of the iceberg of how much damage there is.
On a tangent note... tonight I kissed someone who was Not Tim. It was ok. It had potential. But it made me realize that the attraction to Tim isn't just OMG sex. There's a real chemistry there that's amazing and powerful. Which is a little scary, really, because I still say all the same things. This is not a long-term guy. But... well, he sure as hell is something else. For the moment.
And then something happens, and I remember things like panicking because I left my phone at home, and I couldn't be contacted. Rushing home from the little fair that my niece and I went to last summer because Michael was freaking out about something. Always worrying that something was in the way, on the floor, somewhere he might step and trip. Being worried all the time about his displeasure.
Until I stopped worrying about it. And he thought I'd changed, and maybe I had, but really, I'd just reached the end of my rope. The fine thing strands of fiber, and I couldn't do it any more, simply couldn't. I'd give so much to be able to wrap my arms around him again and really explain it, instead of the stupid shouting. But he couldn't understand, wouldn't understand, whatever. I wish that he had not been so sad. I wish that he could have understood. I wish that he could know how much I loved him, still love him, will always love him.
But I think about it, and I can't breathe. I think about anyone living with me, and I can't breathe. I think about having to be accountable to anyone, and I can't breathe.
I might want someone else, might want that desperately, might hate the idea of alone forever. But it would take a hell of a lot to be able to make any different choice. I think I've only hit the tip of the iceberg of how much damage there is.
On a tangent note... tonight I kissed someone who was Not Tim. It was ok. It had potential. But it made me realize that the attraction to Tim isn't just OMG sex. There's a real chemistry there that's amazing and powerful. Which is a little scary, really, because I still say all the same things. This is not a long-term guy. But... well, he sure as hell is something else. For the moment.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Thinking
Tim was here last night. Very much wine, and very little sleep. Also a lot of sitting outside and talking while he smoked. The smoking thing is annoying. The trouble is, I like this guy so much, but what I like is more about me than him. I like having the company. I like the way he feels next to me. I like the obvious attraction between us. But I do not like a lot of the intrinsic stuff about who he is. His life is about smoke and drink and getting up and going to work the next day. And there's nothing wrong with that in general, but there's a lot wrong for someone who I want to care about.
Not that I want to care. More that I want to be cared about, and I'm not sure that he's great at that, either. Part of my wants to be loved so badly, needed, cared about. And I'm being offered that elsewhere, probably, but that this is conditional, on the side, on limited terms. Which might be exactly what I want for now. But as the basis for what the rest of my life looks like? I don't know.
And I think that's truly what I'm looking for, some idea of the shape of forever. I don't think that I can have that, truly. Impermanence. I don't think that there's a cookie-cutter than I can fit myself into that is going to show me... whatever. The future shape of Nina. How these things will fit in. Tim. Tim and time, something like that. Tim and time, and my other friend who is more and less of what I want, all at the same time. And the part of me that wants desperately to be in a committed relationship, because there is that part, however much I'd like to pretend otherwise. And the part of me that would run a million miles from the possibility.
I just want something so much today. Some of it is to show off, I think, to say, look at me, I can drink and smoke and fuck like a teenager. Still. There's a part of me that recognizes the Nina of many years ago, and wants to be that person, but happier and freer. There's a part of me who is not that person at all any more. Someone bruised and damaged who needs love and caring in a sad and desperate way. And I'm not sure how to get either of us, an of us, what we want.
I am not sure who I am, without Michael. It's not that I need him to be me, but for so long, he was the center of my life, my best friend, my husband, the gravitational pull that kept me in orbit. An unstable orbit, as it turns out, but still, an orbit. I miss him, in a way. And not, in other ways. But on a day like this... and on a night like yesterday... I feel his absence acutely.
Not that I want to care. More that I want to be cared about, and I'm not sure that he's great at that, either. Part of my wants to be loved so badly, needed, cared about. And I'm being offered that elsewhere, probably, but that this is conditional, on the side, on limited terms. Which might be exactly what I want for now. But as the basis for what the rest of my life looks like? I don't know.
And I think that's truly what I'm looking for, some idea of the shape of forever. I don't think that I can have that, truly. Impermanence. I don't think that there's a cookie-cutter than I can fit myself into that is going to show me... whatever. The future shape of Nina. How these things will fit in. Tim. Tim and time, something like that. Tim and time, and my other friend who is more and less of what I want, all at the same time. And the part of me that wants desperately to be in a committed relationship, because there is that part, however much I'd like to pretend otherwise. And the part of me that would run a million miles from the possibility.
I just want something so much today. Some of it is to show off, I think, to say, look at me, I can drink and smoke and fuck like a teenager. Still. There's a part of me that recognizes the Nina of many years ago, and wants to be that person, but happier and freer. There's a part of me who is not that person at all any more. Someone bruised and damaged who needs love and caring in a sad and desperate way. And I'm not sure how to get either of us, an of us, what we want.
I am not sure who I am, without Michael. It's not that I need him to be me, but for so long, he was the center of my life, my best friend, my husband, the gravitational pull that kept me in orbit. An unstable orbit, as it turns out, but still, an orbit. I miss him, in a way. And not, in other ways. But on a day like this... and on a night like yesterday... I feel his absence acutely.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Things I am saying here so I don't say them elsewhere
"I'm happy that you're coming."
"I think about you a lot, in a happy kind of way."
"This texting thing is making me anxious and teenager-like."
"I don't want to be involved with you, but I'd like to figure out the boundaries of friends. I'd like to have our lives a little more comfy and connected so I know where I stand, even though in some sense, it doesn't matter all that much to me."
"Because it does a little."
"Although honestly, it's mostly that you're great in bed, and there was a point where I never thought I'd have a sex life again."
"I think about you a lot, in a happy kind of way."
"This texting thing is making me anxious and teenager-like."
"I don't want to be involved with you, but I'd like to figure out the boundaries of friends. I'd like to have our lives a little more comfy and connected so I know where I stand, even though in some sense, it doesn't matter all that much to me."
"Because it does a little."
"Although honestly, it's mostly that you're great in bed, and there was a point where I never thought I'd have a sex life again."
The Feeling
I'm sitting here this morning listening to music, unusual enough. And listening to The Feeling, the band I discovered in a taxi the last time I came home from England alone. March of 2006, I think. This album hadn't even been released yet, just the EP. And I listened hard, and wrote the name down, and found it. I love this album so much.
And I love sitting here by myself and drinking my tea, and it's quiet and semi-clean. I'm getting things done, and I'm thinking some happy thoughts about Tim and the weekend, and things seem, if not ok, just for this moment manageable.
But listening to this music... I want so badly to be able to take everything that's happened and put it in place, sort it neatly into a file. I was so happy sitting in that taxi. We'd gone to London to the US Embassy to deal with the paperwork and visa interview, and although hideously hard for Michael, we did it, and everything was clear to go. I'd come back in a month to fly back with him, and then we'd be married.
I wish I could freeze time right there.
We were happy and eager and everything was falling into place. It was all going to work, everything we'd seen through to that point, the visa and the packing and sale of the house, and just getting Michael to move on... all of it. He was going to come here, and he was going to love Jonathan, and we were going to live happily ever after. And get well.
It seemed like everything went wrong from the first night in America. That's a little bit of an exaggeration; there were some damn good times. But that night, when everything went wrong at the airport, and then I spent 7 hours driving a sullen, miserable person up here... it was like the emblem for everything that would come after; him not being able to control his temper/whatever, and me trying to appease him and coax him out of the sullens. I wish I'd never done that, not even once. I wish that when we had that huge fight about whatever it was, and he locked himself in the bedroom and said he was going back... I wish that I'd just let that play out. I have this idea that it would have changed the dynamics of everything, for better or for worse.
