I am She

I'm still working on that novel. It's pretty stupid, but like I said before, since there are a lot of stupid people in the world I'm thinking there might be an audience.

Or maybe it's for a stupid audience of one: me.

It is quite a dose of therapy. As the autobiographical crap keeps slipping in there, I'm faced with the many ways in which my protagonist is like me. But she's separate enough for me to be a bit more analytical and honest about her than I might be about my self.

When I think she's boring, it's usually because she's not being very proactive. I need to fix that to make her more interesting and to make her more capable of fulfilling a healthy, satisfying character arc.

Fixing my protagonist can be a simple matter of de-wimpifying her dialogue and giving her a kick in the pants when it comes to confronting her antagonist. Shouldn't the same work in real life?

What can Bridget say to Todd that might improve their chances of making things better, more honest, healthier?

This novel may be just for me.

Drinking and Blogging

I'm going to be utterly profound... because I can. I was about to post some of the things I've been thinking on my public blog, but then I remembered some good advice the voices in my head gave me... not to drink and operate the internet. But you know me. I like to live on the wild side. But, I can be cautious, too. So I thought it better to log off my real facebook before saying anything that might prove to be too great of an embarrassment. So you get it all here...

And no emailing boys til I sober up either.

So, I'm listening to a recording of piano music played by the boy who replaced the Spawn of Satan in my young throbbing heart several decades ago.... and I truthfully heard voices. They weren't telling me to throw myself from a bridge or to commit any crime or anything like that. In fact, I couldn't tell what they were saying... just that they were human (or at least human-like voices) and they were emanating from the music itself. That was pretty cool. Not exactly profound, but cool, nonetheless. I'm not going to email Piano Boy, though...

...no matter how much I want to tell him that the sound of his fingertips massaging the keys of a piano cause me to hear the utterances of angels...

...no matter how much I want to thank him for rescuing me from that bridge (okay, I don't know what the keyboard angels were saying, just as I'm sure they weren't telling me to jump, and I did get the impression that they didn't want me to jump.)

I'm still working on that novel. I know it's totally stupid, but there are an awful lot of stupid people in the world these days, so I'm still hopeful that it will find a market.

Don't know what I'm drinking. Decided to just grab one bottle at a time without reading the labels. My eyesight is going downhill anyway, so I figured this would be a taste of things to come.

I'm not much of a drinker. A real light weight -- or as Todd used to say, "a cheap date." Cheap date... I should have seen all this coming. Not going to go there, though. When I started in, I thought this was going to be one of those morose depressing morose redundant depressing drunken episodes that make me feel like listening to Patsy Cline's "Crazy" and putting my hair in rollers and imagining myself dying in a plane crash... but this has actually been a happy time (mostly).

Shoot! I had something profound to say and I totally can't remember it now! Sorry to make you read this without any satisfying conclusion. If you're disappointed, please have a few drinks and then feel free to leave a drunken comment.

(sign above can be purchased here)

Arrghh! You're turning me into a pirate, Todd!

I'm tired of nagging. Twice a month, I have to nag if I want to avoid the insufficient funds charges on our household bank account. Twice a month, the big unavoidable automatic payments go through. And twice a month, we (often needlessly) pay these fees because Todd doesn't transfer money into the household account.

He has been working, so I don't think its a matter of not having the money (but then, I wouldn't know that for sure because his business account is as secret as the illuminati's iCalendar). He's just too darn busy to get around to transferring it to the family account so we (I) can have a little peace of mind (and use of that $34 a pop that's going down the drain every time he's too lazy to manage his money as a supposed business owner).

He's too busy. Poor boy. Putting in three to six hours on the job site (including commute time) and then having to watch football on TV when you get home can be so demanding!

In a couple of weeks the property tax bill is coming due. I have no idea how we're going to pay it. Last time I was able to pay it all by myself by sinking my entire writing advance check into it. But I still haven't finished the project that was an advance for, so I'm tapped out.

My gut has been all tied up in knots. I woke up this morning and I could hardly move -- the pain was so excruciating. I've cleaned up my diet to the point that it shines like the top of Mr. Clean's head, so I don't think it's being caused by food allergies or additives or preservatives... I think this time it's just good old stress.

He bought me some expensive probiotics to try to take care of my problems. I wonder if it ever crossed his mind that such things might not even be necessary if he would just take the time to transfer funds on time?

At least Todd is able to sleep at night and eat without fear of what convulsions that might send his digestive tract into!

