When the Professor and I were dating, his younger brother, Junior, had a series of girlfriends. Junior was edgy, creative, hilarious. I think he was searching for something -- someone -- lighter than himself. Every year at Christmas, he brought one home with him, and every year, his mother had a stocking for the girl, one with her name embroidered on it. Every year, there was a new stocking, a new name. I don't know what happened to the old ones. Maybe they were tossed in the attic, gathering dust. Maybe they were thrown out.
I still think of the Professor's mom as my mother-in-law. She hasn't acknowledged me once since the Professor told her that he wanted a divorce. Neither has Junior. Not once. You would think that I was a serial killer, or a serial cheater. You woud think that I left him. But maybe they hated me all those years. Maybe they breathed a sigh of relief, followed by many more sighs and much more relief, when the Professor actually left me. But I didn't breath a sigh of relief when I lost them. To me, that is what it was. And is. Loss.
I wanted to tell someone a story the other day, and it started with the Professor's father. I opened my mouth to speak, and realized I didn't know what to call him. My ex-father-in-law? He died before the Professor left me, and so that didn't seem right. And I had loved him, and I thought that he at least liked something in me, some fire he saw, however much he worried it would burn out his son. I couldn't tell my story, because I couldn't figure out the words around that. So I started, and stumbled, and thought of the Professor and his family, which had been my family. And I found that I couldn't think of anything else, so I stopped talking. There was simply no way to begin that felt adequate.
I once thought I knew where things stood. I once believed that I knew people, and that they knew me, and loved me anyway. I have learned much in these last sixteen months, mostly about myself. About others, I have learned that I did not know, that I did not see and certainly did not not understand. I was, probably, simply wrong, about many things. About many people. That knowledge, and the painful learning of it, has made me someone I was not. Someone stronger, someone scarred, someone deeper, someone hurt. I am brave, and I am terrified. I am changed, in both good ways and bad. I can never be unchanged.
I was wrong about what it means to love someone. Love goes deeper and longer than I ever knew. Love is less selfish than I once was. Love treads more carefully than I did. And love can bear you up against intolerable pain and make you stronger than you dream possible. But everyone does not love the way that I do. Or, at least, everyone I love does not love me that way back. But still, I am not a stocking that can be replaced or tucked away to gather dust in the attic. You can pack me up and leave me up there, but I am not. I am not fungible. I am deeply flawed, I know. But so are we all. And there is beauty and kindness --something uniquely worthy of love, tenderness, loyalty -- in me. In you. I may not know yours yet, but it is there.
I don't know yet what it all means. I don't know what to do with all that I have learned, or how much more I will heal, or in what way the breaks and scars might make me even better -- or worse. I want hope for the best, although I have no idea what that might bring. But I know I have to hope, because I yearn for more. Despite, and because of, everything. More.
1.29.2012
1.22.2012
Auld Lang Syne
It's been more than two months since I blogged, and I feel guilty about that. It's not that I've been too busy, but that I haven't known what to say. I feel sort of like I'm writing a chagrined letter to a friend I've neglected.
The last two months have been full. There was a trip to Nuevo Vallarta, Mexico, for Thanksgiving. I found getting my SCUBA certification to be more challenging than I anticipated. There is something about it -- the water pressure of being so deep, the ceasing of all sound but your own air bubbles, the feeling about being completely isolated from the divers hovering only five feet away -- that makes me want to rip the regulator out of my mouth and scream. With each dive, it takes me some time to get past that, to breathe through the anxiety and relax. And my friends helped me do just that. I made the trip, and the dives, with my dear friend, Julie. I won't get into all of the gory details here, but long story short, as they say, I came pretty close to not getting certified. Julie, who already was certified and who fears nothing -- who cannot possibly understand my own anxiety -- supported and cheered and pushed me all the way. Julie is the kind of friend who takes your or leaves you on true terms. She is one of a kind. Love it or hate it, she will tell you her truth. We all need a friend like that. I think it helps me see myself in a way I would not, otherwise. And it pushes me to be a better person, to be less afraid, or to at least walk head-on into my fears, knowing that they won't destroy me.
Christmas came upon me suddenly, which I suppose is probably best. I didn't spend much time this year feeling very festive, but that also meant I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about the holidays, missing the sweet joy of sharing the holidays with the Professor, and all of the excitement that always went with that. And so I made it through the holidays mostly unscathed. But I will admit I thought of the Professor a great deal. I missed him.
Things have been kind of dark and blurry since then. I chalk it up, at least partly, to generic post-holiday blues. I think it's pretty normal to feel down after the holidays, especially in a cold, snowy city like Chicago. But I also think it's another transition phase for me. I kept pretty busy last year, kept myself focused on concrete things I had to look forward to, a new job, parties, vacations, etc. Even the divorce itself was something to focus on. I had an objective: getting through the divorce in a dignified way, not doing anything to give the Professor a reason to think he made the right decision in leaving me.
Now that it's over, and the holidays are done, I feel kind of lost. The challenge, however it might be described -- getting through the divorce, handling it in the best way I could, being the best person I could, giving the Professor every opportunity not to go through with it -- seems over. And what is left?
I don't know. That's the answer.
Things -- life -- haven't turned out how I expected them to. I did get what I wanted out of this last year, or at least what I could have hoped to dig from the remains of a decimated life, which is to say that I recovered some dignity, I put myself back together as best I could, I didn't kill myself, and I kept moving on, waking up each day, pushing myself, doing what scares me. What choice did I have?
And that question keeps coming back to me, because 'what choice do I have' is a fine way to get through a tragedy, but it's no way to get through a life. Lately, I feel a little stuck there, like I'm treading water. Where do I move on from here? Honestly, I want what I had, or thought I had: love, companionship, friendship, acceptance. But the thought of going through it all again, meeting someone, learning to know someone, sharing myself with someone (which part of me feels must be a completely screwed up and unlovable someone, or else I would not have been left), seems impossible, like an unmoveable weight on my chest, bearing me down so that I cannot breathe. If the person who knew you most in the world -- the person who knew all of your weaknesses and flaws -- could not stand to be with you, how could anyone else ever love you?
Before I met the Professor, I honestly thought my opportunities for life-long love were over. I realize that sounds dramatic. I was only 27 at the time. But I had put myself, and others, through a lot by then already. I sort of knew I was a little screwed up. I doubted anyone could stand me for very long. I actually ran like hell from the Professor. But he eventually wore me down, and I decided we were both equally flawed, and that we were both lucky to find someone to take us unconditionally. The thing is that the more I think about that, the more I recover from the last year and think more objectively about the ten years preceding it, I can't help but recall those feelings. I thought I was done before I met him. I thought he saved me. And I know it shouldn't be true -- I know that my strength and goodness this last year should mean something to me, should be a light of my own future self, shining to show me the way -- but the truth is, I can't help but feel that his leaving me only confirms what I already believed. That I am too screwed up for anyone to properly love.