Oh, Michael. We could have been so happy... maybe. I don't absolve myself of blame, but you know, I'm not hard. You just throw a little love at me and keep things peaceful, and I'm pretty ok. I loved you, maybe not in all the ways that we needed, but I loved you for so long and so hard. And I miss you, although I can't allow myself to think of missing you, of the ways that things were once. The only shred of that which I'm allowed to remember is lying in bed at night holding your hand. Just that.
But anyway. But anyway, I want to put it all in a file box and sort it out and label it all so I know what it means. And then I want to listen to this music and dance alone and not cry.
And I love sitting here by myself and drinking my tea, and it's quiet and semi-clean. I'm getting things done, and I'm thinking some happy thoughts about Tim and the weekend, and things seem, if not ok, just for this moment manageable.
But listening to this music... I want so badly to be able to take everything that's happened and put it in place, sort it neatly into a file. I was so happy sitting in that taxi. We'd gone to London to the US Embassy to deal with the paperwork and visa interview, and although hideously hard for Michael, we did it, and everything was clear to go. I'd come back in a month to fly back with him, and then we'd be married.
I wish I could freeze time right there.
We were happy and eager and everything was falling into place. It was all going to work, everything we'd seen through to that point, the visa and the packing and sale of the house, and just getting Michael to move on... all of it. He was going to come here, and he was going to love Jonathan, and we were going to live happily ever after. And get well.
It seemed like everything went wrong from the first night in America. That's a little bit of an exaggeration; there were some damn good times. But that night, when everything went wrong at the airport, and then I spent 7 hours driving a sullen, miserable person up here... it was like the emblem for everything that would come after; him not being able to control his temper/whatever, and me trying to appease him and coax him out of the sullens. I wish I'd never done that, not even once. I wish that when we had that huge fight about whatever it was, and he locked himself in the bedroom and said he was going back... I wish that I'd just let that play out. I have this idea that it would have changed the dynamics of everything, for better or for worse.
Oh, Michael. We could have been so happy... maybe. I don't absolve myself of blame, but you know, I'm not hard. You just throw a little love at me and keep things peaceful, and I'm pretty ok. I loved you, maybe not in all the ways that we needed, but I loved you for so long and so hard. And I miss you, although I can't allow myself to think of missing you, of the ways that things were once. The only shred of that which I'm allowed to remember is lying in bed at night holding your hand. Just that.
But anyway. But anyway, I want to put it all in a file box and sort it out and label it all so I know what it means. And then I want to listen to this music and dance alone and not cry.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Letting it be
I want to sit here and write about how great it is to have this nice guy in my life, even if I can't figure out what the hell it's all about. To say, it's nice coming home in the middle of the night with my hair smelling like smoke and him and being tired and sore. It's nice to have that on-the-edge kind of feeling because there's someone you'd jump into bed with this second if he were here. It's nice to feel wanted in that way. It's just... nice. And kind of hot.
And then there's this other part of me that wants to wander down some other path, one that leads to decisions and conclusions. That path can't include this guy. Not now, not ever. He is Mr. Right Now, and I hate to say that, because it's dismissive. But I don't know how not to dismiss him, because he's... less than I need him to be. Another stray puppy, and I am not keeping any more strays, even if they want to come in the door. And there's no real indication of that.
So what I want is to sit back, and just be here and think my happy erotic thoughts, and, for once in my life, not want this to be more. But at the same time, not allow it to be less.
And then there's this other part of me that wants to wander down some other path, one that leads to decisions and conclusions. That path can't include this guy. Not now, not ever. He is Mr. Right Now, and I hate to say that, because it's dismissive. But I don't know how not to dismiss him, because he's... less than I need him to be. Another stray puppy, and I am not keeping any more strays, even if they want to come in the door. And there's no real indication of that.
So what I want is to sit back, and just be here and think my happy erotic thoughts, and, for once in my life, not want this to be more. But at the same time, not allow it to be less.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Love
It's what we all want to believe in. No matter how awful the relationship, how awful the result, we want to believe that we were in love, that we were loved.
The apex of that for me was John, the man I thought of for so long as the love of my life. And I suppose that in a way, he was, at least in terms of the amount of time that I spent thinking about him, in one way or another. But without opening that giant can of worms... there will be another day for that... at the end of the day, he left me. And even that is a bit too... I don't know. He didn't leave me. He dumped me by refusing to answer the phone when I called, because he didn't have the guts to talk to me. And when, in a moment of stupid, I called him again months later, he lied to me again, and I believed it, in a way. And lied to me again when he fobbed me off with a nonsense story. But still, I held him in my heart. I made excuses for him. I took words whispered in the dark and hung on to them. I believed with all my heart that he did love me, that we were star-crossed lovers just destined to be apart. In the long nights when everything was bad, I'd go in my head to that time; I'd recreate every second of that time together.
I wrote about that in the blog that I deleted, the blog that Michael read, because I couldn't bear that he had read that. But it was the truth of the moment.
But ironically, I see all too clearly how it was in no way the truth, that it was fantasy born of desperation and misery, no more real than sending my head into the imaginary worlds of my childhood. And I wish that the untruth hadn't had so much power to hurt, especially since it turned out to be a distortion born of pain.
That's not what I really wanted to talk about, though. It's that every time I've told that story to someone... very rarely, because it is too much pain... I've made excuses again and again, for the man I thought I loved, the man I had to believe loved me. I couldn't just say, it was a mistake that I knew I was making, a hope that didn't come true. I couldn't just admit that he cared so little about me that he would rather inflict a staggering and unnecessary degree of pain rather than tell me unpleasant truths himself.
It's true, though. We spent a year and a half together online; we spent ten days in person, and then, hey, he was just not that into me. Or whatever. And I couldn't let go of the grand romance.
It's what sent me to Michael to begin with. It's what caused me to screw up any number of things in my personal and professional life. It's what put me on the path to here. I'm not blaming him, and I'm not even blaming myself. It's what happened, a lifetime ago. It's an old story, except for where it took me.
It was just a story. But I had to make it a love story.
The apex of that for me was John, the man I thought of for so long as the love of my life. And I suppose that in a way, he was, at least in terms of the amount of time that I spent thinking about him, in one way or another. But without opening that giant can of worms... there will be another day for that... at the end of the day, he left me. And even that is a bit too... I don't know. He didn't leave me. He dumped me by refusing to answer the phone when I called, because he didn't have the guts to talk to me. And when, in a moment of stupid, I called him again months later, he lied to me again, and I believed it, in a way. And lied to me again when he fobbed me off with a nonsense story. But still, I held him in my heart. I made excuses for him. I took words whispered in the dark and hung on to them. I believed with all my heart that he did love me, that we were star-crossed lovers just destined to be apart. In the long nights when everything was bad, I'd go in my head to that time; I'd recreate every second of that time together.
I wrote about that in the blog that I deleted, the blog that Michael read, because I couldn't bear that he had read that. But it was the truth of the moment.
But ironically, I see all too clearly how it was in no way the truth, that it was fantasy born of desperation and misery, no more real than sending my head into the imaginary worlds of my childhood. And I wish that the untruth hadn't had so much power to hurt, especially since it turned out to be a distortion born of pain.