Arrghh! That's about all I can say.

Todd Apologized

I don't have time to write a blog right now, but I did have to take a moment to say this:

Todd was being a real @$$#*!% last night while we were getting ready for company. Big deal. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What makes it blogworthy is the fact that later, after the guests had left, he actually apologized. He said, "I'm sorry for being snippy earlier."

I was speechless. I could have said, "It's okay," but I didn't because that would be lying. It wasn't even the apology that blew me away as much as the fact that he NOTICED that he had behaved inappropriately.

That's all. Nothing clever. Nothing funny. Nothing Profound. But it's as if the world shifted on its axis.

Novel Idea

I'm working on a novel that, although it is definitely fiction, has a lot of autobiographical stuff in it. It will be interesting to see where it goes if I get any publishers interested in it.... Will I be able to let Todd read it? or will I keep it a secret from him?

Within the story, I'm tackling some of my deepest fears. If a person cannot be honest with another person about her fears, how are they supposed to have a relationship? And yet, how Todd would react if I were to share that sharing my deepest fears with him IS one of my deepest fears.

This novel could end up being the true test of our relationship.

I'm tired of being fake, and yet I want to feel safe. Is there a place where a person can be both genuine AND safe? I would run there so fast my running would turn to flight.

Brother Husbands: What I learned from my Fauxfile

A lot of crazy things have been going on lately. I feel like Alice, and I just stumbled into a rabbit hole that dropped me smack-dab in the middle of the weirdest soap opera ever conceived.

Where to start? How about the proposal? Yeah, that might be the place.

So, I found out a guy I work with is a polygamist . . . or at least a wanna-be polygamist. Evidently the first gal he and his beloved wife were courting didn't work out. She moved in with them for a while, but (he says) they never consummated the relationship. Now, he didn't say that to my face, 'cuz he doesn't know I know. When I heard about it, I had to find out for myself, so I created a fauxfile (yep, it's becoming a habit) on the same polygamy dating service where he and his wife were registered.

I proceeded to drop the bait--say the things I knew would peak his interest. I wanted to dialog to be sure it was really him and not just someone impersonating him in an effort to sully his reputation. It didn't take long to confirm that it was indeed my colleague. The problem at this point became the fact that I don't really exist. I know this guy, and I'm not out to destroy him or to lead him on, or to break his heart or anything like that. I just wanted to know. (I felt I needed to know because the nature of our working relationship could be interpreted as implying my endorsement of his ethics.)

Now I know, but that knowledge didn't come without it's "baggage". . . the by-product of my investigative performance was an invitation--you might say a proposal--to move in with him and his wife and "try it out." He said he wanted to spoil me and the baby. (Did I forget to mention that I told him I was pregnant? I had heard that he wanted kids, so I thought that would be a nice touch.) Once again: "Oh, the tangled web we weave . . ."

How has this affected my real life interactions with Bradley (we'll call him Bradley. I don't think I've used that name yet.)

Well, I must admit it's been a bit awkward. There have been times when I've thought I slipped up and some hint may have seeped though to reveal my ploy. The crazy thing is the emotional contortions that have accompanied all of this. I've had to deal with my thoughts, feelings, beliefs on the issue, and they have been all over the map. Maybe I'll get into the depths of the issue in a later blog, but for now I just want to say that I have problems with it. Or perhaps I should be more specific and say that I have problems with polygyny (the most commonly practiced form of polygamy--in which one husband has multiple wives).

In researching the subject, I discovered that it's not just Mormons in America who are into this practice for religious reasons. There seems to be a movement of spiritualizing polygamy among people of varying religious persuasions. I used to think it was just a matter of "baptizing horniness," but I've stumbled upon supposedly deeper reasons people have for condoning and pursuing this practice. The reason I find most disturbing is the one they use to answer the objection critics raise regarding jealousy. When asked, "Won't the wives be jealous of each other because they have to share such an intimate relationship with others?" the pious polygynists rave about the benefits of learning to overcome this "sin" of jealousy. Apparently this is a problem unique to women because they are the ones who must be refined by this process, while their men bounce blissfully from bed to bed.