That makes it hard to move forward on the love front. How can I pretend to be this great, SCUBA diving, hang-gliding, litigation wonder, when I feel like I am such a mess, inside? If the one person who truly knew me -- knew all of my worst habits, saw me at my ugliest and most raw, but also saw my best, my most generous and loving self -- left me, how can anyone else ever love me?
So what is next? What is left? Am I loveable? Will I be alone forever?
I don't know. I can't say yes and I certainly can't say no. Life hasn't turned out as I had imagined it would as a child, and that sort of breaks my heart for my child-self. But there has still been beauty in my life, and wonder, and warmth. I have been so lucky, to have loved so deeply -- and more than once. Perhaps all of the love that I have already had in thirty-five years is more than most people get in a lifetime. I can't argue with that, because I have had some beautiful and intense love. Perhaps that will have to be enough.
The last two months have been full. There was a trip to Nuevo Vallarta, Mexico, for Thanksgiving. I found getting my SCUBA certification to be more challenging than I anticipated. There is something about it -- the water pressure of being so deep, the ceasing of all sound but your own air bubbles, the feeling about being completely isolated from the divers hovering only five feet away -- that makes me want to rip the regulator out of my mouth and scream. With each dive, it takes me some time to get past that, to breathe through the anxiety and relax. And my friends helped me do just that. I made the trip, and the dives, with my dear friend, Julie. I won't get into all of the gory details here, but long story short, as they say, I came pretty close to not getting certified. Julie, who already was certified and who fears nothing -- who cannot possibly understand my own anxiety -- supported and cheered and pushed me all the way. Julie is the kind of friend who takes your or leaves you on true terms. She is one of a kind. Love it or hate it, she will tell you her truth. We all need a friend like that. I think it helps me see myself in a way I would not, otherwise. And it pushes me to be a better person, to be less afraid, or to at least walk head-on into my fears, knowing that they won't destroy me.
Christmas came upon me suddenly, which I suppose is probably best. I didn't spend much time this year feeling very festive, but that also meant I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about the holidays, missing the sweet joy of sharing the holidays with the Professor, and all of the excitement that always went with that. And so I made it through the holidays mostly unscathed. But I will admit I thought of the Professor a great deal. I missed him.
Things have been kind of dark and blurry since then. I chalk it up, at least partly, to generic post-holiday blues. I think it's pretty normal to feel down after the holidays, especially in a cold, snowy city like Chicago. But I also think it's another transition phase for me. I kept pretty busy last year, kept myself focused on concrete things I had to look forward to, a new job, parties, vacations, etc. Even the divorce itself was something to focus on. I had an objective: getting through the divorce in a dignified way, not doing anything to give the Professor a reason to think he made the right decision in leaving me.
Now that it's over, and the holidays are done, I feel kind of lost. The challenge, however it might be described -- getting through the divorce, handling it in the best way I could, being the best person I could, giving the Professor every opportunity not to go through with it -- seems over. And what is left?
I don't know. That's the answer.
Things -- life -- haven't turned out how I expected them to. I did get what I wanted out of this last year, or at least what I could have hoped to dig from the remains of a decimated life, which is to say that I recovered some dignity, I put myself back together as best I could, I didn't kill myself, and I kept moving on, waking up each day, pushing myself, doing what scares me. What choice did I have?
And that question keeps coming back to me, because 'what choice do I have' is a fine way to get through a tragedy, but it's no way to get through a life. Lately, I feel a little stuck there, like I'm treading water. Where do I move on from here? Honestly, I want what I had, or thought I had: love, companionship, friendship, acceptance. But the thought of going through it all again, meeting someone, learning to know someone, sharing myself with someone (which part of me feels must be a completely screwed up and unlovable someone, or else I would not have been left), seems impossible, like an unmoveable weight on my chest, bearing me down so that I cannot breathe. If the person who knew you most in the world -- the person who knew all of your weaknesses and flaws -- could not stand to be with you, how could anyone else ever love you?
Before I met the Professor, I honestly thought my opportunities for life-long love were over. I realize that sounds dramatic. I was only 27 at the time. But I had put myself, and others, through a lot by then already. I sort of knew I was a little screwed up. I doubted anyone could stand me for very long. I actually ran like hell from the Professor. But he eventually wore me down, and I decided we were both equally flawed, and that we were both lucky to find someone to take us unconditionally. The thing is that the more I think about that, the more I recover from the last year and think more objectively about the ten years preceding it, I can't help but recall those feelings. I thought I was done before I met him. I thought he saved me. And I know it shouldn't be true -- I know that my strength and goodness this last year should mean something to me, should be a light of my own future self, shining to show me the way -- but the truth is, I can't help but feel that his leaving me only confirms what I already believed. That I am too screwed up for anyone to properly love.
That makes it hard to move forward on the love front. How can I pretend to be this great, SCUBA diving, hang-gliding, litigation wonder, when I feel like I am such a mess, inside? If the one person who truly knew me -- knew all of my worst habits, saw me at my ugliest and most raw, but also saw my best, my most generous and loving self -- left me, how can anyone else ever love me?
So what is next? What is left? Am I loveable? Will I be alone forever?
I don't know. I can't say yes and I certainly can't say no. Life hasn't turned out as I had imagined it would as a child, and that sort of breaks my heart for my child-self. But there has still been beauty in my life, and wonder, and warmth. I have been so lucky, to have loved so deeply -- and more than once. Perhaps all of the love that I have already had in thirty-five years is more than most people get in a lifetime. I can't argue with that, because I have had some beautiful and intense love. Perhaps that will have to be enough.
11.13.2011
The Cost
I feel like I don't post as often as I should. As I mentioned on a previous post, that is partly because I feel some pressure (internal, external, I don't know) to post things that are meaningful or profound. Who wants to hear the mundane of my daily life? I certainly don't, and I'm almost more certainly interested than anyone else.
So what motivates me to write, when I do? A friend recently said of her own blog that she only writes when her heart is heavy, and that resonated with me. That would explain why my posts are more serious, and often sadder, than I actually am on a day-to-day basis. And it makes sense to me. A heavy heart makes me reflect, and reflection gives me things to share.
My heart is not too heavy tonight, and I have nothing profound to say, but I do have something on my mind. I recently got a new MacBook Air, and the key pad is amazingly easy to type on, so I'm loving that at the moment, although I am still slightly sick over the price tag -- which could have come close to renting a house for my entire family in Hilton Head this summer -- and slightly sick at myself for purchasing something so expensive that I wanted and can use, and which will make travel with a laptop so much easier, but which I did not truly "need."
My financial considerations have changed enormously since the Professor left -- before, when I was working, we regularly spent $400 a week on wine (yes, I am slightly horrified to admit that, and I have no idea where it all went; the cellar, our bellies?). Now, however, other than my regular bills (which, admittedly, aren't small between the mortgage, the dog, parking downtown, student loans, and the list goes on), the occasional dinner with friends, and the wonderful weekends I've been able to share with family here in Chicago, I really spend very little. In a way, getting to know my own budgetary needs has been getting to know myself for the first time as an adult.