That's not what I really wanted to talk about, though. It's that every time I've told that story to someone... very rarely, because it is too much pain... I've made excuses again and again, for the man I thought I loved, the man I had to believe loved me. I couldn't just say, it was a mistake that I knew I was making, a hope that didn't come true. I couldn't just admit that he cared so little about me that he would rather inflict a staggering and unnecessary degree of pain rather than tell me unpleasant truths himself.
It's true, though. We spent a year and a half together online; we spent ten days in person, and then, hey, he was just not that into me. Or whatever. And I couldn't let go of the grand romance.
It's what sent me to Michael to begin with. It's what caused me to screw up any number of things in my personal and professional life. It's what put me on the path to here. I'm not blaming him, and I'm not even blaming myself. It's what happened, a lifetime ago. It's an old story, except for where it took me.
It was just a story. But I had to make it a love story.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Not Me
I've spent most of my life with a sex life that's either been boring or something verging on awful. And I have second-guessed myself a billion times about this. I mean, after a while, you think, this has to be me, the common ingredient is me.
Well, maybe not. Maybe it is about finding someone who's actually a good lover. Surprise. I mean, I have no relative scale here that makes sense. There's just the first part of my life (boring and insufficient), the middle part (clueless and troubled), and the recent part (damaged and incompatible). With Michael, especially... I mean, objectively, so many strikes against anything working out. The physical issues, but even more than that, the mental issues that made his tastes fetishistic and extreme and made it so difficult for him to have intimacy of a kind that anyone else could recognize, at least during sex. It makes me so sad to say that, to acknowledge the truth of that, one of the greatest losses in a marriage filled with loss. I feel, always, that I am betraying him, and I say these things, and I remember when we used to sleep holding hands all night, and my heart just aches.
So long ago and not so long ago.
But he always blamed me. Because, I think, he could not listen to me. Because he couldn't give me what I needed the most, the tenderness and affection. Not in that context, because for him it was flashbacks to a childhood that was, at minimum, sexually inappropriate, and at worst... well, neither of us ever knew really. So what was left was the lie. The lie that it had been just fine with everyone else. That it was only me who had a problem with how he was. The lie that he couldn't acknowledge to himself. I believe that to be the truth of it... but when you're told again and again that it's you, it's hard not to take it in a little. Especially since I am not perfect and not free of issues of my own.
Writing these things is ripping my heart out. But I don't know what else to do. I write, and I write, and it has to be where I am clear because someone else might read, because otherwise... otherwise there is nothing that forces me to think about it, to put words that make sense down, and maybe, in the process, to exorcise the ghosts a little.
But today and yesterday. My hair still smells like smoke, and I am achy and tired. But it was good. Better than the first time. Even with my weird and disturbing claustrophobia at the end. I don't want to think too much of that, make too much of it, make a problem where there is none. I think that was just a result of my overthinking. And the rest... really good. And I was able to relax and love it. And it feels like a validation, that all the things before it were maybe not me.
And that makes me want to cry, but then, everything does.
Well, maybe not. Maybe it is about finding someone who's actually a good lover. Surprise. I mean, I have no relative scale here that makes sense. There's just the first part of my life (boring and insufficient), the middle part (clueless and troubled), and the recent part (damaged and incompatible). With Michael, especially... I mean, objectively, so many strikes against anything working out. The physical issues, but even more than that, the mental issues that made his tastes fetishistic and extreme and made it so difficult for him to have intimacy of a kind that anyone else could recognize, at least during sex. It makes me so sad to say that, to acknowledge the truth of that, one of the greatest losses in a marriage filled with loss. I feel, always, that I am betraying him, and I say these things, and I remember when we used to sleep holding hands all night, and my heart just aches.
So long ago and not so long ago.
But he always blamed me. Because, I think, he could not listen to me. Because he couldn't give me what I needed the most, the tenderness and affection. Not in that context, because for him it was flashbacks to a childhood that was, at minimum, sexually inappropriate, and at worst... well, neither of us ever knew really. So what was left was the lie. The lie that it had been just fine with everyone else. That it was only me who had a problem with how he was. The lie that he couldn't acknowledge to himself. I believe that to be the truth of it... but when you're told again and again that it's you, it's hard not to take it in a little. Especially since I am not perfect and not free of issues of my own.
Writing these things is ripping my heart out. But I don't know what else to do. I write, and I write, and it has to be where I am clear because someone else might read, because otherwise... otherwise there is nothing that forces me to think about it, to put words that make sense down, and maybe, in the process, to exorcise the ghosts a little.
But today and yesterday. My hair still smells like smoke, and I am achy and tired. But it was good. Better than the first time. Even with my weird and disturbing claustrophobia at the end. I don't want to think too much of that, make too much of it, make a problem where there is none. I think that was just a result of my overthinking. And the rest... really good. And I was able to relax and love it. And it feels like a validation, that all the things before it were maybe not me.
And that makes me want to cry, but then, everything does.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Next
Something has to change here.
I have never felt so emotionally bad in my life. And I absolutely cannot tell whether this is a (lack of) medication thing, or whether it's a PTSD thing, or whether it's just life and grief and so on. I feel just wrecked. All the time. And it's not getting better; if anything, it's getting worse.
And I hate to say it, but it makes me wonder about Michael. He stopped taking Cymbalta in October, and after that, everything got worse. It's again, hard to abstract one thing from another... the blood sugar issues, the hospitalization, so on... but I wonder. He said again and again how bad he felt, but he couldn't/wouldn't tolerate another medication. It is useless to speculate on it, but I wonder what role this played in his death. I know he tried to fight it.
I am not suicidal, not at all. But I am miserable. Deeply, horribly miserable. And just frightened by the oddest things, by closeness, intimacy... but at the same time, I'm so much worse when I'm alone. I'm also terrified of how awful everything seems so much of the time, and it's not about reality; it's about something inside.
I have to do something to break this cycle. I don't want it to be, go back on meds. Can't risk it, not now that my weight is falling, and I'm starting to feel physically better. It's going to have to be something different. Have to be.
I have never felt so emotionally bad in my life. And I absolutely cannot tell whether this is a (lack of) medication thing, or whether it's a PTSD thing, or whether it's just life and grief and so on. I feel just wrecked. All the time. And it's not getting better; if anything, it's getting worse.
And I hate to say it, but it makes me wonder about Michael. He stopped taking Cymbalta in October, and after that, everything got worse. It's again, hard to abstract one thing from another... the blood sugar issues, the hospitalization, so on... but I wonder. He said again and again how bad he felt, but he couldn't/wouldn't tolerate another medication. It is useless to speculate on it, but I wonder what role this played in his death. I know he tried to fight it.
I am not suicidal, not at all. But I am miserable. Deeply, horribly miserable. And just frightened by the oddest things, by closeness, intimacy... but at the same time, I'm so much worse when I'm alone. I'm also terrified of how awful everything seems so much of the time, and it's not about reality; it's about something inside.
I have to do something to break this cycle. I don't want it to be, go back on meds. Can't risk it, not now that my weight is falling, and I'm starting to feel physically better. It's going to have to be something different. Have to be.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Wrong
I know what I'm doing. I'm looking for a quick fix outside myself. I'm looking for someone to make it all feel better, and I know that this is the wrong thing to do. It was better before this occurred to me as an option, before I had those few happy days that made me remember what it's like to feel like that.
I don't know what I'm supposed to do next. I am sitting here waiting for an email from someone who should not even be emailing me. I'm looking in the wrong place for something that's the wrong thing, and I can't seem to stop myself from walking down this path.
