LESSON 1:
If she says she is a writer
or an English professor
or anything else that may indicate she values literacy,
don't do this...
Guess what she won't do.
That's right -- "Read More"
NOT GONNA HAPPEN.
Friday, April 17, 2015
Saturday, October 19, 2013
On Being Overly Sensitive
Since I'm pretty sure it's the posting date and not the date a post was originally penned that is attributed when one procrastinates in the shadow of anxiety and trust issues, and then finally--after months--musters the courage to hit the "publish" button, I will start by saying that what follows has been sitting captive in my "drafts" since 12/17/12:
I'm overly sensitive. Yep. I've been told that by more than one person. It's usually noted as a flaw, and yet, I draw on that sensitivity all the time in creating nuanced characters, relationships and conflict in fictional works. I also draw on it in my interactions with those who tend to be misunderstood. Because I'm overly sensitive, I tend to give others a chance, even if I don't "agree" with them. Differences can be a huge component of the beauty of life--creating variety and texture.
When people try to blanket those whose experiences are foreign to them with their own overly-specific ideas of how things should be ("it works for me, therefore it should work for everyone"), they make a small world, (and if they try to spiritualize their thinking, a small god), and they will inevitably alienate people.
I'm being alienated by some well-meaning people right now. I know what they think and say doesn't matter, but it still hurts. I'm glad for these trials, though, because they are broadening my world, even broadening my faith. The thoughtless words jabbing at me like knives cause me to immediately evaluate my own rhetoric and vow never to do the same to another person (although it is tempting to flip it around on those who are dishing it out on me... even facing that temptation, I hope, will build my own character.)
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| Self Portrait c.2012: It's important to control what one lets out... |
I'm overly sensitive. Yep. I've been told that by more than one person. It's usually noted as a flaw, and yet, I draw on that sensitivity all the time in creating nuanced characters, relationships and conflict in fictional works. I also draw on it in my interactions with those who tend to be misunderstood. Because I'm overly sensitive, I tend to give others a chance, even if I don't "agree" with them. Differences can be a huge component of the beauty of life--creating variety and texture.
When people try to blanket those whose experiences are foreign to them with their own overly-specific ideas of how things should be ("it works for me, therefore it should work for everyone"), they make a small world, (and if they try to spiritualize their thinking, a small god), and they will inevitably alienate people.
I'm being alienated by some well-meaning people right now. I know what they think and say doesn't matter, but it still hurts. I'm glad for these trials, though, because they are broadening my world, even broadening my faith. The thoughtless words jabbing at me like knives cause me to immediately evaluate my own rhetoric and vow never to do the same to another person (although it is tempting to flip it around on those who are dishing it out on me... even facing that temptation, I hope, will build my own character.)
Becoming Hurts... Sometimes...
The kids are gone on a camping trip this weekend, and my new housemate said, "You know what that means... Movie Night!"
Oh yeah! I will always go for that. If the boys are gone, that means one of two things: Either something rated R that I don't want them to see, or a chick flick that they don't want to see. I was leaning toward the former until about halfway through the long drive home from dropping them off.
Driving along the coast, I was mesmerized by a duet of other-worldly light: a rising moon preening for her penumbral eclipse and a setting sun singing colorful strains deep, deep into the shimmering waters... their combined illumination providing seamless saturation. It was one of those deeply personal moments that feels too big to experience alone... and I knew who I wanted to share it with. But no! That would not be appropriate... yet there was no one else on the earth whom I could imagine understanding, who could hold me without distracting, who could sing along without opening his mouth. "Don't go there," I chided myself, too late. That was the moment I knew what the evening's movie would be: I would torture myself with truth and watch Becoming Jane again.
The first time I watched that movie, I bawled my eyes out and then blogged, but this time I did not cry--not at all. I guess I was prepared for the journey that was necessary--the reality of doing what one must do--of two separate entities doing what they individually must do, be it for the greater good of society or family or whatever, for propriety, for nobility... in spite of the seeming perfection of their fleeting harmony, doing the right thing.
Maybe it does get easier. Or am I just becoming numb?
My previous analysis concluded that Jane Austen was able to stay true to her passion, venting it through her fictional characters. Art flourished because of her passion, while Tom Lefroy settled for a substitute that was somehow less. I said that I could see myself going it alone as Jane did and pouring my passion into my writing. But I haven't really been doing that. I haven't been writing. Not here. Not on my other blogs or in my journal. No progress on my novels or scripts...
Maybe I'm not hurting that much, not because I'm growing or becoming, but rather because I'm stagnant, safe.
Oh yeah! I will always go for that. If the boys are gone, that means one of two things: Either something rated R that I don't want them to see, or a chick flick that they don't want to see. I was leaning toward the former until about halfway through the long drive home from dropping them off.
Driving along the coast, I was mesmerized by a duet of other-worldly light: a rising moon preening for her penumbral eclipse and a setting sun singing colorful strains deep, deep into the shimmering waters... their combined illumination providing seamless saturation. It was one of those deeply personal moments that feels too big to experience alone... and I knew who I wanted to share it with. But no! That would not be appropriate... yet there was no one else on the earth whom I could imagine understanding, who could hold me without distracting, who could sing along without opening his mouth. "Don't go there," I chided myself, too late. That was the moment I knew what the evening's movie would be: I would torture myself with truth and watch Becoming Jane again.