It turns out that I like to spend money on my house and doing things, and I love to spend money on those that I love, but I enjoy spending money on little else. It turns out that I despise clothes shopping, even if I can buy a size two. I hate trying things on, and I don't really care much for the clothes themselves. Give me jeans and an Old Navy t-shirt, a hoodie if it's cold, and I am seriously set. I don't need a fancy television, I like my $35 hair cuts and my hair stylist with a pink mohawk. I want to buy my parents dinner, I want to give my nephews something that makes them smile, I want my sister to come and visit me. For me, I have realized that money is only useful to the extent that it buys moments or things I can enjoy with other people. And I am so, so grateful to be able to do that.
I don't often splurge on myself, I don't waste money, and I'm not expensive to keep. Nonetheless, here I sit, feeling guilty about typing on my new, adorably thin MacBook Air, which I kind of hate. Rather than thinking about how cool it is, I just can't let go of how much it cost me.
If only we coud feel the same way about relationships that cost us too much.
10.27.2011
35 Things - Eighteen through Twenty-six
It is taking me entirely too long to get through this list, not because I haven't learned 35 things, but because when you try to distill what you've learned into just 35 things, it's hard to select and articulate the most significant. I keep getting hung up on trying to say something profound, something meaningful -- or at least something hopeful and optimistic. It's not working. So, without much discernment, eighteen through twenty-five -- and, with substantially more thought, and also with humility, twenty-six:
18. I may be scarred, but I am not destroyed. On the other hand, I may not be destroyed, but I am nonetheless damaged. And that makes me afraid, both that no one will be willing to love me again, and that I won't be willing to let them.
19. The best friends provide comic relief, wise ears, stern words, and open arms, all of which are absolutely necessary. Laugh with them, speak to them, listen to them, embrace them.
Thank you to all of my wonderful friends (new and old), and especially to Julie, for giving me all of the above, even (and particularly) when I don't like it, which is when I need it the most.
20. I would rather struggle to be better, to change, than live with ease, blind to my own failings.
21. Wanting to to be better is not even close to enough. Change requires small, excruciating steps, frequently in the wrong direction. It requires daily effort and endurance, and may not be apparent for a long while. I still have a long way to go.
22. I'm not sure I can stop loving someone I have once loved. I can love them less, and in a different way, but I'm just not sure I can stop entirely. And I'm not sure that's something I want to change.
23. Two people can share an experience -- or a love, or a life -- yet experience two entirely different things.
24. Strong, brilliant, otherwise self-possessed women regularly define themselves by the men (or man) in their lives. We mold ourselves to them -- or try. I do it, women I love and admire do it. I'm befuddled.
25. Family, family, family. Aunts, mother, sister, cousins. They have buoyed me through dark times again and again, and this year is no exception. They ground me, they lift me, they infuriate me, they delight me. They push and inspire me to be better, to be more like them. These are the strong women -- and the strong man who will always be thirteen in my mind and a brother in my heart -- who help me define myself. They are my ties, my history, my fabric.
Speaking of strong women, I feel compelled to mention Erin Poston Stone, a classmate and fellow Model Arab Leaguer of mine from Converse, whose husband very recently passed away. Her most recent blog post literally left me in tears this morning, waiting for court and realizing that, if I didn't stop reading immediately, I would be sobbing in front of the judge. After court, I was simply unable to get into the car and drive. Instead, I could only sit in the parking lot at McDonalds to finish reading Erin's post. I read it in its entirety again when I got home from work this evening, and cried for Erin, Cameron, Patrick and their entire family. I also cried for Dr. B, the Professor, and his family. The heart cries for those it loves.
Erin is, and has been, so breathtakingly strong. Her writing is heartwrenching and real. Her experience and her blog posts remind me that I am so lucky. I am surrounded by women who endure and survive much worse than I have ever dreamed of going through, and I am humbled by that.
And so, lesson number twenty-six is that no matter your experience, however devastating it is, someone, somewhere, is almost certainly going through much, much worse -- unimaginably worse -- and they are doing it with grace and beauty. Like Erin.
Erin's blog:
http://stonecancer20.blogspot.com/2011/10/good-man-lost.html
18. I may be scarred, but I am not destroyed. On the other hand, I may not be destroyed, but I am nonetheless damaged. And that makes me afraid, both that no one will be willing to love me again, and that I won't be willing to let them.
19. The best friends provide comic relief, wise ears, stern words, and open arms, all of which are absolutely necessary. Laugh with them, speak to them, listen to them, embrace them.
Thank you to all of my wonderful friends (new and old), and especially to Julie, for giving me all of the above, even (and particularly) when I don't like it, which is when I need it the most.
20. I would rather struggle to be better, to change, than live with ease, blind to my own failings.
21. Wanting to to be better is not even close to enough. Change requires small, excruciating steps, frequently in the wrong direction. It requires daily effort and endurance, and may not be apparent for a long while. I still have a long way to go.
22. I'm not sure I can stop loving someone I have once loved. I can love them less, and in a different way, but I'm just not sure I can stop entirely. And I'm not sure that's something I want to change.
23. Two people can share an experience -- or a love, or a life -- yet experience two entirely different things.
24. Strong, brilliant, otherwise self-possessed women regularly define themselves by the men (or man) in their lives. We mold ourselves to them -- or try. I do it, women I love and admire do it. I'm befuddled.
25. Family, family, family. Aunts, mother, sister, cousins. They have buoyed me through dark times again and again, and this year is no exception. They ground me, they lift me, they infuriate me, they delight me. They push and inspire me to be better, to be more like them. These are the strong women -- and the strong man who will always be thirteen in my mind and a brother in my heart -- who help me define myself. They are my ties, my history, my fabric.
Speaking of strong women, I feel compelled to mention Erin Poston Stone, a classmate and fellow Model Arab Leaguer of mine from Converse, whose husband very recently passed away. Her most recent blog post literally left me in tears this morning, waiting for court and realizing that, if I didn't stop reading immediately, I would be sobbing in front of the judge. After court, I was simply unable to get into the car and drive. Instead, I could only sit in the parking lot at McDonalds to finish reading Erin's post. I read it in its entirety again when I got home from work this evening, and cried for Erin, Cameron, Patrick and their entire family. I also cried for Dr. B, the Professor, and his family. The heart cries for those it loves.
Erin is, and has been, so breathtakingly strong. Her writing is heartwrenching and real. Her experience and her blog posts remind me that I am so lucky. I am surrounded by women who endure and survive much worse than I have ever dreamed of going through, and I am humbled by that.
And so, lesson number twenty-six is that no matter your experience, however devastating it is, someone, somewhere, is almost certainly going through much, much worse -- unimaginably worse -- and they are doing it with grace and beauty. Like Erin.