And at the same time, the thought of anything with anyone makes me nauseated and scared, and I know that I am not in any way ready for anything at all emotional. I can see fractions of all of me spread too thin. I feel terrible, still. Not all the time, but enough. End of the day is hardest.
I need to be about me, not about someone else, whether it's a real someone or a quick fix. I know this. But I don't know how. I keep getting distracted by shiny objects. It's like going to the refrigerator for those nibbles. About buying the things that you know should not be in the house. I don't know how to stop.
I don't know what I'm supposed to do next. I am sitting here waiting for an email from someone who should not even be emailing me. I'm looking in the wrong place for something that's the wrong thing, and I can't seem to stop myself from walking down this path.
And at the same time, the thought of anything with anyone makes me nauseated and scared, and I know that I am not in any way ready for anything at all emotional. I can see fractions of all of me spread too thin. I feel terrible, still. Not all the time, but enough. End of the day is hardest.
I need to be about me, not about someone else, whether it's a real someone or a quick fix. I know this. But I don't know how. I keep getting distracted by shiny objects. It's like going to the refrigerator for those nibbles. About buying the things that you know should not be in the house. I don't know how to stop.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Just can't think
I have no idea where I am or why.
I'm sad and discouraged, and I can't seem to keep some sort of even mood.
On the other hand, there's this weird kind of elation from the reintroduction of other people into my life.
And on yet another hand... this is an octopus kind of problem... I'm confused and weary and scared. Getting up at 4.a.m. to drive home, waking up smelling of cigarettes and other smoke, dehydrated and hungover and sore. I mean, when you put it that way, I honestly can't tell if it sounds like a good thing or a bad thing.
Part of me is elated. There's a part of me that's always been a bad girl, who is freest like this, who would love nothing more than to dive into the deep end. Wherever and whenever. And it takes my mind off everything else, and that feels so good.
Part of me is terrified by the whole thing. Part of me says, dangerous behavior, things that can hurt, you are too old for this, and there's too much that you need to do to get back to healthy. (And who would want you anyway, for more than a night?) Bad voices, negative voices.
Part of me is so discouraged and lost. I feel like everything that I do starts out positive and ends in failures, large or small. You can say that's wrong.. but there is some truth to it.
I can't seem to get a perspective on anything, and there's no one I can really talk to about it, who I really feel comfortable talking to all of it about. I don't know what to do.
I'm sad and discouraged, and I can't seem to keep some sort of even mood.
On the other hand, there's this weird kind of elation from the reintroduction of other people into my life.
And on yet another hand... this is an octopus kind of problem... I'm confused and weary and scared. Getting up at 4.a.m. to drive home, waking up smelling of cigarettes and other smoke, dehydrated and hungover and sore. I mean, when you put it that way, I honestly can't tell if it sounds like a good thing or a bad thing.
Part of me is elated. There's a part of me that's always been a bad girl, who is freest like this, who would love nothing more than to dive into the deep end. Wherever and whenever. And it takes my mind off everything else, and that feels so good.
Part of me is terrified by the whole thing. Part of me says, dangerous behavior, things that can hurt, you are too old for this, and there's too much that you need to do to get back to healthy. (And who would want you anyway, for more than a night?) Bad voices, negative voices.
Part of me is so discouraged and lost. I feel like everything that I do starts out positive and ends in failures, large or small. You can say that's wrong.. but there is some truth to it.
I can't seem to get a perspective on anything, and there's no one I can really talk to about it, who I really feel comfortable talking to all of it about. I don't know what to do.
Friday, July 13, 2012
This is not all right.
I could list the good things today. The vertigo is not so bad. J's AP scores. Most of a good day. Until it stopped being good.
And it didn't stop being good for any real reason of importance. Just tired and annoyed and probably low blood sugar, and, BANG, there I am, back to hell. And once I tip over that point, there is no fixing it. I've tried. Talked to people. Did something nice for someone. Ate. I wonder if it would make any sense to go to the gym at this time? When I've already been today?
I don't know what to do. I want so badly to have someone wrap their arms around me and hold me and tell me that everything is going to be all right. Even if it's not true. Even if it's only about this one moment. I want my mother. I want... someone. I want to be in England a lifetime ago with John, when it seemed like anything was possible. I want to be sitting on the couch with Michael, curled against him, watching TV and sleeping. In England again, a lifetime ago. I want to not feel so damaged and alone. I want to have just one problem that I can hand to someone else to solve.
I should go to bed. There is no point to this circle of grief and anger and despair. It's nothing but awful, and I don't know how to stop it. I can't go back on the antidepressants. There's no point. I don't know if it would even help.
At some point, you realize that there aren't an infinite number of years to make everything right. You can't start over again and again infinitely.
I can still see the lines of my wedding ring on my finger.
And it didn't stop being good for any real reason of importance. Just tired and annoyed and probably low blood sugar, and, BANG, there I am, back to hell. And once I tip over that point, there is no fixing it. I've tried. Talked to people. Did something nice for someone. Ate. I wonder if it would make any sense to go to the gym at this time? When I've already been today?
I don't know what to do. I want so badly to have someone wrap their arms around me and hold me and tell me that everything is going to be all right. Even if it's not true. Even if it's only about this one moment. I want my mother. I want... someone. I want to be in England a lifetime ago with John, when it seemed like anything was possible. I want to be sitting on the couch with Michael, curled against him, watching TV and sleeping. In England again, a lifetime ago. I want to not feel so damaged and alone. I want to have just one problem that I can hand to someone else to solve.
I should go to bed. There is no point to this circle of grief and anger and despair. It's nothing but awful, and I don't know how to stop it. I can't go back on the antidepressants. There's no point. I don't know if it would even help.
At some point, you realize that there aren't an infinite number of years to make everything right. You can't start over again and again infinitely.
I can still see the lines of my wedding ring on my finger.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Fear
I am trying so hard. I am trying so very hard. I am keeping going and putting one foot in front of the other and just going. Trying to make myself feel better. Trying to make myself healthier. Trying to make myself saner.
But by this time every night, it is always the same. I'm worn down, I'm worn out, I'm sad and angry, and I'm afraid. Afraid that it will always be like this. Afraid of a past I can't reconcile or explain, at least not to the person who mattered. I feel haunted and sad and immobile, and I just don't know what to do.
I'm clutching at straws, the straws of companionship that just might make me feel better for a tiny bit of time. But that's all wrong, too. I'm not the person I was a decade ago. I feel so damaged, and I'm not sure if I can be someone light and fun and attractive. And I don't feel attractive most of the time, although it's coming back. I felt attractive with Tim, because he'd seen me; he'd met me. I wasn't words on a page, putting a best foot forward.
And so what do I do? What is next? How do I make some leap from here?
But by this time every night, it is always the same. I'm worn down, I'm worn out, I'm sad and angry, and I'm afraid. Afraid that it will always be like this. Afraid of a past I can't reconcile or explain, at least not to the person who mattered. I feel haunted and sad and immobile, and I just don't know what to do.
I'm clutching at straws, the straws of companionship that just might make me feel better for a tiny bit of time. But that's all wrong, too. I'm not the person I was a decade ago. I feel so damaged, and I'm not sure if I can be someone light and fun and attractive. And I don't feel attractive most of the time, although it's coming back. I felt attractive with Tim, because he'd seen me; he'd met me. I wasn't words on a page, putting a best foot forward.
And so what do I do? What is next? How do I make some leap from here?