The first time I watched that movie, I bawled my eyes out and then blogged, but this time I did not cry--not at all. I guess I was prepared for the journey that was necessary--the reality of doing what one must do--of two separate entities doing what they individually must do, be it for the greater good of society or family or whatever, for propriety, for nobility... in spite of the seeming perfection of their fleeting harmony, doing the right thing.
Maybe it does get easier. Or am I just becoming numb?
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Maybe I'm not hurting that much, not because I'm growing or becoming, but rather because I'm stagnant, safe.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
It's times like this when you find out who your real friends are...
...and the findings can be a bit surprising.
On top of all the legal stuff, I'm sick now. And of all things, one of my "friends" who has tried to "help" me by attempting to suck me into his multi-level marketing cult, decided this is the appropriate time to blame me for being sick because I didn't buy his snake oil. How disgusting!
Then after another sleepless night of coughing: a knock at the door, official papers for a lawsuit. Apparently I'm liable for my darling hubby's medical bills even though he took all the disability money and ran. Lovely. If I'm liable, shouldn't I have also had the right to refuse medical treatment? There should be some sort of medical Miranda rights thingy that they are required to read you at the ER. "You have the right to refuse treatment. Anything that will be billed to you later must be quoted to you in detail before administration..." Furthermore, if a hospital is treating a low income person on MediCal and they are dealing with vendors who do not accept MediCal, they should skip non-covered treatments unless the person "responsible" for the bill is given a quote and approves the expenditure.
I'm too sick to be profound, but I just had to vent. Snake Oil Dude thinks it's my fault that I'm sick--that's not such a big deal because he never was a close friend. There's another person who I thought I was close with who I learned simply cannot handle the drama of where I am right now. I can't move fast enough for her liking (and I'm sure if I did, others would find fault in that.)
If I have to second guess everyone I consider sharing honestly with about where I am right now, I'd rather just go it alone. It hurts too much to have people heaping on blame when I already feel like a total failure. Throw in these uncontrollable coughing spasms to the mix, and I feel like just crawling under a porch, curling up, and dying.
After being served the papers for this lawsuit this morning, I thought how my critical friends would likely blame me for that, too. I'm not on top of things like I should be. How could I let it come to this? Yes. I know it's my fault, so go pat yourselves on your smug little backs! I should have dealt with the creditors. Or maybe I should have driven off that overpass the day before my hubby's accident... if I had died then, he wouldn't have gone to work the next day and everything would have been dandy. Now I'm being irrational, right? Why don't you just blame me for that, too? After all, apparently, that's what friends are for.
On top of all the legal stuff, I'm sick now. And of all things, one of my "friends" who has tried to "help" me by attempting to suck me into his multi-level marketing cult, decided this is the appropriate time to blame me for being sick because I didn't buy his snake oil. How disgusting!
Then after another sleepless night of coughing: a knock at the door, official papers for a lawsuit. Apparently I'm liable for my darling hubby's medical bills even though he took all the disability money and ran. Lovely. If I'm liable, shouldn't I have also had the right to refuse medical treatment? There should be some sort of medical Miranda rights thingy that they are required to read you at the ER. "You have the right to refuse treatment. Anything that will be billed to you later must be quoted to you in detail before administration..." Furthermore, if a hospital is treating a low income person on MediCal and they are dealing with vendors who do not accept MediCal, they should skip non-covered treatments unless the person "responsible" for the bill is given a quote and approves the expenditure.
I'm too sick to be profound, but I just had to vent. Snake Oil Dude thinks it's my fault that I'm sick--that's not such a big deal because he never was a close friend. There's another person who I thought I was close with who I learned simply cannot handle the drama of where I am right now. I can't move fast enough for her liking (and I'm sure if I did, others would find fault in that.)
If I have to second guess everyone I consider sharing honestly with about where I am right now, I'd rather just go it alone. It hurts too much to have people heaping on blame when I already feel like a total failure. Throw in these uncontrollable coughing spasms to the mix, and I feel like just crawling under a porch, curling up, and dying.
After being served the papers for this lawsuit this morning, I thought how my critical friends would likely blame me for that, too. I'm not on top of things like I should be. How could I let it come to this? Yes. I know it's my fault, so go pat yourselves on your smug little backs! I should have dealt with the creditors. Or maybe I should have driven off that overpass the day before my hubby's accident... if I had died then, he wouldn't have gone to work the next day and everything would have been dandy. Now I'm being irrational, right? Why don't you just blame me for that, too? After all, apparently, that's what friends are for.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
For the ladies only... (seriously, no guys need to read this one)
Maybe this is why I've been having headaches...
Ugh! All the more reason to miss what I'm missing...
Friday, March 1, 2013
Lowered Expectations
I've got to put a stop to this!
Between my daughter's school and home, there's a back road I used to take because it's like a quaint reminder of the country roads of my small-town childhood. Taking the freeway is a bit faster, but this stretch of winding road adds a little variety to my otherwise mundane life. You could ride the curves of this road and seldom see another car or person. There I could find a moment of solitude in the midst of the daily errands. Sometimes I'd sing at the top of my lungs, sometimes I'd cry. Sometimes I'd just think, or daydream.