Erin's blog:
http://stonecancer20.blogspot.com/2011/10/good-man-lost.html
10.09.2011
The Truth Is There Is No Truth
Despite the fact that no one has actually posted a comment on the blog itself, I've received more feedback on the last blog post than on any other post I've written, both in terms of the number of responses and their intensity. It's been an interesting experience of discovery for me, because I didn't anticipate that a post painting me in such a negative light would elicit sympathy, encouragement, and passion.
Many responses have been along the lines of telling me I'm being too hard on myself, everyone has their bad moments, etc. And I get that, I really do. As I said at the end of the post, I know that's not the whole story. As one generous friend said, it's a simplistic narrative. And it is. This blog is. The reality has far more nuance and complexity than my last post -- or any single post taken alone -- can capture.
The point of my last blog post was not that the end of my marriage was entirely my fault, or even mostly my fault. But before I started this blog, I thought long and hard about what I wanted it to be. I could use this as a forum to exact some meaningless, unfulfilling revenge. I could play the victim, rally you to my corner (although, admittedly, most of you are already there). I could say the Professor was terrible with money, emotionally inaccessible, utterly lacking in empathy. I could tell you stories about how the Professor failed me, disappointed me, broke me. And I'm sure I will.
But I have no illusions about the fact that I can also tell you stories about how I failed, disappointed and broke the Professor. I don't mean that I deserved to be left. I don't mean to justify his leaving or anything else he has done since then. I couldn't want to mean that even if I wanted to want it. And I don't want it, because this is all still a story I don't want to read.
But here I am, writing it nonetheless. And, whatever else I do or don't know, I know that no single blog post can completely portray the Professor, or me. No retelling can tell the true story of our relationship. More likely, there simply is no true story, no single, definitive history. And, if there is, it probably cannot be told from my perspective, because my perspective is necessarily limited by the fact that it's mine.
Or maybe that's wrong. Maybe the Professor is a static, uncomplicated and unredeemable character, and my reluctance to accept that reflects an unwillingness to believe that I was taken. But I don't really believe that. I can't, for numerous, complex reasons. And I don't want you to, either. I loved him. I still do. And I have to believe there is something to that, something important and life-altering, even if I don't understand it. Perhaps because it's true. Perhaps because I need it to be true. Probably some of both.
I'd like to say that I have some sort of broad, noble goal for this blog, some profound motivation for the things I write. But I don't. This is just me, living this experience in the most honest and thoughtful way that I can. I will be angry, and I will write fury. I will be sad, and I will write sorrow. I will be selfish, and I will write pity. I will be sorry, and I will write guilt. But, whatever I write, I will try to temper it with awareness of the limitations of my own retelling. I hope you can read it that way, as well.
But I have no illusions about the fact that I can also tell you stories about how I failed, disappointed and broke the Professor. I don't mean that I deserved to be left. I don't mean to justify his leaving or anything else he has done since then. I couldn't want to mean that even if I wanted to want it. And I don't want it, because this is all still a story I don't want to read.
But here I am, writing it nonetheless. And, whatever else I do or don't know, I know that no single blog post can completely portray the Professor, or me. No retelling can tell the true story of our relationship. More likely, there simply is no true story, no single, definitive history. And, if there is, it probably cannot be told from my perspective, because my perspective is necessarily limited by the fact that it's mine.
Or maybe that's wrong. Maybe the Professor is a static, uncomplicated and unredeemable character, and my reluctance to accept that reflects an unwillingness to believe that I was taken. But I don't really believe that. I can't, for numerous, complex reasons. And I don't want you to, either. I loved him. I still do. And I have to believe there is something to that, something important and life-altering, even if I don't understand it. Perhaps because it's true. Perhaps because I need it to be true. Probably some of both.
I'd like to say that I have some sort of broad, noble goal for this blog, some profound motivation for the things I write. But I don't. This is just me, living this experience in the most honest and thoughtful way that I can. I will be angry, and I will write fury. I will be sad, and I will write sorrow. I will be selfish, and I will write pity. I will be sorry, and I will write guilt. But, whatever I write, I will try to temper it with awareness of the limitations of my own retelling. I hope you can read it that way, as well.
9.30.2011
35 Things - Number Seventeen: The Whole Story
You would think one long year would sufficiently exhaust my tears. No. There are still good days and bad days. Don't get me wrong, most days are good -- or at least so filled with work and other commitments that they have room for nothing else. But some days are still very bad. Oddly, now that I don't see or talk to the Professor, I think more about the things I loved, the things I miss, not less. (My therapist says it's "normal.") In his absence, I suppose it's easier to forget the most exquisitely painful moments of the last year and, instead, to recall the sweet moments we shared in the seven years before. Not that they were all sweet. I recall many horrible moments as well, but the moments I recall best involve my being horrible.
I have a special skill for recalling the worst in myself, but that probably has something to do with the fact that my worst is pretty bad. I cannot deny that I am a person of extremes. Like the nursery rhyme says, There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad, she was horrid.
It would certainly be easy to embrace a version of my marriage in which I followed my husband to Chicago, worked at miserable, demoralizing job so that he could pursue his PhD with leisure, financed his every consumable (and expensive) desire, and was left once he secured a position teaching law before 80 new young and admiring students each semester (approximately 54% of which are female, according to statistics). It would be easy to embrace the simple version in which he left (or, rather, did not leave but said he wanted out); began dating immediately, while still living in our house, regularly staying out well past midnight; yelled contemptuously at me to stop crying myself to sleep night after night, as I was keeping him awake; moved into an apartment with two total strangers and slept on a mattress on the floor for months (which apparently was more appealing than living with me); and asked me to nonetheless be available to him for practical and emotional purposes for many months thereafter -- a request I willingly, happily, and heartbreakingly obliged. It would be easy, and those things are all factually true -- and painful to recall. But that is not an accurate rendition of what happened, because it lacks context.
The context is this. I am hard to live with and hard to love. I am sensitive, demanding, bratty, selfish. I am rigid. I can be hysterical. I can be nasty. I can lose my temper, and lose control. I have thrown a remote control across the room, splintering it. (I had to order a new one from Tivo for $50.) I scream. I cry. I do not tolerate dissent. I have been known to bite my hand, literally, when I can't take it anymore, don't know what else to do to release my anger (although, in my defense, rarely).
The day before the Professor proposed, we bought him a new grill for Easter. We assembled it together at home -- precisely the kind of task that brought out my worst, my most rigid and demanding self. For not getting it exactly right, for not being quick enough, I derided him. I degraded him, I dismissed him. I know that much. We had a terrible fight, which I can't precisely recall, but I'm sure it ended with me screaming and sobbing hysterically in bed, as they all did. The next day, he asked me to marry him nonetheless. He hid Easter eggs all over the house, a treasure hunt ending in a fuzzy yellow chick hiding a blue Tiffany box. When I remember that weekend, I remember how I yelled at him over the grill. And he was hiding Easter eggs, a sweet clue to the next egg tucked inside each one.