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Circles
I feel like I'm going in circles. Big circles and little circles and ovals and circle things that are not circles. And none of it gets me anywhere. Because, you know, circles.
I think that things settle in my head, and then I remember something that happened, usually some Michael thing, and I get so angry. Especially when I think about how he deliberately stalked me those last months, read everything that I wrote. I feel invaded. And worse than that, it's like when I used to go to England and think that everything was fine, and then later, when I was back here, he'd tell me all the things that were not fine. It's that horrible feeling that you're living in a trap, that reality is nothing like you think it is.
There, that made me cry. I got almost all the way through today without crying. For better or worse. Even though every single thing today has been a giant effort of will.
I just want something to be fun. I want to stop sitting around all the time crying or trying to push myself a little harder to get some work done or pretend that my hip/knee doesn't hurt or that I'm not fucking lonely. That's the thing that I really don't want to admit. I am so lonely. I've been lonely for a long time. Lonely for a companion, for a partner.
But it's so dangerous to think that. So, so dangerous. It leads me down paths that scare me, that feel wrong and creepy, because I don't want a relationship now. I don't think I could bear it, even if there were someone out there offering. And so... well, what's left? Plus of any of the choices, could I handle that crapshoot of trying to find someone, someone safe who is still what I want/need?
What would be better is to forget about it. But I can't seem to do that. I feel so embarrassed and awful even having this conversation with myself, admitting that I just want an adult to pay attention to me, to make me feel like an attractive and desirable person again. I feel like I shouldn't be thinking this, shouldn't be wanting this. That it's too soon and too stupid and that I'm too old for this.
And really believing that doesn't change how I feel.
Circles. Vertigo, and circles.
I think that things settle in my head, and then I remember something that happened, usually some Michael thing, and I get so angry. Especially when I think about how he deliberately stalked me those last months, read everything that I wrote. I feel invaded. And worse than that, it's like when I used to go to England and think that everything was fine, and then later, when I was back here, he'd tell me all the things that were not fine. It's that horrible feeling that you're living in a trap, that reality is nothing like you think it is.
There, that made me cry. I got almost all the way through today without crying. For better or worse. Even though every single thing today has been a giant effort of will.
I just want something to be fun. I want to stop sitting around all the time crying or trying to push myself a little harder to get some work done or pretend that my hip/knee doesn't hurt or that I'm not fucking lonely. That's the thing that I really don't want to admit. I am so lonely. I've been lonely for a long time. Lonely for a companion, for a partner.
But it's so dangerous to think that. So, so dangerous. It leads me down paths that scare me, that feel wrong and creepy, because I don't want a relationship now. I don't think I could bear it, even if there were someone out there offering. And so... well, what's left? Plus of any of the choices, could I handle that crapshoot of trying to find someone, someone safe who is still what I want/need?
What would be better is to forget about it. But I can't seem to do that. I feel so embarrassed and awful even having this conversation with myself, admitting that I just want an adult to pay attention to me, to make me feel like an attractive and desirable person again. I feel like I shouldn't be thinking this, shouldn't be wanting this. That it's too soon and too stupid and that I'm too old for this.
And really believing that doesn't change how I feel.
Circles. Vertigo, and circles.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Bad
It is July 8th. It is almost four months since Michael's death. It is less humid today. My house is a disaster. And I am so depressed that I want to die. Or maybe it's that I feel so ill. Not really sure.
I can't tell what's real. I can't tell if this is how I truly feel and the Cymbalta has been masking it all the time, or whether this is all about withdrawal. Or a combo. It's certainly partly the drugs... my head swims and feels like I want it to fall off, and I'm nauseated and headachy and just pretty crappy-feeling. The only thing that makes me feel better is food, and that's pretty much counter to everything that I'm trying to do here. I want to go to bed and pull the covers over my head and wait this out. I would do it if I knew that there was a finite time... a few days, a week. I've stopped taking it entirely as of today, and that's got to speed this up, because I don't think I can do gradual withdrawal like this. Or I'm not doing it right, also possible. I'm taking fish oil and Benadryl, and next week, when the package comes, I'll try the amino acids. Honestly, I'd try anything in the universe that wasn't another antidepressant at this point.
The stupid thing is that I think I'd be all right if my head didn't feel so bad, and I can't tell whether that's about the drugs (good bet) or just everything else. The trouble is that the whole path starts with Tim. Before then, I was doing ok. But that's when I started weaning off the Cymbalta, plus the whole up and down thing with this so-called... relationship? Friendship? After the beginning teen angst, it's more the combo of the Cymbalta withdrawal and the realizing that sex would actually help me feel a lot better. And that second part, combined with the first, is making me consider a lot of behaviors that may not be at all wise. It's a big internet out there... although it's changed a lot since last I was looking for a friend there.
I am stupid even to think that. Honestly, I was so much better off when I had the year thing in my head.
Also, I think that there's something wrong with Tim. I mean, not disturbing wrong, but either he's really not particularly interested or he's afraid to actually be with me, and either way is not working. If he's not interested, I see no reason for him to keep texting... so there we are. I have invited him to do things, I've practically offered to sleep with him, and I've gotten no response at all. Lots of chat about movies. So either he's afraid of me or being with me, or something else is weird. And I do not need another stray puppy. I really do NOT need another stray puppy.
I'm feeling a little better since I started writing this... I don't know if it's the drugs or too much food or the Tim thing or what, but except for the excruciating head, things almost feel ok.
I can't tell what's real. I can't tell if this is how I truly feel and the Cymbalta has been masking it all the time, or whether this is all about withdrawal. Or a combo. It's certainly partly the drugs... my head swims and feels like I want it to fall off, and I'm nauseated and headachy and just pretty crappy-feeling. The only thing that makes me feel better is food, and that's pretty much counter to everything that I'm trying to do here. I want to go to bed and pull the covers over my head and wait this out. I would do it if I knew that there was a finite time... a few days, a week. I've stopped taking it entirely as of today, and that's got to speed this up, because I don't think I can do gradual withdrawal like this. Or I'm not doing it right, also possible. I'm taking fish oil and Benadryl, and next week, when the package comes, I'll try the amino acids. Honestly, I'd try anything in the universe that wasn't another antidepressant at this point.
The stupid thing is that I think I'd be all right if my head didn't feel so bad, and I can't tell whether that's about the drugs (good bet) or just everything else. The trouble is that the whole path starts with Tim. Before then, I was doing ok. But that's when I started weaning off the Cymbalta, plus the whole up and down thing with this so-called... relationship? Friendship? After the beginning teen angst, it's more the combo of the Cymbalta withdrawal and the realizing that sex would actually help me feel a lot better. And that second part, combined with the first, is making me consider a lot of behaviors that may not be at all wise. It's a big internet out there... although it's changed a lot since last I was looking for a friend there.
I am stupid even to think that. Honestly, I was so much better off when I had the year thing in my head.
Also, I think that there's something wrong with Tim. I mean, not disturbing wrong, but either he's really not particularly interested or he's afraid to actually be with me, and either way is not working. If he's not interested, I see no reason for him to keep texting... so there we are. I have invited him to do things, I've practically offered to sleep with him, and I've gotten no response at all. Lots of chat about movies. So either he's afraid of me or being with me, or something else is weird. And I do not need another stray puppy. I really do NOT need another stray puppy.
I'm feeling a little better since I started writing this... I don't know if it's the drugs or too much food or the Tim thing or what, but except for the excruciating head, things almost feel ok.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Anger
It's all I can feel right now.