Then, right around the time Todd and I parted ways, construction started. Suddenly my little private speedway became manned with... well, with men. I don't think I had ever really paid much attention to road construction workers. When we'd pass them on long family road trips to the Midwest, the kids would frequently wave, and sometimes they would wave back. In sweltering heat, I'd always try to smile their way and show a little appreciation for what they had to go through to make the path smooth for those of us enjoying the comfort of air conditioning, but then I'd be back to thinking about the kids and the road ahead, and a million other things.
This season in life was different, though. I had begun to see the light--to shake off the denial that had kept me tied to a man who was dragging me down like a sinking ship with his lack of ambition, chronic laziness and embarrassing work ethic. Suddenly these men in hard hats were hot, and I don't mean because they were standing out in the sun. They were hot because they were working. That turned me on. They were punching a time clock and earning a living, and quite possibly sharing it with a family. I know there are so many unknowns: They may be drunkards in their off hours. Some may be deadbeat dads who spend every penny on themselves or mistresses, while their kids' shoes are worn out and their wives or ex-wives juggle multiple jobs just to make ends meet. Some may live in their moms' basements and sit around in their underwear watching football and televised bowling tournaments. But for that moment, as I drove past them, all I could see was the fact that Todd was not there, that Todd would never do something like that--there was nothing in life worth the effort it took to be a diligent worker.
When they started narrowing that road to one lane and making drivers stop in the presence of these hot men in hard hats, I started taking the freeway. Not only did I not have the time to sit waiting for the opposing traffic to stop, I didn't have time to be thinking about men. After all, I had to be the man of the house.
Then, today, as I was about to merge onto the freeway, traffic slowed, and there, right outside my window was one single man in a hard hat, placing orange cones so he could fix a problem. Thankfully the window was up when I verbalized the word: "Hot!"
Come on! I chided myself. You know nothing about this man other than the fact that he is at work!
Have my expectations really been lowered so much?
What does a "real" man look like?
Made me think of this:
Between my daughter's school and home, there's a back road I used to take because it's like a quaint reminder of the country roads of my small-town childhood. Taking the freeway is a bit faster, but this stretch of winding road adds a little variety to my otherwise mundane life. You could ride the curves of this road and seldom see another car or person. There I could find a moment of solitude in the midst of the daily errands. Sometimes I'd sing at the top of my lungs, sometimes I'd cry. Sometimes I'd just think, or daydream.
Then, right around the time Todd and I parted ways, construction started. Suddenly my little private speedway became manned with... well, with men. I don't think I had ever really paid much attention to road construction workers. When we'd pass them on long family road trips to the Midwest, the kids would frequently wave, and sometimes they would wave back. In sweltering heat, I'd always try to smile their way and show a little appreciation for what they had to go through to make the path smooth for those of us enjoying the comfort of air conditioning, but then I'd be back to thinking about the kids and the road ahead, and a million other things.
This season in life was different, though. I had begun to see the light--to shake off the denial that had kept me tied to a man who was dragging me down like a sinking ship with his lack of ambition, chronic laziness and embarrassing work ethic. Suddenly these men in hard hats were hot, and I don't mean because they were standing out in the sun. They were hot because they were working. That turned me on. They were punching a time clock and earning a living, and quite possibly sharing it with a family. I know there are so many unknowns: They may be drunkards in their off hours. Some may be deadbeat dads who spend every penny on themselves or mistresses, while their kids' shoes are worn out and their wives or ex-wives juggle multiple jobs just to make ends meet. Some may live in their moms' basements and sit around in their underwear watching football and televised bowling tournaments. But for that moment, as I drove past them, all I could see was the fact that Todd was not there, that Todd would never do something like that--there was nothing in life worth the effort it took to be a diligent worker.
When they started narrowing that road to one lane and making drivers stop in the presence of these hot men in hard hats, I started taking the freeway. Not only did I not have the time to sit waiting for the opposing traffic to stop, I didn't have time to be thinking about men. After all, I had to be the man of the house.
Then, today, as I was about to merge onto the freeway, traffic slowed, and there, right outside my window was one single man in a hard hat, placing orange cones so he could fix a problem. Thankfully the window was up when I verbalized the word: "Hot!"
Come on! I chided myself. You know nothing about this man other than the fact that he is at work!
Have my expectations really been lowered so much?
What does a "real" man look like?
Made me think of this:
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Becoming Bridget: The Tragic Call of Nobility
***Melodrama Warning: I just watched the movie Becoming Jane and I'm devastated.***
On a particularly difficult day last week, I vented a bit on a social network, and one of my friends replied: "...remember, you're a writer, you are supposed to feel more than normal people. How else would you know how to describe it for them?"
Think about it. How many of the the greatest writers of history had pretty, peaceful lives? That kind of existence just doesn't seem to spawn deep, empathetic literature that grabs the heartstrings and makes us feel like the author understands.
In the past few years, my daughters have turned me into a Jane Austin fan. As I've seen yet another generation of girls moved by what would seem the very particular romance of an era long gone--a generation immersed in technology, women's liberation, and anything-goes morality connecting with extremely verbose banter on the subject of propriety and the ethics of the seeming necessity of gold-digging in a world in which women could not fend for themselves, I've realized how much I too can identify with Jane's characters who yearn for what appears to be ironic and impossible: love, passion, and freedom intermingled with that innate drive for security.