There are other, equally horrific and shameful memories, and they all share the same theme: I was ugly, I was selfish, I was cruel. I often acted like the Professor's love was assumed and expected, however I treated him, whatever I did.
Perhaps we were never a good fit, perhaps it would not have worked, however perfect I could be -- I don't know, and I never will. But what I do know, what I have come to face over this last year, is that I have a huge hand in the end of my marriage. In a way, I helped to set the end of things into motion before we'd even started. I crushed him.
The last year is not the whole story. It is humiliating and painful in a special way, because it means I have to take some ownership of my marriage and divorce -- to look at myself and cringe -- but, it is true. I shared seven years with the Professor (eight, if you count this last year). I knew him. Despite what those who love me most may want to think, because it's easier, because they love me, because the alternative is complex and, thus, uncomfortable, the Professor is a good person -- a person enthusiastic and hopeful for love -- and for most of the eight years that we shared, he was probably better to me than I often deserved. And so, whatever has happened in the last year that has hurt me, damaged me, destroyed my trust and hope, I have learned this: I, too, am culpable.
It is not the whole story, but the story is not whole without it.
I have a special skill for recalling the worst in myself, but that probably has something to do with the fact that my worst is pretty bad. I cannot deny that I am a person of extremes. Like the nursery rhyme says, There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad, she was horrid.
It would certainly be easy to embrace a version of my marriage in which I followed my husband to Chicago, worked at miserable, demoralizing job so that he could pursue his PhD with leisure, financed his every consumable (and expensive) desire, and was left once he secured a position teaching law before 80 new young and admiring students each semester (approximately 54% of which are female, according to statistics). It would be easy to embrace the simple version in which he left (or, rather, did not leave but said he wanted out); began dating immediately, while still living in our house, regularly staying out well past midnight; yelled contemptuously at me to stop crying myself to sleep night after night, as I was keeping him awake; moved into an apartment with two total strangers and slept on a mattress on the floor for months (which apparently was more appealing than living with me); and asked me to nonetheless be available to him for practical and emotional purposes for many months thereafter -- a request I willingly, happily, and heartbreakingly obliged. It would be easy, and those things are all factually true -- and painful to recall. But that is not an accurate rendition of what happened, because it lacks context.
The context is this. I am hard to live with and hard to love. I am sensitive, demanding, bratty, selfish. I am rigid. I can be hysterical. I can be nasty. I can lose my temper, and lose control. I have thrown a remote control across the room, splintering it. (I had to order a new one from Tivo for $50.) I scream. I cry. I do not tolerate dissent. I have been known to bite my hand, literally, when I can't take it anymore, don't know what else to do to release my anger (although, in my defense, rarely).
The day before the Professor proposed, we bought him a new grill for Easter. We assembled it together at home -- precisely the kind of task that brought out my worst, my most rigid and demanding self. For not getting it exactly right, for not being quick enough, I derided him. I degraded him, I dismissed him. I know that much. We had a terrible fight, which I can't precisely recall, but I'm sure it ended with me screaming and sobbing hysterically in bed, as they all did. The next day, he asked me to marry him nonetheless. He hid Easter eggs all over the house, a treasure hunt ending in a fuzzy yellow chick hiding a blue Tiffany box. When I remember that weekend, I remember how I yelled at him over the grill. And he was hiding Easter eggs, a sweet clue to the next egg tucked inside each one.
There are other, equally horrific and shameful memories, and they all share the same theme: I was ugly, I was selfish, I was cruel. I often acted like the Professor's love was assumed and expected, however I treated him, whatever I did.
Perhaps we were never a good fit, perhaps it would not have worked, however perfect I could be -- I don't know, and I never will. But what I do know, what I have come to face over this last year, is that I have a huge hand in the end of my marriage. In a way, I helped to set the end of things into motion before we'd even started. I crushed him.
The last year is not the whole story. It is humiliating and painful in a special way, because it means I have to take some ownership of my marriage and divorce -- to look at myself and cringe -- but, it is true. I shared seven years with the Professor (eight, if you count this last year). I knew him. Despite what those who love me most may want to think, because it's easier, because they love me, because the alternative is complex and, thus, uncomfortable, the Professor is a good person -- a person enthusiastic and hopeful for love -- and for most of the eight years that we shared, he was probably better to me than I often deserved. And so, whatever has happened in the last year that has hurt me, damaged me, destroyed my trust and hope, I have learned this: I, too, am culpable.
It is not the whole story, but the story is not whole without it.
9.21.2011
Witness
I saw something important tonight.
Walking back to the office after a quick bite, I saw a crowd. Nothing unusual in downtown Chicago. I walked into the crowd, meaning to walk right through. It was a circle of sorts, but people were leaning in towards each other, away from what their heads turned to face -- a young woman being forced to the ground by a man in jeans and a red sweatshirt. I stopped walking, rocked on my feet, and turned half towards her, half away like the others. No one seemed sure what to do, poised between stepping in or walking away.
It was a few seconds before he forced her to the sidewalk on her face, writhing. She kept saying "why?" He pulled handcuffs out of his jeans. Apparently, she'd shop-lifted from H&M. Who knows what she took. She looked like a student, with a back back and lap top bag that had been flung to the street in their struggle.
The entire scuffle probably lasted five seconds and we all dispersed, set into motion when he snapped on the handcuffs and hoisted her to her feet, dragged her back towards the store. I walked away feeling sad, like I'd just seen someone's worst shame, someone's life fall apart.
Walking back to the office after a quick bite, I saw a crowd. Nothing unusual in downtown Chicago. I walked into the crowd, meaning to walk right through. It was a circle of sorts, but people were leaning in towards each other, away from what their heads turned to face -- a young woman being forced to the ground by a man in jeans and a red sweatshirt. I stopped walking, rocked on my feet, and turned half towards her, half away like the others. No one seemed sure what to do, poised between stepping in or walking away.
It was a few seconds before he forced her to the sidewalk on her face, writhing. She kept saying "why?" He pulled handcuffs out of his jeans. Apparently, she'd shop-lifted from H&M. Who knows what she took. She looked like a student, with a back back and lap top bag that had been flung to the street in their struggle.
The entire scuffle probably lasted five seconds and we all dispersed, set into motion when he snapped on the handcuffs and hoisted her to her feet, dragged her back towards the store. I walked away feeling sad, like I'd just seen someone's worst shame, someone's life fall apart.
9.19.2011
35 Things (The Most Important Thing)
I cut off all of my hair. Ok, not all of it, but more than half. I don't know what got into me. I went in for a trim, and as I climbed into the chair and Mallory wrapped a black bib around my neck, I decided to cut it all off. That's not exactly right. I didn't contemplate it, but the words came out of my mouth. She asked, how short, and I said I didn't care. I just wanted something different. I crave something different.