A whole list of angry.
At Michael, and we don't have to go through the reasons.
At temporary guy, because I tasted happy for a minute and realized how much I missed it.
At familyperson, for being so damn irresponsible in so many ways.
At myself, for not being able to deal with this with more grace.
At life, for dealing me this. I can't see the way out right now. I'm trying; I really am. Probably not hard enough. But I want to scream and cry and say how not fair it all is. All while knowing that it is going to do no good at all, just make me feel worse, because I'm not even good at wallowing in self-pity.
And I wish my missing kitties would come home, and I blame everyone for that.
A whole list of angry.
At Michael, and we don't have to go through the reasons.
At temporary guy, because I tasted happy for a minute and realized how much I missed it.
At familyperson, for being so damn irresponsible in so many ways.
At myself, for not being able to deal with this with more grace.
At life, for dealing me this. I can't see the way out right now. I'm trying; I really am. Probably not hard enough. But I want to scream and cry and say how not fair it all is. All while knowing that it is going to do no good at all, just make me feel worse, because I'm not even good at wallowing in self-pity.
And I wish my missing kitties would come home, and I blame everyone for that.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
All about the weird
So I went to a meetup with my old friend and his new girlfriend, and towards the end, he texts me. I was really ready to leave anyway, so I'm thinking, maybe chance for some fun, and I cut out of there. Offer to come over. He says, too much of a mess, what about tomorrow? I say, busy tomorrow until late afternoon/early evening. After some other interplay, turns out that he has a buddy coming over and can't do tomorrow (then why the hell ask?). Then he says, wish he'd known that I was going to be in Rochester. And then we proceed to have pretty boring text conversation, none of which includes that parts that I'm really interested, like I would really like physical contact with an attractive man, and I don't care so much about the rest.
And so I feel less rejected but far more annoyed. What the hell does this guy want? I don't see how many more positive signs I could give him short of telling him to come here and fuck me. Which I suppose I'd be willing to do if it got me what I wanted. But mostly I just feel annoyed and bored. I feel like I've invited him to do things again and again with not much response. I can't work it out. I'm not sure that I even want to. Now that I feel a lot less pissed off and hurt (kind of magically so), I pretty much just want to get back to where I was. Working out. Being motivated to do things. Not being all tied up in this silliness. Maybe I can stay that way?
At any rate, for the moment, I feel like I have my balance back.
And so I feel less rejected but far more annoyed. What the hell does this guy want? I don't see how many more positive signs I could give him short of telling him to come here and fuck me. Which I suppose I'd be willing to do if it got me what I wanted. But mostly I just feel annoyed and bored. I feel like I've invited him to do things again and again with not much response. I can't work it out. I'm not sure that I even want to. Now that I feel a lot less pissed off and hurt (kind of magically so), I pretty much just want to get back to where I was. Working out. Being motivated to do things. Not being all tied up in this silliness. Maybe I can stay that way?
At any rate, for the moment, I feel like I have my balance back.
The box
When Michael was alive, when things were worst, I used to imagine this different reality, this world where I had this person who loved me in the way that wanted, who made me a cup of tea and ran his fingers through my hair, who caught me up in his arms and laughed, where everything was joyful.
After Michael died, I let go of that. I put that aside. I said to myself, that dream is not for you, certainly not now. It's not time to look for that partner; it's time to get healthy again. And I was all right with that. It felt peaceful. It was easiest to think about things that way, putting it away, putting it on hold, focusing on me.
These last two weeks destroyed all that. Absolutely shattered it, and I can't figure out how to get back there. I sit here, and I'm not unhappy, not really. Things to do, the weather is ok, I feel all right... but my heart is aching, and it's because once again, I can see that utterly different reality, where I'm sitting here waiting for him to drop by, anticipating. And he comes in, and wraps his arms around me, and we can't keep our hands off each other, but we do, because there are other things to do... and so on, until at the end of the day we're in bed, wrapped around each other, waking up together, making breakfast... and then he goes home, because we both need down time, alone time, but this time will happen again, and soon.
I need to put this idea back away, back in the box that goes under the bed, prettily wrapped up for another day, a year from now maybe, when my life is back together. But I don't want to put it away. I want him to call, or I want something to work with someone else; I want that happiness, even though I know with every bone in my body that this is not the time, that I cannot, cannot deal with this.
It has to go away. I have to take that dream, and put it in a box, a shiny green box. Then I need to wrap it in pink flowered paper, and tie curly ribbon around it, curl the end. Maybe the holographic ribbon that I got for the kids. And then a big bow, and some silk flowers. So I'll know that it's there, know that it's beautiful, and know that I don't have to look at it right away.
After Michael died, I let go of that. I put that aside. I said to myself, that dream is not for you, certainly not now. It's not time to look for that partner; it's time to get healthy again. And I was all right with that. It felt peaceful. It was easiest to think about things that way, putting it away, putting it on hold, focusing on me.
These last two weeks destroyed all that. Absolutely shattered it, and I can't figure out how to get back there. I sit here, and I'm not unhappy, not really. Things to do, the weather is ok, I feel all right... but my heart is aching, and it's because once again, I can see that utterly different reality, where I'm sitting here waiting for him to drop by, anticipating. And he comes in, and wraps his arms around me, and we can't keep our hands off each other, but we do, because there are other things to do... and so on, until at the end of the day we're in bed, wrapped around each other, waking up together, making breakfast... and then he goes home, because we both need down time, alone time, but this time will happen again, and soon.
I need to put this idea back away, back in the box that goes under the bed, prettily wrapped up for another day, a year from now maybe, when my life is back together. But I don't want to put it away. I want him to call, or I want something to work with someone else; I want that happiness, even though I know with every bone in my body that this is not the time, that I cannot, cannot deal with this.
It has to go away. I have to take that dream, and put it in a box, a shiny green box. Then I need to wrap it in pink flowered paper, and tie curly ribbon around it, curl the end. Maybe the holographic ribbon that I got for the kids. And then a big bow, and some silk flowers. So I'll know that it's there, know that it's beautiful, and know that I don't have to look at it right away.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Serendipity
I am so angry with myself, that I could be so foolish after so much time. Not that I chose to see someone, fell for the line, if that's what it was, but that I just know that if there were only a message, I'd be all happy again. And there we go, hopping down the bunny trail. But at the end of the trail is the same old story, valuing myself so little that I settle for whatever I can have.
I don't regret the loss of this particular man, since, after all, without running him down, most of what he had going for him was availability and chemistry. But, oh, I do regret that dizzying happiness that you get from those first moments with someone that fits. It's been so long... it's been since John, and that was a lifetime ago. I had forgotten how good it feels, and it's hard not to be hunting for that, thinking, where could I find that again now? Right now?
I am angry, too, that I believed in the moment of serendipity, that this happy coincidence of events could have given me both a new carpet and a friend with benefits. Two things that I thought were a long way off. It seems like a ludicrous thing to say, but it was like that for a moment, all those nights lying in bed with Michael, eying that stain on the ceiling, wondering if there was still a water leak... the surprising coincidence of the raining ceiling, just after the room had been fixed... the carpet that I so wanted to replace, because I couldn't bear the memory of the times that I tried to clean it... the mattress for my son, and the stunning surprise of a man who seemed to be flirting with me from moment one, but not in a creepy way. It seemed like a gift of happiness, like... yeah, like someone watching out for me, and for one second I believed in that ghost.