WHAT? If anyone needs practice in overcoming jealousy it's men. They are freaking territorial! I mean, they would pee on their doorsteps to mark their territory if they weren't afraid of "the look" they'd get from us (the keepers of the vaginas). They are green-eyed monsters when it comes to sharing their women! How about some religions in America that focus on overcoming that little character flaw?!! [*10/13/11 -- see note in comments below for clarification]

Some argue that men aren't naturally monogamous. But they think women are more so by nature? Without religion to direct us, the only reason women appear to be more bent toward monogamy is that we get tied down by rugrats so it's not as practical to roam. That doesn't mean we aren't ever tempted ourselves. Remember the temporary insanity with Charlie, when I said I didn't necessarily want to leave Todd and break up our family, but "I fantasized about having two houses next door to one another--one to house one of my families and one for the other. In one I would only be a mommy and in the other I would be both mother and lover"?

I've been joking for a long time about starting a polyandrous sect (as in Brother Husbands). In theory, that would allow us to be a multiple income family without me even needing to work . . . I could invest more time with the children, delve into all the hobbies I've longed to spend more time on--my art and poetry, get pampered at the day spa, and never be short-changed on sex due to football season (make sure there's at least one who doesn't like each sport).

Work-aholic husbands? No problem! The more the merrier! Just bring in the bacon and I'll never whine about "You're not there for me enough" -- I've got Pierre and Johnny and Byron to keep a smile on my face, so I'll be happy when you do manage to find time to come home from the office.

Sounds like a much better deal to me than sharing the house with Sister Wives. I mean, women can be real bitches to live with. But the woman who is treated like a goddess tends to act like one, too.

Staying with Problems

I came across a quote today that left me feeling just a little bit proud--or at least "in good company."

Perhaps this is why, even when things get difficult, I'm able to keep a generally cheerful, positive attitude:

“It's not that I'm so smart, it's just that I stay with problems longer .”

~ Albert Einstein

Some say that I've stayed with Todd too long. Perhaps. However, I do feel that in spite of the discomfort, I have gleaned a lot of wisdom (and empathy) that I wouldn't otherwise have. So, that's good.

The Einstein quote made me smile. "I stay with problems longer." It had never occurred to me that I'd gain marital counsel from Albert Einstein.

When we look at academics, it is abundantly true that there is great value to staying with those problems--to keeping plugging away until we understand.

The persistence that leads to a student truly grasping a concept is not the same as being apathetically content with the status quo. It is a resolve that "I will not flee this problem--I will not give up--until I understand the very root of it, so that I can apply the principles to other problems in the future."

That doesn't mean that I will spend the rest of my life reducing fractions or diagramming sentence structure.

Spawn of Satan's First Kiss -- Part 2 Awakening the Memory

If you haven't read part one yet, read it first or you're likely to go, "Huh?"

I want to write Scott a note of apology, but it's hard to apologize correctly when you can't remember clearly.

I once received an apology from a former classmate who used to bully me in elementary school. When he said, "I am a different person now," that addendum somehow took some of the impact out of the apology. Sure, I was glad to know that he was no longer running around tripping girls and laughing when they skinned their knees, but still something felt... I don't know how to put it... it felt not entirely true. Does that make sense?

The thing is, I've been grappling with the concept of time and how we as human beings seem to be constantly evolving, and while I know that people do change and messed up lives are "redeemed," there is also an awareness that time is a very earthly thing. I mean, if you want to look at it from a religious standpoint, modern humans being under the curse of "the fall" actually makes less sense in the linear way of thinking than it does from a more timeless perspective. Adam and Eve ate that fruit that was a no-no... then years later, Jesus came to pay the debt for their disobedience (and ours too) and now, we're all included in that fall that took place eons before we were even born, until we accept the redemptive act of Jesus that took place a couple thousand years ago. Thus, in faith we are all over the place in terms of time, and I'm thinking that is why it is so hard for people with very disjointed views of life (in which time is chopped up into all kinds of disconnected segments) to understand either the need for, or the mechanics of, redemption. It's easier for us to chop up the time-line into segments and ignore those that are inconsistent. In ignoring our inconsistencies, however, we find it a whole lot easier to justify ourselves (and I think we also miss out on a lot of the texture that makes us interesting).

When the memories of writing that "break up" letter to Scott started to come back to me, I said that it was "like watching ... a fifteen-year-old girl, whom I barely recognize...." Initially, I was able to disconnect myself from that girl. The more I replay that scene, however, the more I feel like she is not such a stranger, and the more I see the patterns of behavior and the patterns of thought. We must exist in the entirety of our life experience in order to be honest. My soul often feels so confined by the skin that wants to hold me in, the time that wants to chop me up. I sense that I am intended to be much broader than that.

I know, I know... I "over-think" everything. So, I've been told. Few people have any interest in all the blather I can spew... so I put it HERE!!! I should call my blog "Blatherland."