What incredible timing for a first viewing of Becoming Jane!
Being new to the single mother thing, and receiving absolutely no support from Todd, I have been struggling to figure out how I'm going to make ends meet. I think Todd's plan is to financially ruin me and then wait for me to beg him to come back with his daddy's money. Unfortunately, my emotional condition of late has not been conducive to finding work, and I am going further in debt while trying to figure out reliable income that doesn't take me away from my kids while they need me most (and that doesn't prevent me from continuing to pursue my passion for writing). I'm starting to see why so many women in this situation are quick to get in another relationship--the prospect of security is alluring when desperation hits.
But the "typical" route has always been something I avoid at all costs. That's why I said when I was still single that if I had gotten pregnant, I probably wouldn't have married Todd because that would be "trite." That's also why, when we did decide to get married I had to hurry up and do it in May, so as to avoid the commonness of a June wedding. (Instead of rushing, perhaps dragging my feet would have been a better choice, but then that's a different story--good choices were obviously not my forte.)
So now, I look at men with great trepidation. Going it alone is scary, but getting entangled with another Mr. Wrong is even scarier.
There are two types of Mr. Wrongs: (1) the guy who I just "settle for" because I'm lonely, and he destroys my heart because there isn't the deep connection I long for, and (2) the guy I feel a deep connection to but I can't have because it would hurt others if I did. Number 2 is what this movie made me think of... and seeing how Jane Austen--after nobly choosing to walk away from Tom Lefroy--lived out the rest of her life alone, with her writing as the only outlet for her passion--that is what I see myself doing, too.
Maybe the memory of true passion is better than a substitute. Who was truly richer in passion at the end of the Becoming Jane story? Tom who had taken a substitute? or Jane, who continued her life alone? Both carried the heartache of loss due to that noble choice with them, but look at all Jane went on to create.
Just a thought. Maybe it's the meaningless effect of the stage of grieving I find myself in presently. Maybe my heart will change someday. But for now, it seems the only way. Maybe it's just the melodrama of the movies--a contrivance of dramatic structure--that says some things only come once in a lifetime, and if their timing is wrong, they are tragically lost forever....
Dreamy James McAvoy's portrayal of Tom Lefroy's feelings for Jane Austen was pure adoration. A friend told me that I was too much of a hopeless romantic to be alone for the rest of my life... but watching this movie made me realize that such a statement may overlook the core of such romantic passion--the fact that it might be precisely because someone is a "hopeless romantic" that they end up alone, unwilling to settle for a substitute for what they once glimpsed. Even if painful, the memory can be better. The hopeless romantic, thus, can become the hopeful artist.
On a particularly difficult day last week, I vented a bit on a social network, and one of my friends replied: "...remember, you're a writer, you are supposed to feel more than normal people. How else would you know how to describe it for them?"
Think about it. How many of the the greatest writers of history had pretty, peaceful lives? That kind of existence just doesn't seem to spawn deep, empathetic literature that grabs the heartstrings and makes us feel like the author understands.
In the past few years, my daughters have turned me into a Jane Austin fan. As I've seen yet another generation of girls moved by what would seem the very particular romance of an era long gone--a generation immersed in technology, women's liberation, and anything-goes morality connecting with extremely verbose banter on the subject of propriety and the ethics of the seeming necessity of gold-digging in a world in which women could not fend for themselves, I've realized how much I too can identify with Jane's characters who yearn for what appears to be ironic and impossible: love, passion, and freedom intermingled with that innate drive for security.
What incredible timing for a first viewing of Becoming Jane!
Being new to the single mother thing, and receiving absolutely no support from Todd, I have been struggling to figure out how I'm going to make ends meet. I think Todd's plan is to financially ruin me and then wait for me to beg him to come back with his daddy's money. Unfortunately, my emotional condition of late has not been conducive to finding work, and I am going further in debt while trying to figure out reliable income that doesn't take me away from my kids while they need me most (and that doesn't prevent me from continuing to pursue my passion for writing). I'm starting to see why so many women in this situation are quick to get in another relationship--the prospect of security is alluring when desperation hits.
But the "typical" route has always been something I avoid at all costs. That's why I said when I was still single that if I had gotten pregnant, I probably wouldn't have married Todd because that would be "trite." That's also why, when we did decide to get married I had to hurry up and do it in May, so as to avoid the commonness of a June wedding. (Instead of rushing, perhaps dragging my feet would have been a better choice, but then that's a different story--good choices were obviously not my forte.)
So now, I look at men with great trepidation. Going it alone is scary, but getting entangled with another Mr. Wrong is even scarier.
There are two types of Mr. Wrongs: (1) the guy who I just "settle for" because I'm lonely, and he destroys my heart because there isn't the deep connection I long for, and (2) the guy I feel a deep connection to but I can't have because it would hurt others if I did. Number 2 is what this movie made me think of... and seeing how Jane Austen--after nobly choosing to walk away from Tom Lefroy--lived out the rest of her life alone, with her writing as the only outlet for her passion--that is what I see myself doing, too.