And now... it's like taunting a kid with candy. It's like the things that my mother used to say... "I thought about taking you to this, but I didn't." Worse than if you'd never believed that there was a possibility. I know that I'll get back there, but right now, I'd give a lot for none of this to have happened at all. To be back to the flashes of contentment that came from getting my life organized, from things being simple, from things being all right. Nothing shiny, but nothing awful, either.
This will fade. I won't care about it soon, and my therapist is right in that what I probably need is more candy, not less... that with a few more stabs at this, it will seem like just another thing. But it's not so easy to find these things. Not when you're trying to value yourself at the same time.
I know I wrote this before, but it's just that I thought for a second that I was going to get to be happy for a while. I am so angry. I am so resentful. I feel like I've put in my time, and that it's my turn. Isn't it?
I don't regret the loss of this particular man, since, after all, without running him down, most of what he had going for him was availability and chemistry. But, oh, I do regret that dizzying happiness that you get from those first moments with someone that fits. It's been so long... it's been since John, and that was a lifetime ago. I had forgotten how good it feels, and it's hard not to be hunting for that, thinking, where could I find that again now? Right now?
I am angry, too, that I believed in the moment of serendipity, that this happy coincidence of events could have given me both a new carpet and a friend with benefits. Two things that I thought were a long way off. It seems like a ludicrous thing to say, but it was like that for a moment, all those nights lying in bed with Michael, eying that stain on the ceiling, wondering if there was still a water leak... the surprising coincidence of the raining ceiling, just after the room had been fixed... the carpet that I so wanted to replace, because I couldn't bear the memory of the times that I tried to clean it... the mattress for my son, and the stunning surprise of a man who seemed to be flirting with me from moment one, but not in a creepy way. It seemed like a gift of happiness, like... yeah, like someone watching out for me, and for one second I believed in that ghost.
And now... it's like taunting a kid with candy. It's like the things that my mother used to say... "I thought about taking you to this, but I didn't." Worse than if you'd never believed that there was a possibility. I know that I'll get back there, but right now, I'd give a lot for none of this to have happened at all. To be back to the flashes of contentment that came from getting my life organized, from things being simple, from things being all right. Nothing shiny, but nothing awful, either.
This will fade. I won't care about it soon, and my therapist is right in that what I probably need is more candy, not less... that with a few more stabs at this, it will seem like just another thing. But it's not so easy to find these things. Not when you're trying to value yourself at the same time.
I know I wrote this before, but it's just that I thought for a second that I was going to get to be happy for a while. I am so angry. I am so resentful. I feel like I've put in my time, and that it's my turn. Isn't it?
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Not ready yet, I think....
So I think that I've demonstrated to myself that I'm really not emotionally able to deal appropriately with the menfolks yet.
After Michael died, I promised myself that I would not even think about a relationship for a full year. And then coincidence happened... the water leak, and the guy who came with it, and the sheer novelty of someone being interested. It made me really happy in that infatuated kind of way that is the best part of new things, where you feel a little giddy and a little silly and so on. It was so great to feel that way after so very long, and to feel really attracted to someone. So very many years since that's really been the case.
So he came here, and we drank wine, andI' the results were pretty inevitable, honestly. No regrets there. And I felt, again, so stupidly happy. Dazed with happy. We had the "I am not interested in anything serious" conversation. I'm really not, not at all, and this person seems unlikely to be the person who would be the next serious person (if there is one). When he got home, he texted me, and we talked about movies and music, and it all seemed nice.
But that was Sunday. And I stayed dazed and happy through Wednesday afternoon... and then it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't heard from him. So I texted him, after some debate, and he was busy but nice... but I thought that he'd text me tonight. We have nothing planned for the weekend. And all day I've felt nauseated and anxious. It's nearly 8:30 now, and my expectation is that I won't hear from him. I am fretting and unhappy and going over everything that he said in my head.
I know that I'm being absurd. This is about someone I don't even care about, who I'm just very physically attracted to. Someone who is in no way a match for me. Someone who basically I just want to spend a little more time playing around with.
It's his turn. I'm writing this off for the moment. I have dinner with Jack on Saturday... something I almost didn't even accept because I was fretting about this. Whatever way this all turns out, it's clearly not worth the agitation and the unhappy bits. It's too much like the bad parts of being a teen again. I think it's time for me to be focusing more on going to the gym and less on other kinds of sport, because I've demonstrated to myself with crystal clarity that I can't handle it.
I am mad at myself for letting this bother me so much. I think it's just that the happy felt so damn good for a little while, and I resent like hell that it seems to be gone.
After Michael died, I promised myself that I would not even think about a relationship for a full year. And then coincidence happened... the water leak, and the guy who came with it, and the sheer novelty of someone being interested. It made me really happy in that infatuated kind of way that is the best part of new things, where you feel a little giddy and a little silly and so on. It was so great to feel that way after so very long, and to feel really attracted to someone. So very many years since that's really been the case.
So he came here, and we drank wine, andI' the results were pretty inevitable, honestly. No regrets there. And I felt, again, so stupidly happy. Dazed with happy. We had the "I am not interested in anything serious" conversation. I'm really not, not at all, and this person seems unlikely to be the person who would be the next serious person (if there is one). When he got home, he texted me, and we talked about movies and music, and it all seemed nice.
But that was Sunday. And I stayed dazed and happy through Wednesday afternoon... and then it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't heard from him. So I texted him, after some debate, and he was busy but nice... but I thought that he'd text me tonight. We have nothing planned for the weekend. And all day I've felt nauseated and anxious. It's nearly 8:30 now, and my expectation is that I won't hear from him. I am fretting and unhappy and going over everything that he said in my head.
I know that I'm being absurd. This is about someone I don't even care about, who I'm just very physically attracted to. Someone who is in no way a match for me. Someone who basically I just want to spend a little more time playing around with.
It's his turn. I'm writing this off for the moment. I have dinner with Jack on Saturday... something I almost didn't even accept because I was fretting about this. Whatever way this all turns out, it's clearly not worth the agitation and the unhappy bits. It's too much like the bad parts of being a teen again. I think it's time for me to be focusing more on going to the gym and less on other kinds of sport, because I've demonstrated to myself with crystal clarity that I can't handle it.
I am mad at myself for letting this bother me so much. I think it's just that the happy felt so damn good for a little while, and I resent like hell that it seems to be gone.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Midnight in Boston
Back in my unexpectedly fancy hotel suite, looking out at the lights on the Charles. It's probably 30 years since I've been here, but the feeling of Boston never changes. It's not home to me in the way that New York City is, but there's still that familiarity, that piece of me that still belongs here.
Belongs here, belongs with the wonderful friend with whom I had dinner... but then, alone, waiting for the bus in the rain, there's time to think again, and none of my thoughts are happy.
For starters, I don't want to go to this conference. It would be more accurate to say that I'm frightened to go. There are people who will be here who are part of a long-ago past, when I was a rising star in this field. People who I haven't seen in 15 years, people who probably won't remember me... or if they do, it may not be in a good way. It's a small academic world, and malice travels faster than truth. Of course, I type that, and it seems more than a little absurd. But you know how it is, you know you've heard something about that person, and you can't remember quite what, but you look at them a little differently...
Plus of course, there's my future employment opportunity, the fantastic contract that existed for one brief moment and then didn't. But perhaps will. Or not. And the bridges that I might or might not have burned with my other publisher. There's just nothing like feeling like you're going to be in a room of people who dislike you or are suspicious of you to just make you feel totally creeped out. And that's everything that I feel about this.