So, I started to write an apology, but it ended up drowning in blather. Since I'm obviously not going to send this blather to some guy I haven't seen in three decades, I'll just post my imaginary "letter to Scott" here:

Dear Scott,

Since reading your "spawn of satan" comment, I've been trying to remember the letter you were referring to. No matter how much i rack my mind, the words elude me... however, a mute memory has trickled back--like I'm watching a silent movie of a vaguely familiar fifteen-year-old girl deliberating over a letter--a girl who is at once a total stranger as well as being more me than what I have become. I do wish I could see what she was writing--all I can do is sense that there is anguish in the action, and a compulsion, self-inflicted drama, beyond her understanding. None of this is intended as an excuse--but rather just a grappling for understanding (I know, weird writers--can't leave anything alone). On with my indulgent desire to understand the evolving psyche of myself and others... none of this need concern you except this: I'm sorry. I am really, truly sorry.

Scum of the Earth,

Bridget

Okay, truth be told, I had to post this here because I thought that "...a girl who is at once a total stranger as well as being more me than what I have become" line was just too good to fall prey to the delete button.

Spawn of Satan's First Kiss

It's weird how memories come back. I hear people talking about memories being triggered by a sight or a smell or song and coming rushing back. Yes, that can happen, but for the past week or so, I’ve been experiencing a trickle--an extremely frustrating, bordering on non-existent trickle. Oh that it would be a flood and be over with!

A couple weeks ago, I stumbled upon a hand-drawn rock band poster a musician named Scott gave me about three decades ago. He told me to hang on to it because when his band became famous, it would be worth a lot of money. I've kept it all these years in a scrapbook--not because I necessarily believed he would make it big and the poster would be valuable but rather because I promised, and because he held a special place in a young girl’s heart--the young girl who became me. When I found this poster, I wondered if Scott’s band ever achieved some level of success... then I realized that in this day and age of technology, there was no need to wonder.

Enter Google. I googled the name of Scott’s band, along with his name, the instrument he played and the state he lived in when I knew him... and low and behold... the top result was a youtube video--a different band, but Scott was the lead singer and keyboardist. Under the video, there was information about the concert venue that Scott now runs, complete with a link to the website.

Perusing the guidelines for submissions of bands interested in performing there, I discovered that Scott himself was the one in charge of it all. Hmmm, wouldn’t it be fun to “submit” his own decades’ old band for consideration? I thought how crazy it would be if someone sent me a long lost piece of my childhood or adolescent writing out of the blue to be “considered for production.” What a hoot that would be!

So, I snapped a picture of the poster, and sent it off with an email saying I thought this band would be perfect for his venue. I figured that given his stint with regional fame, and the accompanying groupies, he probably wouldn’t remember me, so I simply said that: “I don’t expect you to remember me--It’s been a L O N G time. I hope you are doing well and that you enjoy this poster.”

At that point in time, I was having trouble scaring up many memories of him myself--and he definitely held a more significant place in my life than I did in his:

Scott was the administrator of my first real kiss. We were 14-15 years old, and I know I didn’t want to make it to “Sweet Sixteen” without being kissed. I think he kissed me within a week of my fifteenth birthday. Other than that, I was drawing a blank on our short, shallow “relationship” (if you can even call it that.)

Right after our brief stint (or actually in the midst of it), I met the guy who became my high school sweetheart, so I basically let the thing with Scott fizzle out--which wasn’t hard to do since he lived in a different town and neither one of us had a driver’s license yet.

I didn’t expect to hear back much more than, “Thank you, I’ll add it to all the other sketches my former fans have sent me”--if even that. But a reply did come. Scott was amused by the poster and the “delusional dreams” of his adolescence that it exhibited, but that wasn’t all he had to say. After exchanging a few niceties about seeing that what I was doing (via google and imdb) was great, he went on to add something more personal:

“Well, I DO remember you sending me a letter calling me the spawn of Satan or something about burning in hell.”

I read those words in disbelief. I didn’t even remember writing to him at all, let alone ever saying anything so harsh.

I replied: “WHAT??? Not seriously? I'd like to see that, 'cuz I sure don't remember anything like it.” Recalling that I had basically dumped him for another guy, I went on to say that maybe I didn't treat him fairly and that I may not have been honest with him then because I was confused myself and wasn’t being totally honest with myself. “Did I really say horrible things in a letter, though???” I asked. His recollection sounded so out of character for me.