Why do we do that? Do we think changing something physically will change something else? Change our lives? I have done it before, and I bet you have, too. I have cut my hair short, colored it red, gotten a tattoo, pierced my belly button (the only one of the four that I regret). I have lost weight and gained weight and lifted weights. But it hasn't changed me. Although I suppose it reflects something else, something already changing and moving inside, something that wants to stretch and get out, or hide.
Mallory's hair is neon pink, sometimes blue - the unnatural blue of children's food. You might have some trepidation about letting someone with spiky pink hair cut or color yours, but I like talking to her. She makes no judgment (after all, she has spiky pink hair!). Like my therapist, but cheaper. Friday night we got caught up on our love lives -- mine, still a daily process in healing; hers, sadly foundering. Mallory asked me if it's still the first thing I think about when I wake up each morning.
I thought perhaps she was looking for comfort in what may be her own story soon, and I was reluctant to answer. I was also caught off guard. People who know you well don't ask those questions, probably because they hesitate to encourage you to think of the thing they most want you to forget, maybe naively hope you already have. Strangers don't ask such questions because they wouldn't dare. But shampoo and a warm bath towel create parameters that don't apply elsewhere.
I told her I don't wake every day immediately devastated by the loss, the way I once did. But each morning, somewhere between the bed, the dog food bowl, the coffee pot and the shower, I have a thought of him, or of us. It resides under the skin of my consciousness.
That's probably not what she wanted to hear and, frankly, not what I'd want to hear, either. But it's there, and I carry it with me. And perhaps the things I'm doing now -- working 14 hours a day, hang-gliding, cutting my hair, joining a gym for the first time in a decade, getting my scuba-diving certification -- are just a transparent attempt to build a new consciousness, one without him in it. Or perhaps it's just me living my life, grasping it with a new awareness of how abruptly and painfully it could change, of how inconspicuously time can pass without my having done anything I should have done.
(After all, I did waste two years of my life unemployed, when I should have been writing, volunteering, learning, doing things. I didn't know it was wasted, at the time. I thought I was recovering from a hellish job, loving my family of four, then trying to patch it back together. But I didn't know what was in store, and now I know that I can never know. And so I feel compelled to move, to do things that scare me, to excite myself, to go for it, and I get restless when I don't have to be at the office by seven a.m. on a Saturday.)
Probably, it's some of both -- pushing myself away from what was, and racing into the night to find the next adventure because I've already lost too many opportunities through my own complacency.
I once wrote the Professor a letter in which I told him that I wanted to mark the moment, mark the seconds and days we shared in early love, in finding new adventures in making fried egg sandwiches and giggling in bed at night, because I knew that the moment would pass, that one day we would have hard times, we would struggle, and I didn't want us to look back on that moment and say, if only we had known how good it was. I wrote that I wanted us to say we are so lucky that we knew.
Apparently we both forgot that letter, that moment, and what we knew then. We blinked, and five years passed. I resented him for the fact that I hated my job, and later because I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, and so I did nothing. He resented me for being anxious and unhappy with work, and then for still being unhappy without it. He lost respect for me and, to be honest, I think I lost respect for myself, as well. And, in all that time, I did nothing to change it. Or I did, but I was too late. (I won't get into what the Professor did or didn't do, because this isn't really about him and was never meant to be.)
And so, this is the single most important thing I learned in the 35th year of my life: If we let life happen to us, it will, and we will sit and watch, helpless and nothing more.
So, here's to impulsive hair cuts, new jobs, hang-gliding, scuba-diving, planting spring bulbs in September, working 14 hours a day and meeting friends for dinner when the day is done, drafting your own divorce papers, joining a gym and using it, dusting off your bike, getting a new passport, joining a book club, using a power saw, serving dinner at a soup kitchen, being an attorney again, and doing whatever else scares you most.
Why do we do that? Do we think changing something physically will change something else? Change our lives? I have done it before, and I bet you have, too. I have cut my hair short, colored it red, gotten a tattoo, pierced my belly button (the only one of the four that I regret). I have lost weight and gained weight and lifted weights. But it hasn't changed me. Although I suppose it reflects something else, something already changing and moving inside, something that wants to stretch and get out, or hide.
Mallory's hair is neon pink, sometimes blue - the unnatural blue of children's food. You might have some trepidation about letting someone with spiky pink hair cut or color yours, but I like talking to her. She makes no judgment (after all, she has spiky pink hair!). Like my therapist, but cheaper. Friday night we got caught up on our love lives -- mine, still a daily process in healing; hers, sadly foundering. Mallory asked me if it's still the first thing I think about when I wake up each morning.
I thought perhaps she was looking for comfort in what may be her own story soon, and I was reluctant to answer. I was also caught off guard. People who know you well don't ask those questions, probably because they hesitate to encourage you to think of the thing they most want you to forget, maybe naively hope you already have. Strangers don't ask such questions because they wouldn't dare. But shampoo and a warm bath towel create parameters that don't apply elsewhere.
I told her I don't wake every day immediately devastated by the loss, the way I once did. But each morning, somewhere between the bed, the dog food bowl, the coffee pot and the shower, I have a thought of him, or of us. It resides under the skin of my consciousness.
That's probably not what she wanted to hear and, frankly, not what I'd want to hear, either. But it's there, and I carry it with me. And perhaps the things I'm doing now -- working 14 hours a day, hang-gliding, cutting my hair, joining a gym for the first time in a decade, getting my scuba-diving certification -- are just a transparent attempt to build a new consciousness, one without him in it. Or perhaps it's just me living my life, grasping it with a new awareness of how abruptly and painfully it could change, of how inconspicuously time can pass without my having done anything I should have done.
(After all, I did waste two years of my life unemployed, when I should have been writing, volunteering, learning, doing things. I didn't know it was wasted, at the time. I thought I was recovering from a hellish job, loving my family of four, then trying to patch it back together. But I didn't know what was in store, and now I know that I can never know. And so I feel compelled to move, to do things that scare me, to excite myself, to go for it, and I get restless when I don't have to be at the office by seven a.m. on a Saturday.)
Probably, it's some of both -- pushing myself away from what was, and racing into the night to find the next adventure because I've already lost too many opportunities through my own complacency.
I once wrote the Professor a letter in which I told him that I wanted to mark the moment, mark the seconds and days we shared in early love, in finding new adventures in making fried egg sandwiches and giggling in bed at night, because I knew that the moment would pass, that one day we would have hard times, we would struggle, and I didn't want us to look back on that moment and say, if only we had known how good it was. I wrote that I wanted us to say we are so lucky that we knew.
Apparently we both forgot that letter, that moment, and what we knew then. We blinked, and five years passed. I resented him for the fact that I hated my job, and later because I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, and so I did nothing. He resented me for being anxious and unhappy with work, and then for still being unhappy without it. He lost respect for me and, to be honest, I think I lost respect for myself, as well. And, in all that time, I did nothing to change it. Or I did, but I was too late. (I won't get into what the Professor did or didn't do, because this isn't really about him and was never meant to be.)