Maybe the memory of true passion is better than a substitute. Who was truly richer in passion at the end of the Becoming Jane story? Tom who had taken a substitute? or Jane, who continued her life alone? Both carried the heartache of loss due to that noble choice with them, but look at all Jane went on to create.
Just a thought. Maybe it's the meaningless effect of the stage of grieving I find myself in presently. Maybe my heart will change someday. But for now, it seems the only way. Maybe it's just the melodrama of the movies--a contrivance of dramatic structure--that says some things only come once in a lifetime, and if their timing is wrong, they are tragically lost forever....
Dreamy James McAvoy's portrayal of Tom Lefroy's feelings for Jane Austen was pure adoration. A friend told me that I was too much of a hopeless romantic to be alone for the rest of my life... but watching this movie made me realize that such a statement may overlook the core of such romantic passion--the fact that it might be precisely because someone is a "hopeless romantic" that they end up alone, unwilling to settle for a substitute for what they once glimpsed. Even if painful, the memory can be better. The hopeless romantic, thus, can become the hopeful artist.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Listening to Air Supply's Greatest Hits
I think I'm in need of an intervention.
"Here I am playing with those memories again,
and just when I thought time had set me free,
those thoughts of you keep taunting me...
...there's no pretending,
my heart it's not mending...
Just when I thought I was over you,
Just when I thought I could stand on my own..."
(Here I Am, by Norman Saleet, 1981)
Don't know why I'm torturing myself with this stuff. Guess it's a tidier alternative to cutting and other external forms of self injury.
It's not like I miss Todd. I think this may be more of
the grieving over an ideal lost... so where better to go than back to some of the pop music about love from the pre-Todd era. What messages was Bridget hearing on the airwaves and in the shopping malls during the formative years of her childhood, before she met Todd?
"I realized the best part of love is the thinnest slice
and it don't count for much,
but I'm not letting go...
...I'm back on my feet,
eager to be what you wanted..."
(Lost in Love, by Graham Russell, 1980)
No wonder I ended up lost.
"I'm lying alone with my head on the phone
thinking of you till it hurts...
I'm all out of love,
I'm so lost without you...
I want you to come back and carry me home
away from these long lonely nights.
I'm reaching for you,
are you feeling it too?"
(All Out of Love, by Graham Russell & Clive Davis, 1980)
I was such a romantic. It really didn't matter what was real.
"Making love out of nothing at all...
out of nothing at all...
making love...
out of nothing at all..."
(Making Love Out of Nothing At All, by Jim Steinman, 1983)
It goes on and on. It always was a rather annoying song. As I hear it now, I realize how well it describes what I did... and what we had -- NOTHING AT ALL.
I tried, though. I really tried. That's what he says, too. That he tried. Chalk it up to dragging out incompatibility way longer than it ever should have been taken. More than half a lifetime.
My heart is breaking, but it's not because of losing him. It's because I'm realizing how little I meant to him. How I'm not worth fighting for, not worth sacrificing for. I'd be lying if I said that doesn't hit right to the core of who I believe I am. And I know how to let it build up a case against my value, reinforced by "the others" who didn't think I was worth it. I'm trying to deal with that in therapy--examining my harmful thoughts for accuracy, completeness, and balance... It seems like it should be easier, but those harmful thoughts are tricky.
My heart is breaking, but it's not because of losing him. It's because I'm realizing how little I meant to him. How I'm not worth fighting for, not worth sacrificing for. I'd be lying if I said that doesn't hit right to the core of who I believe I am. And I know how to let it build up a case against my value, reinforced by "the others" who didn't think I was worth it. I'm trying to deal with that in therapy--examining my harmful thoughts for accuracy, completeness, and balance... It seems like it should be easier, but those harmful thoughts are tricky.
My therapist says it is natural for me to have "trust issues" after what I've been through. It may take some time to work through this. It probably won't be as easy of a fix as the old pop songs would lead one to believe, moving from heartbreak to brighter days and better nights just because of one chance meeting...
"I used to think I was tied to a heartache
that was a heartbreak..."
(Even the Nights are Better, by Terry Skinner, J.L. Wallace, and Ken Bell, 1982)
But I know that is not a given. There are plenty of people who live out their days tied to that heartache, especially when their trust is shattered. Maybe I can learn to divert my heart into less romantic avenues. Maybe age will take away such desire and I can find total satisfaction in the maternal sort of love.
Maybe.
Then that someone capable of doing more than mending a broken heart--but also of lighting a fire--enters my dreams... and you know what I do?
Maybe.
Then that someone capable of doing more than mending a broken heart--but also of lighting a fire--enters my dreams... and you know what I do?
I avoid him...
...only to find myself back in bed with Todd. I'm naked. Todd is there, but like a dead fish. If I lie perfectly still, he might not notice I'm there and I'm naked... but then it crosses my mind that I could use him (even though there has been little satisfaction in that in several years)... but as soon as that thought crosses my mind, I am overwhelmed with a feeling of betrayal... as if being with Todd would be a betrayal... but to whom? to what? To some imaginary man of my dreams? to myself? to honesty?
In the morning a friend tells me she had a dream in which she came to visit me and learned that there was a new man in my life. I was curious... did she meet him? Wouldn't it be wild if he looked like the man in my dream (although I couldn't remember what he looked like because I had been so busy avoiding him.)