Since sending off that reply, I’ve been wracking my brain trying to remember. I'm just waking up to the fact that I may have actually hurt him... It really had never dawned on me that I was anything more to him than a fleeting fling, but now that one of my sons is just a year younger than Scott was--and just starting to take an interest in girls--I'm thinking how easy it would be for some girl to just crush him. Awww, Scott was some mommy's little boy, too... Did I really write something to him that he interpreted as meaning that I thought he was the spawn of Satan? And since I now have a faith that I didn’t have then, it’s really bugging me that whatever hurt I may have dealt out was tinged with any religious overtones that may have been interpreted as “Christianity.” I know that I wasn’t a Christian then, but he doesn’t know that.

As the day went by, since reading his note, my memory has been stirred a bit more, and another trickle has seeped out. Now, I do remember writing him a “break up” letter, but I don’t remember what I said. I remember deliberating over the wording, and yet the words I settled on now completely elude me. The memory is almost like I’m watching a silent movie... a fifteen-year-old girl, whom I barely recognize sits at the kitchen table... no, on the living room couch... no, on her bed... actually, I do see myself working on the letter long enough that I am carrying it from one location to another. I may have even spoken with my mother about it. I’m kind of wondering if Scott had called me about getting together and that was what prompted the letter. Is it strange for a memory like that to be so incredibly foggy?

I know many of you would say, “Drop it! Forget about it! You were just kids--it’s really no big deal.” I’m sure Scott is over it, and if I was really so bitchy, maybe I even gave him some material for an angry song or two. So, once again, why do I keep digging back into the past???

Well, there’s the curiosity factor that just comes with the territory of being a writer and wanting to understand motivations and character arcs.

But then, there’s also the parallel I’m seeing between Scott back then and my son who is practically the same age now as Scott was when he received the allegedly awful letter. I never thought of Scott as fragile and tender back then, but that is what I see when I look at my son of the same age. Still, that’s not enough reason to stew over what exactly I did say in that letter. That’s more reason to just have some heart-to-heart discussions with my son about girls and relationships.

The main reason I think I’m feeling tormented over this is the fact that I think I may know part of the reason for the fogginess, and that reason has more to do with my own character. What if I’m blocking it out of my memory because I know that I lied? As I look back, I really find it hard to believe that I came right out and told Scott about the other guy, and if I didn’t tell him that, then what reason did I give him for suddenly not wanting to go out with him? I really, truly hope I didn’t use a judgmental God argument--a hypocritical excuse.

When I consider how crippled I still feel by some of the rejection of my youth from even before I met Scott, and how I’m still working through issues rooted deep in my childhood, I cannot ignore the possibility that any religious jargon I may have used in my letter to Scott way back then could have poisoned his view of the Christian faith to this day.

This is not a blog entry with any neatly wrapped-up resolution. I hope that I will remember more if there is anything I can learn from it (and, if there’s anything that I can use in my writing to lend authenticity to young characters and situations, and thus help another generation). And I pray that if there was hurt that turned to bitterness or that is in anyway still affecting Scott, that this silly little encounter over the poster now would bring clarity (especially on a spiritual level) that nothing I said then should be taken as representative of Christianity.

This story may be out of order--a strange place to start, but it is another chapter in my memoirs. If my memory awakens, maybe I’ll be able to complete this chapter of early adolescent lit.

I don’t think I’ve covered any of my history prior to college in this blog yet, have I? My high school sweetheart really was sweet... perhaps a chapter on him would lighten the sometimes-heavy mood around here. If I can’t remember more about Scott, do you want to know about the guy who replaced him (and was shy enough and respectful enough that he kept me out of a heap of trouble for the remainder of my high school years)? This I do know: If I had stayed with Scott, I probably would have ended up pregnant before I was out of high school and I could be in a situation even worse than my struggles with Todd.

"Do or Suffer"

Just rambling... these thoughts are off the top of my head, and not some official treatise on the state of the union (be it union of Todd & Bridget, or of inner self and outer reality, or of team spirit and individuality, or...)

This is a new revelation to me—the fact that Todd’s demands are “do or suffer” (as opposed to "yes or no"--see comments on last blog post)—that’s not very nice of him, is it?

I’ve got to stop feeding the monster, even if it means suffering. So much of my mode of operation these days is the avoidance of undue inconvenience. Maybe what I need to be praying for is the strength to suffer.... How far will I have to go? If it comes down to having to leave and I can’t afford it, could I go to some sort of shelter?

