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"Yearning is not only a good way to go crazy, but also a pretty good place to hide out from hard truth." (Jay Cocks, screenwriter, De-Lovely)
It's easy to be overcome by yearning. We live in a society that encourages it, advertising all the things we could have if only... (if only we had that job or that spouse or that degree from that school)... all the things they have (and look how happy they are!) Yearning sets us to work toward goals that, while seemingly good, put so much emphasis on the future we are saving for that we don't live well in the present. Then, we look back and say, "What was that all about?" (at which point it can become an equally "present-killing" distraction to live in the past, mulling over romanticized versions of the way things were along with stewing over regrets and "what if?"s.)
In this blog, I realize that I tread on shaky ground: wanting to sort out my past so I don't repeat its mistakes in the future. It's easy to neglect the present. Yearning is such a directional thing, always reaching forward or backward, out of the present. Treading water may seem like a waste of time. I mean, I'm drowning, for crying out loud! Shouldn't I be a-reachin' for something? It's in those still moments of treading water, however, that we are able to look around (to the past, to the future, to the options that we might never notice if not for the moments of stagnancy).
I'm going to continue the memoir aspect of this blog, but I'm going to also try to bring myself occasionally to the harbor of Now, because "now" is yesterday's future and tomorrow's past.
I am filled with yearning--so much so that it's almost a palpable presence, an entity that follows me, standing between me and the people in my life, blocking my view, casting shadows. I'm lonely, even though I am not alone. I'm bored, even though I have too much that needs to be done. I think it's because I'm disconnected. I need to find those connections that are real and truthful, rather than "hiding out" in the shadows of yearning.
Even my "therapist" can't help me with this. The more I connect with him the more I fear him. He makes the slightest little comment on something I wasn't saying to him... and I feel threatened, even stalked. He wants to be my friend, and I'm pushing him away because I feel the need to keep him neutral, objective, uninvolved... (and possibly also because I fear that if he takes too much interest in my life, I'll go weak at the knees and find myself yearning for more than just his advice.)
The last time my yearning meter was this high, I made a really big mistake that almost destroyed a lot of people, a mistake that still looms over me with threatening posture. Perhaps I'll work up the nerve to write about that soon.
I do want the hard truth, and I don't want to go crazy... so, I'd better tread some water, pay attention to the yearning meter, and try to get my bearings before panic causes me to drown.
Those stories about kids who bring home stray animals are so romantically charming to me. I used to fantasize about being like that, but in reality I was always a bit of a fraidy-cat.
In junior high, however (having wasted away my childhood years when such behavior would have been more understandable), I found a baby field mouse in the middle of the street, and rescued the little darling. I named it "Tucker," bathed it in a Dixie-cup, and held a funeral in the backyard the next day when my dear personal pet passed away. Yes, I was aware that it was not normal for a girl my age to even think about touching a mouse, let alone bring one home, swaddle and sing lullabies to it... but that was all the more reason to do it. I delighted in being a bit odd.
So, even though I never had the guts to be a St. Francis of Assisi (and in reality, I don't like having to deal with the messes animals make), I've still managed to do a bit of collecting that fulfills that romanticized ideal.
My most recent collectible is my "therapist." Why the quotation marks? you may ask, thinking it fairly logical that a nutcase like me would have a therapist. Well, perhaps I should, but I can't afford one, and I'm too lazy to go out and get one, and I could go on and on with excuses. But even if I don't have a therapist, that doesn't mean I can't have a "therapist." Let me explain what difference the quotation marks make:
myspace. It's a virtual world where I suspect an awful lot'a people do an awful lot'a things they wouldn't necessarily do in the real world. It's also a wonderful place to become intimate "friends" with people we don't even know. I don't accept friend requests from people I haven't actually met or had "some" connection with in the real world, but sometimes the definition of connection gets a bit warped. I've accepted a lot of requests from old classmates simply because we have friends in common and I don't want to be a snob, but some of them I really don't remember.
One particular request came from Dirk. I didn't remember him, so I looked him up in the yearbook. Okay, the face was familiar. I'm not sure I EVER spoke with him in college. He was cute, cool, talented... and I was shy. But he was requesting me now, so maybe he really did remember me (or maybe he was just requesting all the fellow alumni he could find.) Either way, I saw no harm in adding him to the collection of distant acquaintances (most who just remain silent and weirdly "there" on my friends list). In that manner, Dirk and I became "friends."