I go several nearly sleepless nights, avoiding dreams altogether. They bring too much heartache. Then when I decide I do want to see him... he doesn't show. Even the man of my dreams is unreliable.
"Close your eyes,
I want to see you tonight in my sweet dreams..."
(Sweet Dreams, by Graham Russell, 1981)
Yes, Air Supply could supply the soundtrack for my disappointing dreams.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
My heart may be broken, but I didn’t cry...
A while back, someone told me about the movie “Regarding Henry.” I don’t remember who. It was in the midst of the haze--the months
when I couldn’t help but be someone else, because it was as if I had fallen, hit my head,
become unconscious. I was tied to this man in marriage, and when he was
injured, so was I.
Someone looked into the haze, and something I said about the
days sitting in a hospital, talking to a comatose invalid who didn’t even know
who I was... something I said made this person think of the movie. I mentioned
that I had picked the DVD up from a yard sale, but had never watched it.
“Should I?” I asked.
This person was quick to reply, “No! Not now. Maybe later,
but now it would probably be too close to home. It would make you cry.”
Since Todd cleaned out our bank account and made it clear
that he has no intent to share any of his disability money with the family, I
have been struggling to figure out how I’m going to pay all the bills.
“Whose money is that?” he asked when I mentioned the disability money he had transferred out of the family account right when the mortgage was coming due. (Even though he’s staying with a friend rent-free.)
It’s too soon to turn the kids’ lives upside down by going out and getting a regular full-time outside-of-the-home job yet... not in the midst of all this turmoil, not in the middle of the holidays... So, I’m selling things. Anything I can.
“Whose money is that?” he asked when I mentioned the disability money he had transferred out of the family account right when the mortgage was coming due. (Even though he’s staying with a friend rent-free.)
It’s too soon to turn the kids’ lives upside down by going out and getting a regular full-time outside-of-the-home job yet... not in the midst of all this turmoil, not in the middle of the holidays... So, I’m selling things. Anything I can.
My wedding ring paid for a month of indoor plumbing. Two
days after we moved back in the house, the water was scheduled to be cut off
(because Todd had intercepted the mail I was having held at the post office so
I could keep up with the bills, and he had ignored the water bill, allowing late fees to accrue.)
A month of indoor plumbing: That’s what it came to. Over two decades of marriage, and the symbol of that union boiled down to being worth no more than a month’s worth of showers and flushes of the toilet.
A month of indoor plumbing: That’s what it came to. Over two decades of marriage, and the symbol of that union boiled down to being worth no more than a month’s worth of showers and flushes of the toilet.
The two are inextricably connected in my mind now: my
wedding ring and the ability to flush the crap out of my life; my wedding ring OR the ability to flush the crap out of my life. Take your pick. You can’t have both. It’s profound, I think. I’ve always loved a good metaphor.
I don’t think I could have ever dreamed that one up on my own.
The month of flushes has passed. Now I need to pay the bills
without the asset of a wedding ring. (The metaphor goes on.) I have to find other things to sell. Since
there’s a good chance that we’ll end up losing the house, I figured I might as
well sell even the little things... even if they don’t make a big dent in the
bills, it will be less to move or less to put in storage as I try to sort out
what goes and what stays in this new life. So, I’m listing some of our DVDs on
E-bay.
“Regarding Henry.” I still hadn’t watched it, but I listed
it... and since I hate to waste anything, I decided I’d watch it
before letting it go. Would it make me cry? I’ve cried enough. Why be a fool
and induce more? But I was lonely, and sometimes movies make the best of
friends. I felt like crying with a friend would be preferable to being alone.
Maybe a good, identifiable movie would be like a shoulder to cry on.
As I watched Annette Benning’s character sitting by the
bedside of her character’s husband (played by Harrison Ford--Hans Solo)
...first in the I.C.U., then in a regular hospital room, then a rehabilitation
hospital... the journey portrayed was very familiar. But I didn’t cry. It was
factual. Not emotional. Benning said, “I think this is teaching me to be
strong,” and I nodded.
As Harrison’s character rehabilitated, the familiarity
dwindled. He was inconsiderate and selfish before his brain injury, but his
blow to the head made him nicer, more empathetic, and less selfish. Ah, the
imagination of a screenwriter! I remember one nurse telling me that the injury
would likely change Todd... warning me that things could be worse--that head
injury victims frequently get mean.
I asked her the hypothetical question: “What if things were
bad before the accident?”
“Well,” she said. “He could get nicer.”
I asked if that sort of thing happened often... she shook
her head.
As I experienced Todd’s agitation through every step of
recovery--beginning with the long hours of trying to keep him from pulling off
his restraints, when he would shove one hand in his pants in search of feces as the other
hand grabbed at his IV and ventilator lines... He would get so upset when I tried
to keep him from doing himself harm or creating an unsanitary (and stinky)
mess--I dreaded his return home too soon.
Benning’s character couldn’t wait to get her husband home.
She had something I didn’t have.
Todd wanted to come home long before I was ready to receive him. And he was bright enough to figure out what it would take: He needed to “be good.” He stated that understanding repeatedly, and he strove to “be good” for the rehabilitation staff. I liked having them in the room because he would be nice when they were there. Maybe there was hope that the slim chance the nurse had mentioned--of a brain injury making a person nicer--might be the miracle my family would experience...