I think I’d feel guilty doing that. There are women who are in physical danger—their very lives are at stake—those are the women those shelters are intended for aren’t they? Isn’t a woman who cries “emotional abuse” just being overly sensitive? Especially when there are so many hours in the day when her husband isn’t being abusive. (Just try pointing out the 23 hours a day when her husband isn't beating her to a woman who is physically battered for one hour a day...)

It ends up coming down to the altercations. I’m just so sick and tired of them! And each one is driving me further away from Todd emotionally, until I’ve gotten to the point where I’m so, so... bitter, I guess you could say... maybe more like numb—there’s no “team spirit,” that’s for sure... and I’m battling depression... depression that makes it hard for me to let myself care... and even if it starts with dealings with Todd, that carries over into areas beyond Todd.

I don’t think it’s at all chemical, because I really do seem to be okay with every other relationship in my life. If it’s situational depression, I’ve got to figure out how to change the situation before the depression gets any deeper, right?

I feel it creeping toward that level of self-destructiveness—that place where thoughts of hurting myself flash through my head in the midst of the arguments.... like a person with a really bad headache might be tempted to hit his head against a wall–one (self-inflicted and anticipated) pain distracts from another that feels out of one’s control—emotional pain can be so deep that pain in the physical realm would be a welcome distraction.

Busy & Tired

I've been alternating between too busy and too tired to fit this in. This blogging. This sorting out. This hoping for healing. It's been all about surviving; little room for thriving. So many trivial little things have been happening to tip the scales back and forth in the whether to keep trying or quit debate.

As of today, quit has sprinted out into the lead, but I'm too busy to do anything about it.

Todd just dumped a load of paperwork on me to "do now." He's had it for a week, but didn't tell me about it until the day it's due. I already had a full slate of things to do today, and when I didn't react with glee to his not-so-nicely worded "request," he launched into an argument about how what he was asking me to do was "easy" and he didn't understand why I have to turn everything into a fight. I'm too tired for these mind games. Maybe I really am the problem--overreacting and lacking in meekness and generosity. I know he believes his point of view is without flaw . . . so, I consider the fact that I am equally as stubborn as he.

After he finally let up (ie. left for "work"*), I was left shaken and confused. What happened? Why do these confrontations always leave me feeling so confused? Like sci-fi quality alternate realities are being constructed around me and I awake in the midst of a landscape that is totally unfamiliar . . . and Todd looks at me blankly as if nothing has changed. Is he deluded or schizophrenic or (?) himself, or is it a more sinister, intentional mind game he plays with me--trying to drive me crazy??? OR . . . maybe I actually am crazy--insane--mentally ill??? I don't know the answer, but I do know that it's hard to function in the simplest of tasks when you are questioning your own sanity.

One of my older daughters who was home during the argument came out from her room to comfort me. I apologized for the uproar. She said she understood. I said that Todd might be right--maybe the problem is all me. She then said, very precisely and deliberately: "Trust me. As an objective observer, I can tell you without a doubt, it's not you." I didn't want to get into it any more with her--to involve her in worries that shouldn't be hers to bear, so I welcomed the interruption of a phone call reminding me that it was time to rev up the mommy-taxi and go pick up the younger kids from their various activities. I wish I could accept her reassurance that I'm not insane, but I question whether the tie that binds mother and daughter is too strong for there to be true objectivity.

Work calls. The day is already more than half over, and I haven't started on my writing project yet . . . or hemming the dress my youngest daughter needs for a formal dance tomorrow . . . or numerous other bullet points on my never-ending "to do" list. BUT, Todd's paperwork is done. Now, all I have to do is try to pull myself together emotionally so I can really focus on my work. The producer on the project I'm doing just called and he needs a specific write-up delivered to him by tomorrow for a last minute meeting with some investors. Oh, and I'd better figure out what I'm making for dinner. My work day won't really get going until everyone else is fed and sound asleep.

*the mocking tone of voice indicated by "work" in quotation marks is because Todd says he only has about three hours of work today, and I know I have many more than that, but because I don't leave the house or punch a time clock, he seems to keep forgetting that I too have "work" to do -- I still owe work on a writing project for which I've already received an advance . . . and that's not to mention all the unpaid housework and hours of caring for and driving around his kids . . . .

Everybody's supposed to be strong...

I'm too tired. No need to babble about my thoughts. I'll grab someone else's.