And so, this is the single most important thing I learned in the 35th year of my life: If we let life happen to us, it will, and we will sit and watch, helpless and nothing more.
So, here's to impulsive hair cuts, new jobs, hang-gliding, scuba-diving, planting spring bulbs in September, working 14 hours a day and meeting friends for dinner when the day is done, drafting your own divorce papers, joining a gym and using it, dusting off your bike, getting a new passport, joining a book club, using a power saw, serving dinner at a soup kitchen, being an attorney again, and doing whatever else scares you most.
9.11.2011
35 Things (Part One)
This post was supposed to be written on my birthday, but I've been thinking about turning 35 and what I've been through in the last year, and I've been overwhelmed by what to say. And now, since I've procrastinated, this post cooincides with other important moments. It's been one year since the Professor told me he wants a divorce. Again, fall is coming, and that time feels close enough to press my cheek against. The season reminds me. I feel like I've been in twin worlds -- this fall, one year removed, and that one. The Professor's brother is getting married in Georgia next weekend. An epic event, to be sure. Although I don't know the details (which feels wrong, like I've forgotten to set the alarm or turn off the coffee pot), I know my brother-in-law, and nothing he does is ordinary. But the celebration will be marked by my father-in-law's absence. Perhaps an empty chair to convey what is missing from the day, from their lives. And, for me, it will also marked by my own absence. Thinking of it, I feel like a ghost, watching my twin life go on without me.
Memories and emotion are close to the surface these days. Some things are hard to write about not just because they are emotional or sad, but because words seem insufficient. This is one of those times.
The last two months have been tough. I billed 275 hours last month, which is a lot and then some. I'm still trying to build credibility at my job, and I'm doing things I'm not very experienced at. Between the hours and the newness, I've been completely overwhelmed, just trying to hang in there and do what has to be done. I still enjoy the people I work with, but I cannot say I enjoy working 80 hours a week. I am just trying to get things done, not do them well.
I can say the same for my personal life. Seven weeks ago, I was divorced. I spent approximately 90 seconds thinking about it that day, before heading into a conference call with a client, and I really haven't had much time to process it since then. Instead I've been assembling furniture at midnight, packing the Professor's things at six a.m. before I head to work for the weekend. Grinding coffee for the morning before I go to bed takes all the energy I can summon. But I do it and fall into bed beside Chase, grateful for those few quiet moments when I can tell her how much I love her.
I don't mean to sound sorry for myself. I have squeezed some lovely moments into the last two months: a weekend visit from Aunt J and her friends; a ten p.m. birthday dinner at Next; my birthday party; and, last weekend, hang-gliding and a great weekend visit with my sister. Yesterday I planted hyacinth bulbs during a break from excising the last of the Professor's things from the house. I dug cool dirt with my fingernails, let earthworms crawl over my hands. I ate a ham sandwich with a fresh tomato from my yard.
I have been lucky. But I am also tired beyond belief. It has been a long two months. But it's been a long year, so it fits.
In many ways, this year was a crisis, and I wonder, have I gotten through it? At times -- most times -- I think I have. But then I am at my birthday dinner with our mutual friends. Someone mentions his name, then stumbles. I am embarrassed, although I shouldn't be, and sad. I am folding laundry while it rains, white t-shirts that smell like bleach and fabric softener. I am leaving work, almost too tired to pull out of the parking garage and fight Friday night traffic. I clean out the garage, find some old cards and letters I'd overlooked before. I sit outside and read them, crying. The loss is there, in quiet corners, in brief but sobering moments. The magnitude of it catches me off guard.
It's hard to believe I'm 35 years old. I feel fifteen, I feel 95. I'd like to say the last year ultimately brought only good things, and I could certainly say that it brought only bad (and I think no one would judge me for that) -- but either statement would deny the complexity of the last year. It has been ugly and cruel. It has aged me more than any other. At times, it left me broken, consumed by myself, by my panic, my sorrow, my immediate experience. But the year has also been gracious -- in giving me wisdom, in teaching me silence, in forcing me to accept my own lack of control over anything but myself. I have reflected and changed more than in any year before.
When my dear friend, Anna, died the year she graduated from college, I spoke at a memorial service the school held for her. I struggled to write something worthy of her life, to find something meaningful in her death that I could share. But I realized, and I think I said at the service, that I could not find meaning in her death. Instead, I found meaning in her life, and in how I chose to move forward and change my own life as a result of that. Sometimes that is the best we can do. And that can bring us good and make us better. That is what I have tried to do with this year. I cannot find meaning in the Professor leaving me. I have tried, but cannot find purpose in that, or say that it was meant to be. I don't really believe those things. But I can make meaning from it, from who I was and how I ended up there, and what I did with what happened next. And I have tried my best to do that.
A lot has come of this year, as painful as it has been to get at. And so, to commemorate my 35th birthday, a little bit late, I am attempting to compile a list of 35 things I have discovered in the 35 year of my life. Apparently I'm a slow learner, because it's taking a while.
The first fifteen:
Memories and emotion are close to the surface these days. Some things are hard to write about not just because they are emotional or sad, but because words seem insufficient. This is one of those times.
The last two months have been tough. I billed 275 hours last month, which is a lot and then some. I'm still trying to build credibility at my job, and I'm doing things I'm not very experienced at. Between the hours and the newness, I've been completely overwhelmed, just trying to hang in there and do what has to be done. I still enjoy the people I work with, but I cannot say I enjoy working 80 hours a week. I am just trying to get things done, not do them well.
I can say the same for my personal life. Seven weeks ago, I was divorced. I spent approximately 90 seconds thinking about it that day, before heading into a conference call with a client, and I really haven't had much time to process it since then. Instead I've been assembling furniture at midnight, packing the Professor's things at six a.m. before I head to work for the weekend. Grinding coffee for the morning before I go to bed takes all the energy I can summon. But I do it and fall into bed beside Chase, grateful for those few quiet moments when I can tell her how much I love her.
I don't mean to sound sorry for myself. I have squeezed some lovely moments into the last two months: a weekend visit from Aunt J and her friends; a ten p.m. birthday dinner at Next; my birthday party; and, last weekend, hang-gliding and a great weekend visit with my sister. Yesterday I planted hyacinth bulbs during a break from excising the last of the Professor's things from the house. I dug cool dirt with my fingernails, let earthworms crawl over my hands. I ate a ham sandwich with a fresh tomato from my yard.
I have been lucky. But I am also tired beyond belief. It has been a long two months. But it's been a long year, so it fits.