It wasn't long before I learned (from his frequent myspace posts) that he was a psychologist. Cool. He posts a lot of self-help, reflection type stuff. I'd read, but I didn't comment on it because I figured we didn't really know each other... but then one day, he posted a comment on an old photo of me, indicating that he found it... um, attractive, I guess... and wondered why we didn't know each other better then. That conversation kind of broke the ice, and I started reading and commenting occasionally on his reflections.
He also posted music videos and through some of the things he posted I learned that we had a little bit of a rebellious streak in common. He took note of some of the poetry I posted and through all of this, I learned that he had an understanding about relationships that has actually helped me sort through some of the struggles I have in my marriage. His self-help was helping me mainly by letting me know that I'm not alone in the struggles. He's had quite a few of his own (being a divorcee) and had even more of others (his clients) to observe and learn from. I made a joke once about "using" random encounters with him on myspace to elicit free therapy. He chided me for that, yet has continued to dialogue with me.
myspace is weird though... things aren't always as private as a person might think, and one day, Todd noticed a comment I had made on one of Dirk's posts, and since Dirk's profile is public, Todd saw it there and HE posted a comment on it, too. Then Dirk friend-requested Todd (Dirk's a bit of a friend-collector.) Not that I was doing anything wrong, but it was a little weird--like a line of etiquette had been crossed that left me uncomfortable. My husband and my therapist (I mean, "therapist") -- isn't there a conflict of interest there? I guess there wouldn't be if we were "in therapy" together (couple's counseling--which I know we probably need, but Todd's clueless and I'm too non-confrontational to suggest it.) So, did I feel like my "client confidentiality" was in jeopardy? or did I feel like Todd might interpret some of my banter with Dirk as flirting? I mentioned it to a friend, and she said, "Maybe you need to find a new therapist."
"No!" I thought, "I want to keep this one!" And suddenly I felt like that silly girl bringing home a field mouse, just because it remotely resembled something she romanticized about (like I often think I *should* be in therapy), and because it was a slightly weirder version of the normal ideal (like Dirk is a little too much the "bad boy" I would be tempted to flirt with to really be a 100% trust-worthy counselor.)
So, I'm thinking, I guess I just like playing with fire (or mice?) I should probably just take Dirk to the side of a wide open field and say, "Run, Tucker, run!" But, I want to keep him. I like having my pet "therapist" and I fantasize that he's actually helping me, when in reality, he's probably just entertaining me.
So, you may be thinking this is just going to be a Todd-bashing blog... Oh no, that would be shallow, and I don't do shallow. Pointing fingers in blame doesn't help us grow and discover why we do the things we do, especially when they're obviously destructive.
Like I said before, this blog is my cheap form of therapy. I have a friend who is a therapist and he tells me that if I ask the right questions, chances are I'll come up with the right answers. So, I want to explore plenty of questions here, and hopefully some of them will be the "right" questions. Perhaps someone who stumbles upon this blog will have a question. If you do, don't be shy. You may be able to help me discover the questions that will resolve some of my issues, or maybe you'll learn something yourself from the mistakes I'm going to try to openly share here.
Think about this: If Miss Understood believes she has landed with Mr. Wrong, how does that even matter if she doesn't know how to recognize (or wait for) Mr. Right? Good question. If there isn't a change in her, even if she were to move on, who's to say she wouldn't end up with Mr. Wrong II? Finger-pointers and blame-putters are usually inordinately prideful, and as you may have heard, that icky stuff usually leads to a fall. So, in the interest of by-passing that pitfall, I thought I'd start out by pointing a few more fingers at myself in a chapter within the "Don't Go Breaking My Heart" chapter entitled: "Watch out for the Loonies."
"Watch out for the Loonies" is a phrase I often use when sending my kids out onto the big bad streets. When I say that, I'm usually referring to dangerously bad drivers, disgruntled postal workers, and the neighborhood ax-murderer; however, in the context of this blog, I'm referring to guys who are likely to drive a girl's life off a high cliff into disaster. We know they're out there, and we know they're Toonces the Driving Cat wannabes, destined to crash... so who's fault is it if an intelligent girl hops in the passenger seat? The Loony is just being a Loony. That's what Loonies do. I say a girl needs to be mighty careful who she hops in a vehicle with, especially the fast-moving vehicle of life.
How was Bridget about "watching out for the loonies"? I thought I'd make a list of all the lunatic mistakes I've made with guys. Anyone who reads this will probably think it's a wonder that I'm still alive. Yep, I've been pretty stupid.
I hate to leave you hanging, but it's really late, and I'm getting really tired, so I'm afraid I'll have to leave this one a to-be-continued.