Just watched the DVD commentary on the movie, Walk the Line. I was struck by the Thanksgiving scene at the lake house, just after Johnny confronts his father . . . Thirty years after the loss of his brother, the feelings are still as raw as if it just happened. He's tried to overcome, but still meets with disapproval. He's messed up, addicted to drugs. He's on the path to self-destruction. Thanksgiving dinner is ended abruptly by his altercation with his father. His guests can't leave quickly enough. Johnny makes a mad dash for his stuck-in-the-mud tractor and starts up the engine. This is not going to be good. Everyone knows it. June Carter is about to get in the truck with her parents and daughters, but her mom stops her.

Mother: "You should go down there to him... He's mixed up."

June: "I'm not going down there. If I go down there--"

Mother: "You already are down there."

June's parents camp out at the lake house, while Johnny goes through detox, fending off his drug dealing friends with their hunting rifles. In the DVD commentary, the writer/director said that he doesn't think June would have stuck with Johnny if it weren't for the support of her parents.

I hear people saying that in tough situations, you have to "find the support that you need." June didn't actively find that support, she didn't ask for it. God provided it in the form of an older retired couple who were not distracted by the demands of raising young children or supporting a family. They weren't tired, like their single-mom-and-twice-divorced daughter was. Being tired of trying myself, I found that beautiful.

I'm feeling the pressure to do something . . . to decide everything right now and jump through the hoops of official paperwork, OR to be Todd's mommy and walk him through recovery when I can't even seem to manage the much simpler task of getting the kids to do their homework . . . OR, of course, there is the other alternative of doing what I've been doing for the past quarter century: Numb myself and do what has to be done to survive. I mean, he doesn't beat me, so what's my problem?

The Different Faces of Love (The Moon, the Crazy Moon, part 3)

This started out as a response to a comment on my last blog, but it was getting so lengthy, I decided to just post it as a separate blog. It may only make sense in the context of my last blog, though, so you might want to go back and read that (and the comment) if you haven't.

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Perhaps it all boils down to me being an abysmal communicator (that may have been my problem then, just as it is now). . . or perhaps it's the dramatist in me, embellishing in the wrong way--adding a flare of romance to the story when it's really a different sort of love I'm speaking of. I mush it together in my description because there are similarities, but really what I'm talking about is more like the love and loss I felt with my sister and when she passed away, and yet my own failure with words paints it as something silly. It may be that I'm thinking too much of an audience--what words could I use that they would understand? I can get caught up in the idea of trying to word something in a clever way, a universal way--such pride, however, is not conducive to successful communication.*

Call it two-faced, but I feel misunderstood. And I'm using the backspace key a lot now in trying to explain. How should I expect my words to be clear enough for my readers understand me, when it's all still so much in process? I don't even understand me. Does denying that you have questions and making haste to cover the holes over with the quickest biblical patch to be found make one's God bigger?

I feel like I'm being pushed to action out of the expectations of others that I figure it all out already and DO something. That probably wasn’t your intention, but that’s how it felt. Why is reality so hard for me? What reality? How can reality be hard when you don't know what it is? It's the inability to identify reality that is hard. Of course, I could simplify it by ignoring the intricacies--the threads that don't line up with a particular presumption of neat, tidy fabric. But that, in my opinion, would be the sign of a belief in a small god.

Yes, the recent line of questioning with Doug may be a distraction, but I wouldn't call our friendship a sideshow. It's a distraction just like maneuvering all the kids' birthday celebrations, skinned knees, and last-minute homework and costume needs is a distraction. It's a distraction like my parents' waning health and a friend who needs help moving is a distraction. It's a distraction like the stopped up sink is a distraction. Life is full of distractions. True, the way I've worded things in the three blogs in which I've talked about Doug may make it seem like I've been obsessing, but the reality is, we have a deeper history than I have even come close to putting into words here. If anything, I’ve given voice to an over-active imagination in the “he hates me” or “he doesn’t care” side of it.

When I read “You are acting like you are trying to solve some hidden hurt, but you are justifying flirting with another man who is not the one you are pretending to be yoked to. You can't honestly love someone from that long ago to whom you have never lived with or spent much actual physical time with. Love is more than fatal attraction, or fantasy boyfriend love affairs of the mind,” that hurt. Don't stop commenting, though. Hurt is okay. We grow through it. And do keep praying that my eyes will be open, because that has been my prayer, and I do believe in the power of prayer and since I have also been praying that God would reveal to me any ways in which I’m deceiving myself, I believe He will.