In many ways, this year was a crisis, and I wonder, have I gotten through it? At times -- most times -- I think I have. But then I am at my birthday dinner with our mutual friends. Someone mentions his name, then stumbles. I am embarrassed, although I shouldn't be, and sad. I am folding laundry while it rains, white t-shirts that smell like bleach and fabric softener. I am leaving work, almost too tired to pull out of the parking garage and fight Friday night traffic. I clean out the garage, find some old cards and letters I'd overlooked before. I sit outside and read them, crying. The loss is there, in quiet corners, in brief but sobering moments. The magnitude of it catches me off guard.
It's hard to believe I'm 35 years old. I feel fifteen, I feel 95. I'd like to say the last year ultimately brought only good things, and I could certainly say that it brought only bad (and I think no one would judge me for that) -- but either statement would deny the complexity of the last year. It has been ugly and cruel. It has aged me more than any other. At times, it left me broken, consumed by myself, by my panic, my sorrow, my immediate experience. But the year has also been gracious -- in giving me wisdom, in teaching me silence, in forcing me to accept my own lack of control over anything but myself. I have reflected and changed more than in any year before.
When my dear friend, Anna, died the year she graduated from college, I spoke at a memorial service the school held for her. I struggled to write something worthy of her life, to find something meaningful in her death that I could share. But I realized, and I think I said at the service, that I could not find meaning in her death. Instead, I found meaning in her life, and in how I chose to move forward and change my own life as a result of that. Sometimes that is the best we can do. And that can bring us good and make us better. That is what I have tried to do with this year. I cannot find meaning in the Professor leaving me. I have tried, but cannot find purpose in that, or say that it was meant to be. I don't really believe those things. But I can make meaning from it, from who I was and how I ended up there, and what I did with what happened next. And I have tried my best to do that.
A lot has come of this year, as painful as it has been to get at. And so, to commemorate my 35th birthday, a little bit late, I am attempting to compile a list of 35 things I have discovered in the 35 year of my life. Apparently I'm a slow learner, because it's taking a while.
The first fifteen:
- I can stop crying, start a new job, get a divorce, work 14 hours a day, take care of two dogs, throw a baby shower, keep the house clean, pack my ex-husband's things, have the yard landscaped, hang with my girlfriends, throw a birthday party, assemble furniture at midnight and host house guests - all at once.
- But I don't have time to wash my hair every day. Or even every other day.
- I can still laugh. I must laugh. Despite everything, and because of everything.
- Acceptance is a battle we fight entirely with ourselves, and perhaps the bloodiest one.
- Everything else is easier.
- People say strange and/or bizarrely inappropriate things when they don't know what else to say. Like maybe he'll come back one day. Someone said that this week. There is really no adequate response. Perhaps laughing maniacally while crying hysterically, if you can pull that off. I can't.
- I can do and tolerate more than I thought. We can do almost anything in order to keep living. The guy who cut off his own arm? I could do that. I might bleed to death, but I would give it a shot.
- Grief is not a room we pass through. It dwells within, blooms and recedes, evolves.
- I can climb onto a total stranger's back and let a go-cart with wings tow me 3000 feet into the air by a clothes line. And love it.
- I don't know if I can change certain fundamental aspects of my personality or temperament (and I'm not sure I want to), but I can become a better version of myself. It's hard, and it's going to be a long journey, but I'm working on it. For me.
- I can trim a door with a circular saw and not cut off my fingers.
- Speaking of cutting, I will never cut someone out of my life with no acknowledgment, explanation or goodbye.
- I made a lot of mistakes. I am not blameless, and I cannot pretend to myself that I am. But I face that, and I am proud of myself for getting through this last year the way that I have.
- I miss Crazy Dog more than I thought I would. A lot more. But if I ever get another Crazy Dog again, I'm returning him immediately, before I love him and without shame or guilt.
- It's never too late to start over. Taking this job was the right decision. I faced my fears, it didn't kill me, and I am good at a lot of what I do. But I'm still not so sure I want to do it for the next twenty years. Thinking about that MFA.
8.21.2011
Birthdays
I turned 35 this week, on Wednesday, and I had a lovely birthday party for myself this weekend. I feel like I should say something important and profound about turning 35, about how this year has changed me, and I will try, but not tonight.
This weekend brought another anniversary of sorts, and if this post is not very eloquent, it's probably because I'm crying a little while I type.
Yesterday, August 20, was my father-in-law's birthday. Last year the Professor's family came to Chicago to spend the event with us here, the first after his death. It was a strange and confusing time for me, and for the Professor and his family as well, I am sure. Although, to be honest, I don't really know how it felt for them, because it's not the kind of thing they ever discussed.
Yesterday, August 20, was my father-in-law's birthday. Last year the Professor's family came to Chicago to spend the event with us here, the first after his death. It was a strange and confusing time for me, and for the Professor and his family as well, I am sure. Although, to be honest, I don't really know how it felt for them, because it's not the kind of thing they ever discussed.
This year I was preparing for my party. The morning was gray and stormy, and I was in the kitchen up to my elbows in black beans and corn. I turned on the television for background noise. A few hours into my work in the kitchen, I realized the background noise I'd been listening to was a Dr. Who marathon on the BBC.
It was fitting. It was Dr. B's birthday, and he was an avid Dr. Who fan. I admit that I never really got the show, and I never cared much for British television, but I decided to let it play while I worked. And so I chopped onions, minced garlic, washed cilantro, and listened to Dr. Who and thought about Dr. B.
It felt right to be thinking of him on his birthday, to listen to his favorite show. It was sad, but good, to think of him and my own sadness at his death, a sadness I could never experience with anyone else, because he was not my husband, not my father, and so my own loss and sorrow were effectively meaningless - trite, next to the pain of those around me. At the time, it seemed like it was not 'my' loss, but a much bigger loss belonging to others. My own sadness seemed selfish.
Dr. B was jovial. He could be hard to get at on an emotional level. But I believed that, not having had any daughters, he had a special place in his heart for me. And I did in mine, for him. He teased me mercilessly, with what I thought or hoped was affection, and I teased back.
The night before Dr. B died, I flew to Augusta and went straight to the hospital. He was waiting to go home. He could not speak, could barely write, but he was his jovial self. He insisted that he be allowed to go home; he did not want to die in the hospital. He wanted Yoohoo and cream soda. When the Professor insisted I make my monkey face, Dr. B gave me a thumbs up. He was brave. Scared and sad, I am sure, but strong for those who loved him, for those whose devastation played out before him. If you can face sudden and certain death with character, he did.
Dr. B was cremated, but there was a viewing, and the family had some quiet time alone with him. I wanted to wrap my husband inside myself. I wanted to kiss Dr. B and hold his face. To grab his hands in mine, to see him laugh one more time. I wanted to make it better. Instead, I sat alone on a chair in the corner, watching my husband struggle not to cry. I was helpless to make anything happen.
I never did figure out what to do.
Dr. B was a lovely man. Someone impossible not to admire, not to fall a little bit in love with. I had my own quiet time to remember him this weekend, to honor him in my own little way with my Dr. Who marathon. So, while I prepared to celebrate my birthday yesterday, I celebrated his, as well.
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