When I was sitting at the bus station, I wanted to write about Michael and grief and walking around wanting to scream, to say, look at me! There has been this tragedy, and no one can see it! I can't even bear to think about that now, and the reality it that tomorrow, the next few days, is all about pretending that tragedy never happened.
I don't know how I will bear it.
I will, of course. One foot in front of the other. Perhaps this will be my last conference. Perhaps it will all fall together in some better way, some unexpected way that will make this all right.
I can't see the future. It's as hazy as the moon tonight.
Belongs here, belongs with the wonderful friend with whom I had dinner... but then, alone, waiting for the bus in the rain, there's time to think again, and none of my thoughts are happy.
For starters, I don't want to go to this conference. It would be more accurate to say that I'm frightened to go. There are people who will be here who are part of a long-ago past, when I was a rising star in this field. People who I haven't seen in 15 years, people who probably won't remember me... or if they do, it may not be in a good way. It's a small academic world, and malice travels faster than truth. Of course, I type that, and it seems more than a little absurd. But you know how it is, you know you've heard something about that person, and you can't remember quite what, but you look at them a little differently...
Plus of course, there's my future employment opportunity, the fantastic contract that existed for one brief moment and then didn't. But perhaps will. Or not. And the bridges that I might or might not have burned with my other publisher. There's just nothing like feeling like you're going to be in a room of people who dislike you or are suspicious of you to just make you feel totally creeped out. And that's everything that I feel about this.
When I was sitting at the bus station, I wanted to write about Michael and grief and walking around wanting to scream, to say, look at me! There has been this tragedy, and no one can see it! I can't even bear to think about that now, and the reality it that tomorrow, the next few days, is all about pretending that tragedy never happened.
I don't know how I will bear it.
I will, of course. One foot in front of the other. Perhaps this will be my last conference. Perhaps it will all fall together in some better way, some unexpected way that will make this all right.
I can't see the future. It's as hazy as the moon tonight.
Monday, May 21, 2012
A story of the past
When I was 17, I fell in love. Not with a man, but with a person and a
lifestyle and with the idea of belonging to it.
I think that we’re all looking for ourselves at that age,
who to be, how to be. I see that in my
kids, Caitlin with her friends and the changes in who she wants to be from day
to day, defining herself as “I’m the kind of person who _____”, Jonathan with
his style and his shades and his attitudes.
I wanted to be… I don’t even know now, but I think that I’ve always
wanted to be the kid that I would have been if we’d stayed in Connecticut
rather than moving to rural Maine when I was 12.
I had two friends in school, Jacquie and Chris. Brother and sister, a little younger than
me. Their father owned the hardware
store in town, and that was pretty much all I knew about their family
background, until it surfaced that their mother lived in Boston. I don’t even remember how it came about any
more, but I was invited to take the bus down to Boston with them, to stay with
their mother.
And so I did, of course, and entered a world that I wanted
with all my being. Their mother, Suzy,
was twice divorced by then, with another child, an adorable boy of 6 or 7. And she was magic. Not conventionally pretty, but the kind of
woman that men love, petite and funny and possessed of a deep, sexy voice that
made anything seem possible. She was fun.
She drank vodka martinis from a bottle that she kept in the freezer, and
let me drink them, too. We took picnics
to the Mount Auburn Cemetery, across the street from her lovely Cambridge
apartment. We ate dinners of lambs
tongues on the roof of the building, and we watched the stars. We went to church at this wonderful place
where everyone knew everyone, and we helped with the breakfast that was served
after the service, and I was instantly part of it all. I loved her, and I wanted to be her, and I
wanted to have that life and her style and everything.
I became instantly involved in the saga of Hugh, the man she’d
been dating for a while, and her new interest, Bill, a lawyer at the
prestigious firm at which she was a paralegal.
We all made plans, me and Suzy and the kids and later Bill, for
vacations in Maine and what we would do at Christmas. And I was home.
I started college that fall, and Suzy would write me long.
long letters, and Bill would talk to me on the phone and give me advice and
debate with me about constitutional law, and they were my alternate family, the
family that I wanted to have. I would
come stay for a few days every time I headed home or to school. I hadn’t yet learned that guests and fish
smell after three days, but I always came laden with gifts and happiness and
love.
Until it all unraveled in the wink of an eye.
I can’t even remember the timing of it any more. It must have been the end of my freshman
year. And I’d come to stay at Suzy’s on
my way back to Maine. And we were having
dinner, and drinking martinis, and she said, I love you, but I have to ask you
to leave. I was, probably first of all,
drunk, as was she. And then
astonished. And then wounded. In retrospect, I think sitting down and
having some kind of conversation about this might have made sense, but I did
what was characteristic of me at the time; I walked out the door, and I never
spoke to her again.
I remember that night so clearly… or as clearly as is
possible, given years and vodka.
Bundling all my stuff into my crumbling ’65 VW bug and driving over to
Bill’s… Boston is a nightmare to drive in anyway, especially if you don’t know
it well, and you’re upset and drunk. I
kept accidentally finding the Old North Church, adding a bit of surreal to the
whole thing. I spent the night at Bill’s,
and the next day, I went home to Maine, and I never spoke to either of them
again.
And my heart broke, more than a little, because I loved
them, and more than that, I loved who I was with them, I loved that world.
A different person might have asked, point-blank, for an
explanation, and honestly, looking back, I don’t know why I didn’t. I tried to get some kind of answer from her
kids, later, but again, it was never a point-blank thing, and the answers were
kind of “she’s like that.” Or things
that made no sense to me. My friendship
with them, never central, waned as high school things do.
I’m ten years older now than Suzy was then, and I can try to
make some guesses about what happened… how hard it would be to pet a puppy and
suddenly find that you’d adopted it.
That seems most likely to me. I
don’t know how I would have dealt with this, honestly, except that I would not have allowed a drunken 18 year old
to get into a car. It would have been hard
for me to say, you are spending too much time here. Or whatever the real problem was, since I
have no true idea.
People are different. I was an 18 year old damaged and needy
kid. She was a 39 year old alcoholic and
probably very damaged woman. We were
both pretty damn self-absorbed… at different stages and for different
reasons. I find, writing about it, that
I’ve lost most of the curiosity and hurt about what happened, but I still mourn
the loss of that world, the world that I wanted, the world that I felt like I
fit into so neatly. And those people,
sparkly and kind and who I wanted to be.
I’ve never been back to Boston since then.
There are only three times in my life when I’ve felt that
instant sense of slotting into somewhere I belonged; one very recently, which
is what made this all come to my mind.
Once with John, the man I loved so much and couldn’t get over for so
long. And this time, in Boston, so long
ago. I don’t know what any of it means,
honestly, except that it makes me afraid of my instinct, and afraid, too, of
being that homeless puppy again, wanting so much to be loved and ruining
everything with your need.
And on a side note, I
did some Googling. Bill, sadly, died
five years ago of leukemia. Just before
his only daughter graduated from high school.
He stayed in Boston, still owned the Beacon hill building that he had
when I knew him, but moved to Brookline at some point and also changed law
firms. He was a wonderful man, and I am sad
to know that he’s no longer here. His
daughter loves Scotland and ice hockey and looks a little like him.
Suzy moved to the Midwest
years ago and married again… I knew this before. She’s in her 70s now, and there’s not much
record, although she doesn’t seem to have been at the wedding of her son, the
tiny boy of my memory who is now tall and gorgeous and lives in Massachusetts.
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