What may have been missed in that blog, probably due partially to the Moonstruck references (which are about a romantic love), is the longevity and depth of the friendship history Doug and I have (and the connections he has with my family as well), and the fact that if a close female friend or one of my brothers or parents would have come to me with the same news that Doug shared yesterday, it would have sent me reeling in the same way. To me, all love is important.

It’s interesting timing that yesterday a boy came to ask Todd and I permission to date one of our daughters. The term “just friends” came up in the discussion--they no longer wanted to deny that they were more than “just friends.” I cautioned them about the logic behind that term, saying that romantic love, if it is not built on a firm foundation of friendship, will actually grow into something that is “less than friendship.” The love between friends is not something to be trivialized, and it can in fact have a more enduring quality than love that is contorted to fit the mold of romance.

Even though I wanted to know if romance was the cause of the dark period between Doug and me, I am NOT interested in romance with him now. Our friendship has weathered too great a length of time and too many storms of life to ruin in that way. Even if it seems like an excuse to some who read this, my main reason for digging and wanting to know that part of the past truly was because of the questions about relationships that my daughters have been asking me. I want to understand, so my advise to my girls will not be born out of my own dysfunctional confusion. I take it as an answer to prayer that even when one of my daughters broke up and another started a new relationship, in the midst of my own personal struggles and without me having yet found “the answers to that dark pivotal day in my past,” I was still able to offer them what I think was wise counsel. Maybe I don’t have to know the specifics of what happened back then in order to be able to find mental and emotional health now.

The appearance of silliness confirms to me that some ground is better not to be dug up because it stirs the flighty emotions of that time period. (Yes, I did get a bit caught up in it.) Doug and I have grown past that--there is no need to bring it back up--that was proved when I was able to talk to my daughters with confidence. Also, I don’t want to confuse Doug by stirring up emotions from the past that he has already worked through, so I will be careful what I say from here on out. Maybe I feel like that wounded little girl more because of my current hurts than because of anything “back then.” I will try to not let the past distract me from dealing with the issues of now, mainly the issues with Todd, but I don’t think God would have me deny the impact of a dear friend who is facing a very serious disease--that is also in the present. You would understand that he is very much like a brother, if I were to share our full history.

Hey--that just made me think of a slightly silly, yet related, little side-note:

When I was in elementary school, I had crushes on at least two of my cousins. I even said with certainty that I was going to marry one of them. All these years later, I can interact with those cousins at family reunions and there isn’t any weirdness or shame or romantic attraction, but I still love them... and I grieved when one of them was very sick... and I rejoiced when the surgery he required was successful... I sobbed when he lost one of his own children...

Love affects us that way.

It doesn’t have to be romantic (and it may actually help if it isn’t romantic). So, I’m sorry if anyone judges me for expressing my love for Doug. I was probably misleading in connecting the Moonstruck clips. The wording of that statement about love just gets me, and I tend to apply it to all sorts of love. When you love someone, they are capable of driving you crazy--there is a much deeper truth to that than what we see on the surface of Loretta’s mom’s words. My love for my dad drives me crazy. If I didn’t love him and desire his love, it wouldn’t drive me crazy when his words and actions lead me to believe that he is more proud of my brother than he is of me. Talk about issues--I’ll have to blog on that someday. Any mother knows that her love for her children can drive her crazy. And, I can't even tell you how long it took to be able to function again after the sister I loved passed away. Love can drive you crazy.

Anyway, if you’re able to get past the apparent “inappropriateness” of me admitting that I “love” Doug (realizing that it may not mean to me the same thing that it does to everyone else), I would appreciate you saying a prayer for his health. The initial blow when I got the news wasn’t like, “oh no, I’m going to lose my fantasy boyfriend if the cancer takes him!” It was more the fear of going through what I went through with my sister again. Not another sibling! Selfish, I know, but I’d rather be the next one to die than have to see another loved one go through such a painful end.

* At the risk of drawing more parallels with films that confuse, I'd like to share a clip from a favorite that touches on the complexity of love. Not saying that it has anything to do with the kind of love I was referring to--just that love is not always as neat and tidy as we'd like it to be.

Richard to Clarissa: “Oh Mrs. Dalloway, always giving parties--to cover the silence....I wanted to write about it all, everything that happens in a moment...all our feelings, yours and mine, the history of it, who we once were, everything in the world, everything all mixed up--like it’s all mixed up now. And I failed. I failed. No matter what you start with it ends up being so much less-- sheer f-ing pride and stupidity. We want everything, don’t we?”