Todd wanted to come home long before I was ready to receive him. And he was bright enough to figure out what it would take: He needed to “be good.” He stated that understanding repeatedly, and he strove to “be good” for the rehabilitation staff. I liked having them in the room because he would be nice when they were there. Maybe there was hope that the slim chance the nurse had mentioned--of a brain injury making a person nicer--might be the miracle my family would experience...
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Fast forward. We know which direction that one went!
So, I’m watching the movie alone in my bed. Watching Ford’s
character become kind and noble. Near the end, Benning embraces Ford, and
something sparkles. A big sparkle. It’s a honking big diamond ring on Benning’s
hand. She still had that symbol. He still loved her. Perhaps he loved her more
than ever.
Bridget and Todd’s story is different.
I was reading through the transcript of our court
case--seeing all the blatant lies Todd told to make himself look good at the
expense of both his wife and his daughter’s reputations--at the expense of the
chance of either one of them ever trusting him again.
It was sad, but I didn’t cry.
I tried to embrace Todd, to hope for the best, to believe he
could change... but when I tentatively reached my arms around him, there was no
sparkle... no glimmer.
My hand is empty.
My hand is empty.
Monday, October 22, 2012
I have another date!
Woo hoo. the excitement.
No, it's not that kind of date. It's a court date.
The victim's advocate from the D.A.'s office thought I had a pretty good case for a restraining/kick-out order to put an end to Todd's squatting and get our kids back in their house... But when she called Todd to warn him about last week's court date, he didn't answer... and because of that, the judge didn't consider him adequately warned and temporarily denied the move-out portion of the restraining order. I had to have him served with papers for the restraining order and notice about another court date this coming week to determine if there will be a move-out order or not. That means staying with friends for at least another week.
So he will probably be in court this time. And he's going to have plenty of time to pick his lawyer relative's brain before then about how to look out for number one. I could be worried about it. Perhaps I am... but I'm also resigned to making the best of whatever the judge says. I'm not going into it as optimistically as I did with the last court date. He may very well rule against me, but that wouldn't be the end of the world. It may mean losing more financially, but it will only serve to fast-track the loss so I can move on to the recovery.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
I'll Send Todd Half the Bill...
The jacuzzi felt great tonight. I hated using the credit card, but I guess it's pretty good to have made it almost a month away from home before resorting to using the plastic.
As Todd would say, "It's too hard asking people to stay with them." After a month, I finally decided to give myself a break from doing something night after night that Todd can't even begin to do. I did call one person who had earlier said we could stay with her... but she had other company, and besides that... she's re-thought her position and is now convinced that I'm doing the wrong thing. Oh well... there will be those who will not understand. It is not my job to make them understand.
When I got back to the room from the jacuzzi and took my wet swimsuit off, I decided to wait until my daughter calls and says she's here to get dressed. What a way to celebrate not having to make anyone understand!
Have to go, now... I'm going to enjoy every dollar's worth of this solitude, not being in someone else's house. The cool thing is... when I'm forced to file the divorce papers, Todd will have to pay for half of this hotel bill.
This is where I will wake up for my four week "weekiversary" of leaving Todd. In the morning, the day will be new. I will be new.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Life is Good...
It's not about circumstances. That's for sure.
I'm sick. My throat is sore, nose is running like a river, eyes sting, body aches... I'm sleeping on an air mattress on a strange floor. I've been having trouble concentrating on my work. My husband is self-centered enough to stand willingly by and allow his wife and children to be homeless even when he could do something about it. I have no idea where we'll be staying 48 hours from now.
But life hasn't been this good in a very long time.
Why?
Because I'm being honest. And honesty feels so good.
I have hope.
Monday, October 1, 2012
I Need Input... PLEASE
Should I, or should I not "threaten" legal action before taking legal action?
I'm planning on filing a restraining/kick-out order if Todd doesn't get his butt in gear and find a place to so his kids can return to their home...
- Should I be specific in advance?
- Should I let him know that if it's "too hard"for him to live somewhere else so the kids can be in the house, his inaction will actually force me to file for divorce sooner rather than later?
- Or is it better not to alert him to the action I plan on taking and give him the chance to be premeditatively nasty?
All you silent lurkers, please speak up this time. And give me the "why" behind your answer. There is wisdom to be gleaned from a multitude of counselors.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Dismantling the Facade
A friend just asked me an interesting question. She wondered how long it would be before some of Todd's friends start noticing that he isn't even making an effort. Is his public persona so polished that they won't even realize?That got me to thinking about Todd's friendships. I don't know how deep any of them are. He has his band mates, and they have begun to hang out more since the accident, but I don't know that any of them have been exposed to the full spectrum of Todd. After the accident, people he used to play music with a long time ago, but never kept in touch with thereafter, started coming out of the woodwork. The draw to the needy can really give a person a sense of validation and worth, and of course this victim status suits Todd well because he always did want the world to revolve around him.
But when I thought about reciprocity, I couldn't think of any friend I had ever witnessed Todd going out of his way to be generous toward. There were far more memories of him dodging phone calls when he thought someone might want him to help with something (even if it was a person who had helped him repeatedly.)
I thought about all of those people Todd had played music with in years gone by, and couldn't help but realize that the reason many of them saw Todd as being a "generous man" was because of the family image he held up--we were his excuse for not helping others... after all, he did so much for his family!
How much of that image was a result of my efforts and simply allowing him to share credit for something he put relatively little work into building? How many times did I work myself to the point of exhaustion, and then let him come in at the fun point and take the glory? Much of the time, I didn't mind, because I was still deluded by the idea that we were a team.... but now, as I have heard him presenting all the parenting failures in the family as being totally mine, I realize what a monster my unwitting enabling created... the sort of monster who squats in a house that he refuses to share with his unworthy family. He is entitled to the comforts of home. We are not.
Will his friends eventually see that he is not making an effort? I don't know. If the past is any indication, any who start to see through his act will promptly be discarded as "crazy." If it weren't so sick and so sad, one could almost be entertained by the delusional games.
I'm not a trained professional, so I can't verify a diagnosis of Bi-Polar and/or Narcissistic Personality Disorder (even though when I read about them, I do feel as if the authors have been spying on our interactions...) One thing is for sure, Todd truly is a case study in something. Whether any of his friends will ever be around long enough to see through the veil of faux reality, I don't know... but it will be interesting to see how he is able to keep up his generous image while blocking his family out of our home. I guess the only way will be to paint me as a liar. The thing is: If I had a part in constructing that veil, then the dismantling of my part of it should expose the unreality of the very thing that he has been using as his identity.
He may not realize how dependent he is on me to hold up his image. In pushing the limits with me and forcing me to more drastic action than I may have had to otherwise jump to, he may be dismantling his own facade. I was willing to let him move out quietly and separate under the no-fault banner of irreconcilable differences, but it looks like he is going to force me to file a restraining order.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Guess I shouldn't be surprised that I have to do all the work...
Poor Todd. How ever does he manage?
He doesn't want it to "look" like he's deserting his family, so he sits in the family house, knowing full well we will not come home with him there. We continue to be displaced. He continues to do nothing about it.
All I ask of him is that he find a place to stay while he sorts out his anger issues. What an opportunity to show that he is capable of thinking of someone other than himself! And what does he do with the opportunity? Sits on his butt, once again, waiting for me to do something. That should come as no surprise...
I know, he would say he's been busy. I checked the phone "notes" app. and found a few "to do" lists and just had to share:
 |
| What a stressful day! |
 |
| "On-line time, friends, exercises..." oops, the fact that his children are homeless must have just slipped his mind... Hmmm, can you say "priorities"? |
Thursday, September 27, 2012
I Want to Go Home
Staying until closing, I stepped out the door confident that it had been worth taking this little break, even if it meant sleeping in the car tonight. That's when the shocker came....
An empty curb...
...where my loaded car had been.
I woke up and stared at the ceiling, looking past the teenage boy-band posters on the wall of the room in which my air mattress found it's temporary station. My youngest daughter was there with me, my sons were still asleep on the hide-a-bed in the next room, and my car was parked safely in the driveway, loaded down with our junk, like in the dream (but without the imaginary cash). I was grateful. We were not sleeping on the streets, and at least the four of us were under the same roof for the time-being.
The dream, however, haunted me throughout the day yesterday. Was it merely the expression of my fears of this displacement going on until we've used up our welcome and have nowhere to turn, or did it have some deep meaning or warning I need to heed?
As I drove back to the place I was staying last night, I thought about how a few hours earlier the fact that I had extracted certain files from my house (so that I didn't have to worry about Todd rifling through them or destroying them) had brought me such comfort. The comfort suddenly shifted to an extreme feeling of vulnerability. Those files were in my vehicle. As the dream had demonstrated, a vehicle is not the safest storage place. And there are other keys to this vehicle. My mind started running through questions about where those other keys were. I knew I had hidden some of them, but might my older daughters have left one in a place where Todd could find it? Another event multiplied these feelings of vulnerability:
A few hours earlier, my youngest daughter had called me in total panic. "Daddy is here," she had said. She was at church youth group, a place that has been a haven of safety for her, and he showed up with a friend whose daughter was playing in the band. I texted his friend, who apparently knew nothing about our "little problems" and had just brought Todd along to see the band play. My daughter just left, but she was shaken up by this safe place being invaded by the nightmare she had fled. Todd's friend had no clue what was going on and told him about my text (which alerted him to the fact that our daughter was indeed there and had seen him and had a problem with it.) Todd texted our daughter, saying, "I'm sorry, I didn't know you would be there. I hope we can work this out."
She told me this on the phone as I was driving. "I hope we can work this out..." I thought, If you really want to do that, just getting out of the house so we can go home would go a long way.
I'm wondering if I should tell him that? Maybe that would give him false hope -- as in thinking that that and going to counseling are an automatic recipe to get back "his life." He probably doesn't even realize how far beyond "a long way" we have to go for him to even gain a sliver of trust.
Something's got to give, though. My biggest questions are: How much more do I say (if anything) before getting a restraining/kick-out order? Do I tell him that's going to happen in advance, or surprise him with it?
I want to go home and have a comfortable, safe place for my kids where we can function and live.
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